That time Jimmy Choo served me from the buffet...

Out of the recesses of my short term memory, I recently remembered this unlikely interaction. The anecdote was too improbable not to share.

My bachelor’s graduation day fell on a wet, windy Sunday in September. Already worn out from consecutive days of partying, I was on my way to a dear friend’s graduation celebration at a Malaysian restaurant in central London. I was looking forward to it, and to meeting some of her family who had flown in from Malaysia, until I was soaked by an untimely downpour. I was close to cancelling and going home to shelter from the elements and take a hot bath, but I decided to power on, arriving (un)fashionably late and feeling like something the cat dragged in (from the gutter, probably).

I was welcomed by my wonderful friend Sharon and introduced to some of her friends and family. It was a familial, warm and joyful atmosphere with a buffet spread of traditional dishes fit for a Malay sultan, or in this case, some hungry Goldsmiths’ graduates.

It was a self-serve buffet, but I was beckoned to the table by a kindly man with gentle eyes, probably in his seventies or so. He didn’t introduce himself, but insisted on serving me with every possible dish and condiment, piling portions high onto my plate. He made sure I had enough, was satisfied with the portion sizes, the spice levels. Heaps of succulent fresh noodles, spoonful’s of Nasi Kerabu (blue rice coloured with butterfly-pea flower), curries and sauces and sambals, veggies and skewers, all seasoned accordingly with combinations of coconut milk, chillies, lemongrass, tamarind, galangal and belacan. The highlight for me was definitely the humongous fresh-water prawns which were prepared to perfection. His insistence on serving me himself made me feel honoured, perhaps a little undeserving.

I thanked him with a nod and went to sit and catch up with my friend. I asked her offhandedly, “Who is the nice chap over there? Is he your uncle or relative, or does he work here?”

My friend replied just as casually. “No, that’s Jimmy Choo.”

“What? Jimmy Choo like the shoe?” I blurted out, my brain having not quite made the jump that the shoe brand must be named after a person.

“Yes, he’s a family friend.”

I suddenly felt embarrassingly self-aware that I hadn’t recognised him and obliviously let him serve me food, never mind the fact I looked, or at least felt, bedraggled in the presence of this global fashion icon. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say. I ran to the toilet as soon as I could, to try and fix my hair and wipe the kohl which had leaked onto my face when I’d ran here in the rain. I like to give off a cool and uncalculated vibe, but I’m just a girl after all.

We chatted some more and dug into some splendid Ais Kacang (desert made from sweet beans and shaved ice). We feasted, toasted to a degree well done, and yes, we got pictures. I think the highlight of the night may have been when Jimmy Choo himself gave us all balloons to take home.

It was a graduation day to remember.