Agent Triple P is typing this entry actually in (rather chilly) Ankara rather than doing so after the fact. B has left for a meeting but Triple P's first one is not until 10.30.
We were not at all sure that we would meet up at all and, indeed, we only had confirmation when B telephoned from the airport at 7.30pm on Wednesday to say she had just arrived in Ankara from Istanbul. Agent Triple P bailed out of our dreary reception early so that we would be back in the Sheraton to meet her but the local traffic conspired against us and she got to the hotel first. She said that she was starving as she hadn't eaten since a rather meagre breakfast on her flight from Frankfurt to Istanbul that morning. She was dressed in her little black cocktail dress, which she had changed into in the ladies, she said. She also mentioned, rather distractingly, that she wasn't wearing any underwear. Agent Triple P is growing ever fond of B as all her appetites are at a similar level to his.
So we decided to go straight to the hotel's Italian restaurant, Angoletto, after Triple P had deposited his bag up in his room on the 18th floor. Check in took a minute as his Gold Sheraton card let him check in on the Club Floor.
The restaurant was an all white, rather over-lit for Triple P's taste, establishment but the menu was reasonable and the wine list was not bad either. They sat down in a cozy corner (top right in the above picture). B decided they needed a starter, an intermediate course and a main course, which Triple P thought eminently sensible.
"Girls who don't eat are no good in bed!" as his old Sicilian colleague Barone A, used to say.
Given he had had an affair with this well known fifties Italian actress (confirmed by several sources) she must have been a good eater indeed.
Triple P ordered a Trittico salad of tomatoes, mozarella and avocado. B ordered Insalata Di Polpo with artichoke and olive, mushroom, caper and spicy lemon dressing.
Wine was very expensive and B berated him for not ordering something local as he usually did. However, he thought a restaurant that charged £110 for Gavi di Gavi was trying it on and the Turkish wines were unknown quantities and no cheaper that the Torres Gran Vina Sol he eventually selected.
She reminded him that he had promised her caviar at some point.
For the next course, Triple P had penne with wild mushroom and red pepper sauce. B had a seafood risotto.
She had had a bad day, having to catch the 7.25am flight from Frankfurt to Istanbul, then having an endless meeting and no lunch (Germans hate to miss lunch) and then catching the 18.30 flight to Ankara. She had had to get up at 4.50am. Triple P pointed out that he had been up at 6.30am which was really 4.30am UK time. She was not impressed and decided her day had been far more stressful than his, which no doubt explained the fast evaporating Torres and the necessity of ordering another bottle.
In order to elicit some sympathy he described the drunken girl who had molested him on the plane on the way over the previous night. She had really been quite drunk and having poked him in the shoulder from the row behind to find out the time she came forward and sat down next to him for the rest of the rather empty flight. She was flying on to Damascus and tried to persude Triple P to continue on to Syria with her. His explanation that the Syrian authorities would not look too kindly at someone turning up without a visa did not go down well and he was glad to escape the pretty, but seriously flaky, girl at Ankara's splendid new airport.
Their main courses arrived. Triple P controversially went for veal and B had the Petto di Pollo which arrived beautifully presented with fresh vegetables and saffron mash.
She pointed out that she had never seen him order veal before whereas it was one of her favourites. Triple P had always maintained that only Germanic people (and in this category he included the Milanese) could enjoy something as anodyne as veal. B liked the fact that all the blood was drained out of it. She is a dreadfully bloodthirsty girl who enjoys horrible Hollywood splatter films and becomes sexually aroused watching live bullfighting, as he had discovered on a trip to Madrid with her. He soon realised that there was no need to pay for the dodgy tv channel when you could get bullfighting for free.
In order to have something to finish the wine off with they ordered a cheese plate to share, which was just as well as it was enormous, Triple P had no idea if it was local or not but it was all very good. He was surprised that B did not order a dessert but perhaps even she had limits and she had eaten a lot of bread.
They identified only one real problem with the restaurant, as they had even turned the lights down, and that was the warbling cd of 1960's Italian pop songs which was now on its third play.
They left the restaurant and B retrieved her bag from the bell desk. B said that she had not booked a room and hoped that she was not assuming too much. Agent Triple P assured her that he could fit her in whereupon she replied that, surely, that was her line. Perilously close to a joke, from a German. As they got into the lift she did take the opportunity to remind him about the promised caviar again and he said she was easily bought. She replied that she knew that and she was a complete slut, distractingly hiking up her already short hemline enough to show that, indeed, she was not wearing any knickers. Triple P replied that of course that was the only reason he liked her, whilst hurriedly checking to make sure there were no cameras in the lift.
As they walked from the lift lobby to his room, nine doors down, B walked in front of him pulling her dress up again until it was up to her waist, revealing her pert behind. Triple P new the hotel was completely full and had a panic attack at the prospect of someone coming out of an intervening room and him being arrested for bringing a woman of ill repute into the hotel, which he was suddenly sure would be worth at least ten years in a Turkish prison. Triple P usually had trouble with hotel keycards but in that particular instant he got the card out of his wallet and into the door in nine tenths of a second, which was just as well as by the time B was half way through the doorway she had already pulled her dress completely over her head..
The restaurant was an all white, rather over-lit for Triple P's taste, establishment but the menu was reasonable and the wine list was not bad either. They sat down in a cozy corner (top right in the above picture). B decided they needed a starter, an intermediate course and a main course, which Triple P thought eminently sensible.
"Girls who don't eat are no good in bed!" as his old Sicilian colleague Barone A, used to say.
Given he had had an affair with this well known fifties Italian actress (confirmed by several sources) she must have been a good eater indeed.Triple P ordered a Trittico salad of tomatoes, mozarella and avocado. B ordered Insalata Di Polpo with artichoke and olive, mushroom, caper and spicy lemon dressing.
Wine was very expensive and B berated him for not ordering something local as he usually did. However, he thought a restaurant that charged £110 for Gavi di Gavi was trying it on and the Turkish wines were unknown quantities and no cheaper that the Torres Gran Vina Sol he eventually selected.
She reminded him that he had promised her caviar at some point.
For the next course, Triple P had penne with wild mushroom and red pepper sauce. B had a seafood risotto.
She had had a bad day, having to catch the 7.25am flight from Frankfurt to Istanbul, then having an endless meeting and no lunch (Germans hate to miss lunch) and then catching the 18.30 flight to Ankara. She had had to get up at 4.50am. Triple P pointed out that he had been up at 6.30am which was really 4.30am UK time. She was not impressed and decided her day had been far more stressful than his, which no doubt explained the fast evaporating Torres and the necessity of ordering another bottle.
In order to elicit some sympathy he described the drunken girl who had molested him on the plane on the way over the previous night. She had really been quite drunk and having poked him in the shoulder from the row behind to find out the time she came forward and sat down next to him for the rest of the rather empty flight. She was flying on to Damascus and tried to persude Triple P to continue on to Syria with her. His explanation that the Syrian authorities would not look too kindly at someone turning up without a visa did not go down well and he was glad to escape the pretty, but seriously flaky, girl at Ankara's splendid new airport.
Their main courses arrived. Triple P controversially went for veal and B had the Petto di Pollo which arrived beautifully presented with fresh vegetables and saffron mash.
She pointed out that she had never seen him order veal before whereas it was one of her favourites. Triple P had always maintained that only Germanic people (and in this category he included the Milanese) could enjoy something as anodyne as veal. B liked the fact that all the blood was drained out of it. She is a dreadfully bloodthirsty girl who enjoys horrible Hollywood splatter films and becomes sexually aroused watching live bullfighting, as he had discovered on a trip to Madrid with her. He soon realised that there was no need to pay for the dodgy tv channel when you could get bullfighting for free.
In order to have something to finish the wine off with they ordered a cheese plate to share, which was just as well as it was enormous, Triple P had no idea if it was local or not but it was all very good. He was surprised that B did not order a dessert but perhaps even she had limits and she had eaten a lot of bread.
They identified only one real problem with the restaurant, as they had even turned the lights down, and that was the warbling cd of 1960's Italian pop songs which was now on its third play.
They left the restaurant and B retrieved her bag from the bell desk. B said that she had not booked a room and hoped that she was not assuming too much. Agent Triple P assured her that he could fit her in whereupon she replied that, surely, that was her line. Perilously close to a joke, from a German. As they got into the lift she did take the opportunity to remind him about the promised caviar again and he said she was easily bought. She replied that she knew that and she was a complete slut, distractingly hiking up her already short hemline enough to show that, indeed, she was not wearing any knickers. Triple P replied that of course that was the only reason he liked her, whilst hurriedly checking to make sure there were no cameras in the lift.
As they walked from the lift lobby to his room, nine doors down, B walked in front of him pulling her dress up again until it was up to her waist, revealing her pert behind. Triple P new the hotel was completely full and had a panic attack at the prospect of someone coming out of an intervening room and him being arrested for bringing a woman of ill repute into the hotel, which he was suddenly sure would be worth at least ten years in a Turkish prison. Triple P usually had trouble with hotel keycards but in that particular instant he got the card out of his wallet and into the door in nine tenths of a second, which was just as well as by the time B was half way through the doorway she had already pulled her dress completely over her head..
