Bidet as it may..

Agent Triple P has always enjoyed watching a girl on a bidet. They are still quite unusual in the hotels we stay in. Places influenced by the French, such as Montreal and Switzerland, have them but otherwise they are very rare.

So we have been very much enjoying, therefore, B enjoying the bidet in our bathroom. It's some strange combination of the vulnerability of the squatting pose, the tinkling water and the cold white porcelain next to naked skin that does it. Mercy me!

Agent Triple P was shattered. The combination of wall to wall meetings all day followed by wall to wall (literally, B enjoys the vertical approach) sex all night was taking its toll.

What's more he had failed to deliver on his promise to provide B with caviar. It just goes to show, as Triple P well knows, that not all 5 star hotels are equal. After all the Beverly Wilshire managed to deliver even at 1.00am (caviar is best enjoyed at decadent times and in decadent locations - in that case on a balcony overlooking Los Angeles with a bottle of Laurent Perrier).

"It's Istanbul you want for caviar!" said his new friend, Dr A, a prominent Istanbul lawyer.

Caviar is, of course, a Turkish word and Triple P has enjoyed it at relatively modest prices in hotels here (admittedly all in Istanbul) before. Although as an aphrodisiac for women it is not as potent, we find, as very good chocolate (or diamonds). Some women can't stand the thought of it. It's the egg thing. Women and eggs. Hmm. Those that like it, however, will usually be inspired to demonstrate great gratitude. B is certainly in that category.

Probably not as much as Agent DVD's favourite Monica Bellucci, however.

It now appeared that Triple P would be back in Turkey within 3 weeks visiting both Ankara and Istanbul. B would be joining him again and had rather grumpily accepted a deferred delivery. Thank goodness another pink bag of Agent Provocateur had mollified her.

Tonight was their last night together and they decided to try the other restaurant in the hotel, Brasserie One. This had rather more atmosphere than the Italian restaurant dowstairs and had a menu made up of a mixture of International and Turkish dishes.

Last night they had been taken to a very Turkish restaurant by a lady lawyer and her husband. They had had huge quantities of food none of which he knew the name of. There were things that looked like deep-fried lemons that were stuffed with red rice and vegetables, plates of rice and beans served with pickles, hot stuffed vine leaves, large grilled red chillis, bulgar wheat and tomato salad and lots and lots of grilled lamb, chicken and beef served with yoghurt, houmous and pitta bread. B's little face lit up as each succesive dish was brought to the table. The retaurant was obviously very famous as there were lots of photographs on the wall of the owner and obviously famous Turks (even rarer than famous Belgians).

The restaurant did not, however, serve alcohol, which although Triple P had come across it before, was rather unusual in Turkey. Kemal Atatürk had been a great drinker (a very great drinker he died of cirrhosis of the liver) and had encouraged the production of alcohol in Turkey.

So after their new friends dropped them off back at the hotel B insisted that they went to the trendy Copper Club in the basement. B knocked back several Raki but Triple P, who had had it before and knew it was not as innocuous as it tasted, was more measured. Some sensational looking local girls in very small dresses arrived and perched on the bar stools and within only a few minutes B suggested that now would be a good time to go upstairs.

Triple P made an appreciative comment about one of the girl's shoes on the way past, eliciting a dazzling smile, and B was frosty all the way up to the eighteenth floor.

However, when they returned to the room she discovered, that whatever the records might say, the chambermaid had worked out that there were two people staying in the room and therefore two chocolates on the pillow were needed. Having dealt with those in alarmingly short order B promptly helped herself to another Raki from the minibar and was soon back to her earlier relaxed state. However, she announced that Triple P deserved to be punished for flirting (seems unlikely) and withdrew from her bag a bunch of the sort of golden twisted silken cords that people tie around their curtains (very much shades of VA; I wonder if these curtain shops have any idea what these women use them for).

Next morning, feeling rather bruised and realising that even two Raki is two too many, he updated his blog following a rather substantial breakfast whilst a rather pale looking B went off for an 8.30am meeting.

During the day he actually had a spare 40 minutes and his driver took him to see Anitkabir, the mausoleum (another Turkish word!) of Kemal Atatürk . This was a very impressive area but even more impressive is the fact that it has had over 11 million visitors already in 2007, 546,200 of them last week on November 10th alone, the 69th anniversary of his death.

The light was particularly splendid enabling Triple P to take this photograph.

He was back in the hotel by 5.15 and was almost immediately followed by a much restored B who had recovered her usual bounce as she demonstrated for the next hour before they both retired to the bath together with several bottles of Efes beer.

They went down to dinner early so as "not to waste too much of the night", according to B. They had another large meal, in Triple P's case a Goulash soup, Penne Arrabiata and Ciz Biz; grilled slices of marinated veal served on an aubergine yoghurt salad with pitta and spicy sauce. It was sensationally good although B stole most of his leaving him to steal bits of her Germanically overdone Entrecôte. It went well with the local Sarafin Cabernet Sauvignon, however.

B seemed to be in an altogether more romantic mood than the last few days and on the way back from visiting the bathroom, while she tackled a warm chocolate cake with vanilla sauce, he managed to steal a pink carnation from a display decorating the entrance to the large IT conference in the adjoining conference centre. Triple P presented this to B with rather more flourish than it really deserved whereupon she promptly burst into tears and said no-one had given her flowers for years.

Triple P took the opportunity of asking whether he was forgiven as regards the caviar whereupon she immediately stopped sniffing , fixed him with a steely look , said "no" and then started crying again.

B was much less aggresive when they went to bed, compared with the previous nights, but no less arousing for that as she concentrated on a positively Tantric slow build up technique which, after the third time left Triple P quite literally drained.

She had to leave horribly early for her flight leaving Triple P to type this entry and wondering what to do with the pair of black, scalloped La Perla knickers she had inadvertantly left knotted up with his rompers.

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Ankara Way

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..

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