The tables were on a wooden terrace overlooking the sea. Waiters hurried between tables with magnums of rosé and silver bowls of oysters.
The cocktail menu included something called a Tiki Punch, which contained a generous swig of rum and a few drops of bitters. There was a DJ in the house and at some point in the afternoon people got up to dance and twirl their napkins above their heads.
Where do you think this bustling lunch spot was? Mykonos or Ibiza perhaps? Or some other glamorous Mediterranean hangout where people gather to eat shellfish in their swimsuits and drink pink wine like water?
You probably wouldn’t guess a small bay just opposite Lymington, on the Isle of Wight. No disrespect to the island; it is not normally included in the list of hot summer destinations such as the Balearic Islands or the Aeolian Islands.
It’s called The Hut, although it’s not very hut-like. Located next to a strip of brightly colored beach huts in Colwell Bay, it looks more like the kind of minimalist joint you’d find on a Greek island: white parasols and rattan shades hanging above tables overlooking the Solent.
I’d never heard of it before, but when three old school friends suggested a weekend trip to the New Forest a few months ago, the bossiest of them said we should go there for lunch. “We’ll have a rib of rib, it’s the best,” Sarah insisted.
a rib? I assumed we would have a quiet weekend away, walking and taking pictures of stray ponies.
I wasn’t expecting the kind of upbeat merriment that tech billionaires go for, but I was overruled and we joined the waiting list for a table. A waiting list that apparently starts building in February when bookings open for the summer. You can take a bus to the restaurant from Yarmouth, Sarah told us, but it was more fun to get a rib.
More than 80 percent of the restaurant’s punters arrive by boat, I’ve since learned, dropping anchor in the bay and being picked up by one of the restaurant’s tenders. Who needs Capri anyway?
If you don’t fancy a boat, you can also come by helicopter, as they have an arrangement with a big house and the nearby helipad, and they will pick you up from the helicopter in a Defender.
We were on this waiting list for three months and were only lucky because there was a cancellation last Saturday for a 3:30pm slot. “It’s too late for lunch, isn’t it?” I messaged the other three the day before our due date, worried about the long stretch leaving after breakfast.
What kind of time is that for lunch? We are no longer part of Europe. “It’s ideal,” Sarah replied, ignoring me, “we’ll get you an ice cream on the way.”
She found a local chap called Tony who owned not a rib but a cruiser, and although none of us knew what a cruiser was, he was booked for the 20 minute journey across the mainland. “I’ll have the prosecco ready,” he texted Sarah, and I felt a sense of foreboding again. What was this place: a restaurant or a nightclub?
A combination of both, I’d say, after spending a few hours there last weekend. When we arrived for our tea time slot, the Marquis and Marchioness of Milford Haven were just seated at a long table, along with their daughter-in-law, Cressida Bonas, and we were led past others in the restaurant’s embroidered sun hats. , those napkins already swirling in the air like lasso cowboys.
The DJ, a young guy named Gilo, was busy in a booth in the corner. Fortunately, the rain had given it a break, and when the first bottle of rosé appeared at our table and the sun bounced on the waves in front of us, I thought: yeah, okay, this isn’t too bad.
A few years ago my sister, stepmother and I were on vacation near Naples. One morning we risked our lives driving along the Amalfi Coast in second gear and accidentally came across a small seaside restaurant.
Bougainvillea hung over the terrace, there was a faint smell of grilled shrimp and a phalanx of wonderfully attentive Italian waiters who all called us “Signorina”. I also vaguely seem to remember kids running around barefoot, but maybe I’m confusing this rural scene with a Fellini film.
We smugly congratulated ourselves on finding such a perfect secret, until a superyacht appeared in the bay and a giant flower arrangement was ceremoniously placed on the table next to us. A few minutes later, Sir Elton John and David Furnish came ashore for lunch, along with Sir Michael Caine and his wife Shakira. Ah, this place wasn’t so undiscovered after all.
The Hut felt a bit like that. A not so hidden gem. We ordered oysters and sea bass with fries to share, and my wine glass became increasingly smeared with garlic fingerprints as the music got louder and some people climbed into their seats to dance. It may sound hellish to you.
That would have happened to me before, but one sunny afternoon, as we sat with three of my oldest friends, we discussed a wide range of topics including but not limited to: marriage, IVF, our parents, our job, my new puppy and the importance of flossing.
This should not be an advertisement. Just a celebration of a long summer lunch with good friends at a sunny table that was not rushed. And the other great thing about long lunches in June is that you can get to bed before dark. See how much fun I can be when I relax?
We ate and drank like partying Tudors before joining in a rendition of It’s raining mennext to a table with others who were there for a 60e birthday. Brits may have problems because of the way they behave abroad, but I’m not sure some are doing much better at home. Even very chic.
We smuggled a bottle of rosé for the return journey and sang all the way back to Lymington. Poor Tony. You don’t have to go all the way to Magaluf, you know. It’s quite noisy enough in Hampshire.