My Wimbledon summons arrived courtesy of the Economist, but sadly had to be turned down as I'm being shipped out to our global sales conference in Las Vegas that week. Nothing, however, stood in the way of my Chelsea Flower Show tickets, so the 22nd found me drinking my ceremonial first Pimms of the summer beneath wonderfully clement skies. In fact, in more than a decade of attendance I can only remember one show with better weather.
I wish I could say the same for the gardens. Despite an unusually high crop of gold medals, this year's displays didn't do much for me. That is perhaps because the 2008 show might have been
re-named the "Chelsea Foliage Show". Flowers are clearly out of fashion, as some of the most dramatic show gardens did lots with hedges and banks of greenery. When they did appear, blooms seemed to all purple, dark blues and red. I was deep into the show before I caught any pastels. Quite predictably, then, my choice for best garden was out of favour with the judges; the George Harrison memorial garden mixed a riot of colour, representing the mad '60s, with a calm Indian temple to capture the peace of his later life. I loved it.Fortunately, unlike last year I wasn't there looking for inspiration, only for enjoyment. My own little garden has moved on dramatically since I attended the show last year, notebook in hand and brain working furiously on what my own space could become. Thus I'll illustrate today's blog not with a show garden, but with my own. It's still a work in progress, but does show how Chelsea's grand designs can inspire small oases of pleasure. And how the flower shows can outfit your garden. The firepit is a new purchase at this year's Chelsea, the French iron table and chairs on the deck were on sale at Hampton Court Flower Show last year.
The next night it was off to the Royal Opera House for Simon Boccanegra. Unlike our magnificent seats in Prague, this time we were close to the rafters. For the same price, of course. But this is one of the best Operas in the world, in one of the most expensive cities in the world, so attendance doesn't come cheap. And affordable tickets don't come easy; I booked these in February. It was worth the effort, however, and made me think I should make the effort for myself, not just when my father is visiting.
The recent restoration of the ROH has made it a superlative venue, packed with restaurants, bars and elegant vistas. There's really no bad seat in the house, and similarly there's no bad place to while away the pre-show or interval times. The best spot, however, has to be the long balcony running across the top of the building looking down into Covent Garden. Standing here in the glow of the sunset, sipping champagne and watching London below as the well dressed and elegant swirled around me, I felt perhaps a bit bigger than a minnow in that social pond. Small carp, perhaps?Oh, and the opera was fantastic as well. Boccanegra is one of Verdi's lesser known works. Even my father, the opera fanatic, had to look up the plot. It has all the classic Verdi elements: political intrigue, star-crossed lovers, passion, double crosses, huge crowd scenes, dramatic deaths and bombastic music. The story is set in Renaissance Genoa, but Verdi wrote it with Italian unification in mind and the ROH followed his thoughts by placing the costumes solidly in the 19th century. The sets were simple yet suitably atmospheric, the voices strong, the acting resonant all the way up to our lofty seats. A thoroughly satisfying, if emotionally draining, evening.
Flash forward a few more days and I'd planned Dad's last evening out in London to be a lovely walking tour around the hidden pubs of Marylebone. Sadly, the weather didn't oblige. Cold and rainy once more, it was hard to believe that the sunny summer day at Chelsea was less than a week ago. Even the guide, presumably hardened to London's atmospheric challenges, decided to cancel. He did so across the street from a wonderful restaurant called Levant. Thus Dad's last night out in London was spent in the exotic Middle East.
Levant is in a basement in Jason Court, just off Wigmore Road. It's an easy place to miss, and one you're unlikely to stumble upon unless you're looking for it. But plenty of people find this hidden gem, because it's been packed every time I go. The cuisine is Lebanese and the decor is straight out of Aladdin's cave. We opted for one of the set feasts, which provided an array of traditional mezze to start, followed by a variety of roast meats on skewers. It's a refreshing change from the formality of European dining to be able to graze, sharing tastes from a range of small plates and sampling a bewildering variety of the menu. The first two courses were both substantial and delicious, but dessert was a fitting climax. We started with a beautiful platter of fresh fruit. I thought we were being healthy, until the four-tiered serving piece came laden with Turkish delight, honey-based pastries, stuffed dates and apricots, and pistachios. And then came the hot mint tea, poured with maximum drama from an impressive height out of a gleaming silver pot.
From the decor to the way the food is served, everything is a bit of a show at Levant. The real show starts, however, when the belly dancers emerge from the back room. Four women circle the dining room, alternating places for about half an hour. They had gorgeous costumes and performed with fluid grace and athleticism; it's obvious what good, and challenging, exercise that form of dancing must be. Of course, I doubt that's what the men in the restaurant were thinking. I left them to their lustful thoughts while I lusted after the pastries, wondering if I could manage just ONE more, and how much belly dancing it would require to work off the accompanying calories.
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