The Dog and Duck
My dogs were barking after an exhausting and exhilarating day exploring London’s cobblestone streets. Big Ben. Buckingham Palace. The Tower of London. There was still much more to see on our busy itinerary. My feet didn’t want to cooperate and I was parched. I convinced my husband it was time for a break from our walking tour of the bustling royal city. We stumbled into The Dog and Duck, a tiny British pub that transported us back in time, as we admired the Victorian interior, lined with ornate gold tiles and smoky mirrors. If only those walls could talk, we might hear a story or two from George Orwell. He was a regular. In fact, the upstairs bar was named after him. Little did we know, our stop at this historic Soho watering hole, would lead us to an unlikely friendship.
Eager to toast our anniversary, we ordered Pimm’s Cups from the barman, but they were out of season. We needed to select one of the local ales instead, and were given a long list of choices, but no recommendations. An impeccably dressed gentleman sporting a charcoal grey top coat, a red silk scarf, and a contagious smile, stepped in to help us make our selection. That’s when our serendipitous encounter with Henry Visconti began. He suggested the perfect cask ale for both of us, which quenched our thirst and somehow eased my aching feet.
Henry picked up the tab on our first round. We laughed as we clinked our pints together, sharing stories of family, home, travel and business. He described his successful career managing and investing in Michelin star restaurants around the globe. Henry prided himself on the way he passed his gourmet expertise on to his daughter, “She hasn’t had anything made from a box in her entire life..doesn’t even know what Kraft Mac & Cheese is.” Henry oozed old school charm; often joking, he could have been an honorary member of ‘The Rat Pack’ and boasted of parties on yachts with rock stars in his youth.
Those days ended, when he found true love with his wife Laura, who was patiently waiting for him across the street. It was their wedding anniversary too, so Henry invited us to join them for a bottle of champagne at the iconic Bar Italia, another gem on Frith Street in Soho. Founded in 1949 as a hub for Italians, with none other than Abbott and Costello serving the first drinks, not much has changed, including the red and white formica and the Gaggia coffee machine.
The walls of the quaint cafe, covered in memorabilia and Italian flags, is rumored to have been a haven for rock stars, like Mick Jagger and David Bowie. Quietly reading the London Times at a small table, was Laura, a dark haired beauty who was equally charming, with a welcoming smile. She didn’t seem bothered or surprised that her husband was busy making friends at the pub across the street, while she waited for him. I think she was almost expecting Henry to bring a guest or two. Introductions were made and almost immediately, champagne and pastry appeared. The Visconti’s were clearly regulars at Bar Italia, as we received the VIP treatment. Henry led the toast, “To new friends, love and a long, healthy life.” We savored each bite of a freshly baked pear tart, while getting acquainted with Laura. She spoke softly, while describing life at their historic chateau, where she lovingly labors in her gourmet kitchen and lavish gardens. Soon, their lovely daughter, Isabella, who bore a striking resemblance to her mother, and niece Gabrielle arrived. Both were bubbly 20-somethings brimming with conversation. Henry teased Isabella about her casual attire that day, which she described as a hidden treasure, discovered at a charity shop. He raised his eyebrows, shook his head and laughed. Henry then joked, “Obviously, she gets her looks from me and her brains from her mother.” There was undoubtedly a strong family bond between them all, as the tight knit trio often referred to themselves as “The Three Musketeers.”
We came from different worlds. They jetted between London, Sardinia and Bordeaux, where they mostly reside at their chateau, which they rent out and cater themselves. Henry’s parties and Laura’s pastries have both become legendary at Chateau Des Etoiles. We were Midwesterners who grew up on hotdish, Jell-O salad, lefse and Kraft Mac & Cheese. We were surprised by how much we had in common. Our culinary palate has evolved beyond the green jello salad, we now enjoy a variety of ethnic dishes, in addition to lefse. Our kids are the same age and encountered similar teenage troubles; missed curfews and wild nights, as they navigated their way to adulthood. We all survived, with strong family values intact, that connected us with a passion for cooking and eating meals together. We talked about recipes, gardening, entertaining and travel.
Plans to continue the festivities with afternoon tea at the Visconti’s favorite French cafe in Soho were made. We met at Brasserie Zedel, another legendary London hot spot, where you feel like you have experienced time travel. As you walk down the red carpeted stairs, you enter an underground world from days gone by, with high ceilings, marble pillars and pink table cloths. Think, “Midnight in Paris,” before the cabaret opens, where you could almost hear the music playing and imagine the revelry yet to come. The champagne continued to flow and we indulged in succulent oysters, crusty baguette and decadent chocolate tea cakes.
Isabella gracefully rose from the table and seated herself at the baby grand, where she effortlessly played some classical music to liven things up. Henry and Laura beamed with pride, as they watched and listened. I don’t recall the tune, but the scene was like something out of a Hemingway novel or a Woody Allen movie. This wasn’t Hollywood, this was their real life. And for a day, we got to know the Visconti family, who opened their hearts and even their home to us, (if we were ever in the neighborhood.) Our conversations deepened as we talked more about life, future travels and possible opportunities to meet again. We snapped pictures, hugged, said our final goodbyes and promised to stay in touch.
We became pen pals via social media. I looked forward to Henry’s regular “rants” and observations about anything and everything controversial. He liked to stir the pot and provoke thoughtful discussion. It was a great way to stay connected since that serendipitous encounter at The Dog and Duck, which changed the course of our day in London and remains a highlight of that trip.
Sadly, our reunion with Henry will have to wait, as he lost a brief, hard fought battle with cancer on March 24, 2019. In his final post, he said,
“I go with no regrets, except the future memories I will miss but have tried to imagine, Isabella walking down the aisle with her husband to be, even managed to picture grandchildren. Please feel free to continue along your chosen paths with gusto and vigor, which I know you are all capable of. A dear and heartfelt farewell and hope for your future plans, those of your loved ones’ and family during the rest of your visit in life.”
Tears streamed down my face, as I read Henry’s words. We only spent one day together, how could I be so moved by his passing? Because it reminds us how fragile life is. Henry had plans. We had plans. But tomorrow is not promised. I am so grateful for that serendipitous moment, when we chose to open our hearts to that impeccably dressed gentleman with the contagious smile. What a day we had in London! I cherish the memories of the adventures we shared with Henry Visconti, his generous spirit still overflowing, like the pint he’s enjoying somewhere with his old chums that he’s joined from The Dog and Duck.