A cleaner, brighter Chicago is even better than I remembered

Chicago calls itself "The Second City"; a hangover from the days when it was indeed the greatest American metropolis after New York.  Growing up, it was certainly my second city.

As the cultural hub of the Midwest, its museums and architecture exerted a gravitational pull over 300
miles of corn fields several times a year.  We went Christmas shopping there every winter, gawping in delight at Marshall Fields' windows and eating lunch in the Walnut Room just like the natives.  My mother took her AP History of Art classes on a museum blitz every February; by the age of 13 I could probably give a guided tour of the Art Institute's highlights as well as most adults.  Summer offered a lake and beaches reminiscent of the the seaside, but much closer.  And, of course, there was university. Four years as an undergraduate in suburban Evanston, a year in grad school studying at the downtown campus and covering the arts and legal beats in the loop.  With that background, I was confident I knew Chicago.

How wrong I was.

This is not the city of my youth.  Sure, all the major landmarks are still there.  But they're a lot cleaner.  And the urban space around them has changed.  It's brighter, tidier, better maintained.  There are new parks, major new pieces of public art, new extensions on the museums and whole new areas of town. Clusters of beautiful skyscrapers, designed with Chicago's usual attention to innovative architecture, stand in districts that were industrial wasteland in my day.  I've always told Europeans this was a better city to visit than the usual coastal suspects, and today it's even more true.  There's a prosperous, modern buzz that sits comfortably alongside the history and culture.

Our home for four nights was The University Club.  Magnificently located on Michigan Avenue at Monroe, overlooking the Art Institute (new wing opened, 2009) and Millennium Park (opened 2004), it's decidedly not new (opened 1909).  A 12-story gothic-styled tower, it's characteristic of the mix of brash new money and respect for tradition that characterised the town in those days.  Built as a private club for university graduates (far rarer then than now), the building combined modern technology and comforts with the mullioned windows, gothic arches, heraldry, stained glass, massive fireplaces and ornate woodwork that whispered of Oxford, Cambridge, tradition and sophistication.  It was a trend-setter for a style that would stay popular for decades:  the Tribune Tower up Michigan Avenue and Deering Library at Northwestern are direct descendants.

There's a great hall worthy of a medieval palace, with stunning views over the lakefront and a particularly nice clock with Northwestern's seal as its face.  An equally traditional library with the same view is a floor below.  There are bars, other restaurants, a pool in the basement and helpful staff on the front desk.  The highlight for us was the seasonal restaurant on the roof balcony, where we dined on beautifully presented, sophisticated food on two balmy nights, overlooking the lights of the city and the crowds in the park below.  There were also several floors of hotel rooms, where we could book space thanks to a reciprocal agreement with our club in London.  A wonderful experience, far less expensive than an equivalent hotel. I now understand the magic of reciprocals and will be starting with our partner list when researching lodging for all future urban breaks.

Our plan was for three concentrated days of sightseeing, sandwiched between fairly relaxed arrival and departure days.  We bought Go Chicago cards to take the stress out of this process.  At first, US$123 per person for three days seemed expensive.  But my head was still in the '80s.  Admission prices to Chicago attractions are steep, and if you see two or three things a day you're likely to come out ahead.  In addition, the card allows you to jump several queues and pop into places you might not prioritise if you were doing considering attractions on price alone.  (We never, for example, would have paid $29 to go into Shedd Aquarium under our own steam, but being able to duck in at will was great.)

The card covers most of the centrally-located highlights.  The Gray Line bus tour ($30 without the card), good for hopping on and off for two days, left from in front of the Club and covered major sights along the coast from Soldiers' Field (with its new, modernistic stands inserted into the original architectural frame) on the south to Navy Pier (completely renovated since my day) on the north.  Given the stunning weather, riding around on the top of an open double decker bus was a delight, but the information imparted by the guides was variable.  We encountered one who was good, another who was so awful ... and inaccurate ... we had to get off the bus rather than listen to him.  Far better was the architecture tour by boat up the Chicago River ($35), with a guide who was both amusing and professorial in his expertise.

We went to the observation deck of the John Hancock building ($28), which is a stunning view but you don't get much else for your money, so good to have it included.  But mostly, we used the card for the museums, which have admissions prices that reminded us of just how blessed we are in London.  In addition to the aquarium, there's the Art Institute charging $23, the Field Museum at $25 and Science and Industry at $27.  Interestingly, most of these museums now seem to market and price themselves like entertainment venues, branding different parts as "experiences" and charging on a sliding scale depending on how much you want to experience.  But of that, more to come in my museum entry.

We also spent a fair amount of time on leisurely dining, hanging about the club and sleeping in.  All that a holiday should be.  Next ... a closer look at the dining.

In other St. Louis dining delights: Schneithorst's redeems itself, Vin de Set slips and Spencer's satisfies

It wasn't all Americana and barbecues.  We did let The Englishman out to experience a few more elegant delights.

There was a do in a mansion in Huntleigh Estates.  High school classmate.  Sprawling place in verdant grounds, tastefully decorated in the most traditional of styles.  Bustling staff of caterers circulating hors d'oeuvres from a kitchen the size of our entire ground floor.  Well-maintained middle aged folks (it was a 50th birthday party) still wearing the same Lilly Pulizer print sundresses, Brooks Brothers madras plaid bermudas, needlepoint belts and monogrammed accessories they wore in high school.  The Englishman was both horrified and fascinated by St. Louis fashion.  Everyone clustered around an outdoor bar complete with embedded flat screen TV and proper beer taps next to an outdoor sitting room and stone fireplace.  It was pretty much my high school scene, but we were partying on the main floor rather than being limited to the basement.


Another party at my "second parents" in Chesterfield, in whose basement I practically lived.  Now we were setting out elegant table decor under a tent beside a perennial garden worthy of an English manor, establishing the bar and supervising the caterers for a 50th wedding anniversary party.  Not quite so palatial, but still elegant and sophisticated enough to debunk any myth of backwards good-old-boys from the hinterlands.  Though we certainly had a taste of the real Midwest when a hail storm blew through our sunny day and wiped out both the bar and the table settings minutes before the guests arrived.  Thanks to our English weather resilience, a crack team of helpers and American tumble driers, we had the tent re-set before the food was out.

On the restaurant scene, our second upscale dining outing (after the extraordinary Niche) was Vin de Set.  I'd been here on a business dinner a few years before and was mightily impressed by the French-inspired food and terrific wine list served on a wide roof garden with clear views of the St. Louis arch.  My plan:  A chance to see the big St. Louis fireworks display without having to deal with the crowds.  On this front, we succeeded.  And while not quite as impressive as sitting in the park beneath the arch and seeing the rockets' red (and blue, and green, and yellow) glare reflect off its steel surface, watching from a distance with a glass of wine in your hand and no risk of getting crushed on the way back to the car was a fine evolution.

The restaurant, however, didn't impress me as much as last time.  No drastic complaints, but nothing to dazzle. Most of us had steak and those all came out to the levels ordered. Shared appetisers of sea scallops on polenta were good, but extremely expensive; what they call a large scallop in the Midwest is a lot smaller that the similarly defined back in England. Steak tartare was interesting, served as a make-your-own plate with capers, red onions, sauce, etc. piled separately for you to combine with the beef; the dice on the meat was a bit too hearty both for delicacy of taste and ability to eat neatly. We ended with a shared cheese plate (good-sized slices and a nice variety of accompaniments) and a chocolate souffle roulade. Not sure where the souffle was on this; it was a good but completely average roulade only a step or two above a packaged, store-bought version.

The real problem was with the service. The waitress didn't seem to know much about what she was serving and was very forgetful. She'd drift off for long periods. At one point we grabbed another waiter to order wine and, when she learned of this, was visibly irritated with us. She got a bit more cheerful at the end ... when we came close to tipping time ... but this certainly wasn't the service I expect in American restaurants, where they're now expecting you to tip 18% to 20%. (We gave her an old-fashioned 15. In England, she'd be lucky to get 10.)

Performing far better than its last encounter was Schneithorst's.  For several generations a German restaurant decked out like a Bavarian woodcarver's shop, they modernised about a decade ago by tearing down the old place, giving half of the space over to a strip mall and rebuilding as a casual beer cellar and cafe with an open-air beer garden on the rafters above.  The story of Piers' last visit, when Piers irritated an already-grumpy waitress by insisting on his beer in an un-iced glass.  It has become one of his favourite why-Americans-can't-do-beer-properly stories.  A cheerful waiter named Zak and the fact that they only use plastic cups in the beer garden saved the day.  The Englishman could now concentrate on the fact that Schneithorst's actually has a very respectable beer menu, and the plastic cups brought it out at the right temperature.  Young Zak even scrambled downstairs to get one brew not stocked upstairs, and threw it in for free because of the inconvenience.  And the food was good, too.

But we couldn't stay away from Americana for too long.  Three of our most enjoyable comfort food experiences were within walking distance of our local digs in downtown Kirkwood.  The Kirkwood Custard Station is almost as good as Ted Drewes, but without the drive and the crowds.  And with the benefit of a little stroll around the historic station and its gardens while you eat your ice cream.  A chat with the train spotters reveals one of the odder similarities between America and Britain.  Who could have imagined such an odd habit could exist on both sides of the pond?

McArthur's Bakery produces sweet treats in the finest St. Louis tradition.  Far too sweet for The Englishman, but the cherry danish ("But those aren't Danish!", pointed out the also Half-Dane) were enough to make me very happy.

And no visitor should leave Kirkwood without breakfast at Spencer's Diner.  A beautiful little bit of the late '40s preserved to perfection, dishing up eggs, hash browns, pancakes and bottomless cups of coffee at low prices with magnificent service.  If you dare, have the eggs slathered with beef chilli.  My friend Mike rolled his eyes in delight.  I was happier with chocolate chip pancakes.  After Vin de Set and Niche, we were all happier with the bill.

St. Louis can do upscale elegance, and affordable comfort food.  Shame we've yet to find a place that does both.  The quest continues...

The Englishman negotiates rivers of beer, baseball and BBQ with dignity

My husband is a tremendously good sport.  This was his first worry-free trip to my home town (the others were tied to my mother's death), so the extended family and I decided to show him a particularly Midwestern good time.  We would, we decided, dip him in all the Americana one week could bear.

We probably overdid it.  Certainly no typical week in my past has featured quite that much saturated fat, nor that amount of country music.  But nobody could resist toying with The Englishman.  And it was Fourth of July week.

The most memorable day was a road trip to Hannibal, Missouri.  We were heading for National Tom Sawyer Days, billed on the town's website as a big, exciting, Mark Twain-themed festival.  On arrival, it was a small strip of carnival rides at the end of town.  Main Street didn't seem particularly busy, its strip of quaint, 19th-century brick buildings filled with cafes and gift shops ... but not many people.  Beer tents and stages were still in set-up mode; clearly there was more activity scheduled the next day.


There's a short strip of clapper-boarded old buildings in the centre of this stretch, with plaques telling you this was the house of the girl who inspired Becky Thatcher, here's the pharmacy the young Twain lived over, and here's a model of the fence Tom persuaded his mates to paint for him.  Complete with bucket of whitewash for your photo opportunity.  The Englishman grudgingly obliged.


Just above this is the Mark Twain Diner, a humble place dishing out excellent burgers and home made root beer by locals who, I suspect, have never been further than Chicago or St. Louis.  Piers was wildly exotic.


It was all somewhat charming but, truth be told, it was worth no more than a 15-minute sightseeing stroll after lunch.  Add another five, perhaps, to climb to the top of the levee to marvel that the Mississippi was unusually high for this late in the year.  (This accompanied, incongruously, by a guy strolling back and forth on the grassy bank practicing Scottish tunes, badly, on bagpipes.)


It would have been a monumental bust had Hannibal been our only objective.  But the point of the day was the journey, not the destination.  We'd headed up the Great River Road and cut across the fertile flood plains fed by the Missouri, Mississippi and Illinois rivers.  The scenery is beautiful in its gentle way, with fields of nodding young corn surrounding humble farmsteads with collapsing old barns and shiny modern grain silos.  Limestone bluffs mark the edges of river valleys, from which you can spot eagles circling if you look sharp.  Every so often you cut through a tiny town with a few churches and a gas station.  Nothing has changed out here since I was a girl.


In fact, this drive was a wander through the back country of my youth.  Memories were gilded by the sun pouring through the open top of Mike's jeep, country music blaring on the radio.
First stop: Alton.  Once a major point for loading grain barges, just below a series of locks where the Mississippi and the Missouri meet, it's the traditional start of the prettiest part of the Great River Road above St. Louis.  Today it's perhaps most notable for Fast Eddie's BonAir, a bar that's been in continuous operation since Anheuser Busch (the man, not the company) opened the place in 1921.


You enter through the original art deco portal and emerge into a dark '50s style bar.  Beyond that is an enormous covered outdoor courtyard.  Service is fast and friendly and it's famous for ridiculously cheap burgers and boiled shrimp.  It was still early, however, so we only paused for drinks.


Then north along a strikingly beautiful part of the Mississippi, so wide at Portage des Sioux, where the Missouri joins, that it's dotted with forested islands and you'd swear you were looking at a lake.


The Piasa Bird, an ancient native American cliff painting of a dragon-like creature, still adorns the bluffs here, though today it's a modern recreation.  It was always the sign we were nearing Pere Marquette State Park, where the staff in the 1920s WPA-built lodge used to serve us fried chicken Sunday lunches that we'd walk off on the hiking trails through the wooded bluffs.  The park and lodge are still there, though I can't vouch for the chicken these days.  Though it was a great cue to tee up the Zac Brown Band's Chicken Fried on the iPhone, perhaps the most recent country music anthem to Americana and one bound to make The Englishman wince as the rest of us bellowed along with the chorus.


Eventually the road to Hannibal turns away from the Mississippi and into broad stretches of rolling farmland, before crossing the smaller Illinois river.  Just up from the crossing is the tiny town of Kampsville, population 302, which on that day had hung out banners welcoming a local boy home from service in Afghanistan.  My husband isn't really a complete stranger to small town America, since these places tend to supply the American soldiers he once worked with.



More than 30 years before, I had spent two summers here on archeology camp with Northwestern University.  Heat, mud and boredom knocked the archeology bug out of me, but I still have fond memories of sitting in the riverside park here, drinking a purloined beer (I was under age) and watching the little car ferry travel to and fro.


Half an hour on from Kampsville we skirted the town limits of Quincy, where another high school adventure had me on yearbook camp at the local college.  I was back in 1987 as part of my newspaper management programme in graduate school, advising the Quincy Herald Whig  on how to raise circulation with readers across the river in Hannibal.  (More Cardinals coverage, we said.)  And thus to Hannibal itself, which doesn't appear to have changed at all in 27 years, except for higher prices in the Mark Twain Diner.

The next day, back in St. Louis, we put The Englishman through a proper home-town July 4th.  Ribs smoking for five hours, copious quantities of beer, a bit of Springsteen.  An outing to the lazy river at the Kirkwood community pool for me, while he stayed in a shady spot by the bbq with chef Mike.  The family kept an amusing line of banter going on America's lucky escape from the UK, and laid out Union Jack paper napkins to rub the point in.  Piers answered with John Cleese's famous revocation of independence.  Later, off to the Kirkwood community fireworks for the logical conclusion of the day.  More beer, some ice cream, competitive singing of My Country 'Tis of Thee against God Save the Queen.  I had to help my husband out by singing the latter.

The last bit of requisite Americana, of course:  baseball.  We caught the Cardinals against the Marlins on the Sunday.  A win, a gentle breeze and temperatures just slightly below normal making a day game tolerable.  (Although the draining heat and humidity typical of St. Louis was on its way back.)  The Englishman demonstrated a growing expertise in the game, bought two new Cards caps and looked like a local by the time he was pounding post-game Anheuser Busch products straight out of the can at Paddy O's sports bar.

God bless America.  And God bless The Englishman willing to embrace the spirit of the Midwest.  Even though he refused to let me snap a photo of him consuming tinned Cheese Whiz on a triscuit.  That, evidently, was an indignity too far.

There are stars hiding in this St. Louis Niche

In Europe, it's not unusual to find Michelin-starred restaurants nestled in charming villages off the beaten track.  Not so much so in the States, where fine dining has generally been the preserve of a handful of large cities.  At least that was my perception until last night, when my home town hit a dining ball out of the culinary ballpark.  Just a week ago I ate at the double-Michelin starred Hibiscus in London, and I can assure you that St. Louis' Niche is a superior restaurant.  And half the price.

Let's start with the benchmark.  Claude Bosi's Hibiscus featured in this blog three years ago when the Northwestern girls chose it to cheer up the recession-challenged Lisa, who was at the end of her patience trying to find a new job.  From the depths of that enforced career break she's risen to the heights of partnership at her new firm, and we thought a return to Hibiscus created a fitting full circle.

Bosi's still an assured master of his game, with the evening featuring delicate, French-inspired classics delivered by charming servers, matched with interesting wines.  The weekday dining deals of our early visit are long gone, however.  The six course tasting menu with matching wine flight, plus coffee and the bottle of champagne we started with, rocketed the per-person cost to a stratopheric total not far off what I would have made in a whole fortnight in my first job.  

I wish I could tell you I felt it was great value for money but, even before the St. Louis comparison, I was feeling underwhelmed.  It was an impressive start.   The menu was a bingo-card style listing of ingredients that we were invited to volunteer likes and dislikes against, then the chef crafts your dinner from there.  The amuse bouche of a shot glass of cold cucumber soup topped with elderflower froth was an inspired pairing, and the mackerel two ways draped in strawberry sauce vierge was a brilliant innovation.  After that, however, everything was delicious, but nothing dazzled.  Broad bean and prawn ravioli, turbot with brown butter sauce, duck breast with kumquat and chili sauce.  Wine pairings were good but occasionally off; the red with the duck was far too thin and sharp to carry the rich dish.  I don't question that this is Michelin-starred dining, but of the wealth of starred restaurants in the UK, my return to Hibiscus didn't impress me enough to favour it over many others.

Niche, on the other hand, will be on my list for every future visit to St. Louis.  It delivered, in fact, one of the 10 best fine dining meals I've had since this blog's inception.  Chef/owner Gerard Craft has garnered a fair amount of publicity in national food and wine magazines and has been credited with "turning the St. Louis food scene on its head."  This was certainly a long stretch from the toasted ravioli, BBQ pork and sugar-charged bakery goods that defined the city of my youth.

That was obvious from the first sip:  oak tea flavoured with smoked pork fat and lemon.  And the first bite, the coxinha:  A quail egg-sized cheese croquette of Brazilian cheese, breaded in crispy chicken fat, served with a cocktail of Hendricks, aperol and rose lillet.  A lemon maple egg custard spiked with shitake mushrooms, topped with glistening bonito pearls, served in a perfectly hollowed egg shell followed.  Three courses and my jaw was already dropping in amazement.  Not just that I was getting this kind of fare in St. Louis, but that every course brought innovations I hadn't encountered in any European dining.  

More amazing courses followed thick and fast, every one worthy of note.  Soft and airy balls of cheese bread served with delicate pickles and shavings of country ham.  A chilled pea soup ladled over sour
ed oat granola, delivering a playful contrast of sharp and smooth flavours, liquid and crunchy textures.  Another soup-like dish, this one individual, sweet Brussels sprout leaves arranged like a flower on a pillow of ricotta and caraway, then drizzled with a smoked trout broth that puddled in each leaf.  Next a crayfish roll on griddled rye enlivened with apple, celery, nasturtium leaves and a shard of Old Bay "glass" ... sugar set with the iconic spice.  All those savoury dishes led up to a perfect, simple round of ribeye with a fruity, luscious red wine.  

Following in the footsteps of all fine dining establishments came multiple desserts.  First an alcoholic iced lolly you popped up from its plastic sleeve, dropping us all back to summer circa 1972.  Palate cleansed, on to crunchy honeycomb with lime curd and raspberries, dotted with lemon verbena leaves.  Finally the sweet peas appeared again, this time as ice cream with a tiny financier cake, strawberries and hibiscus.

All of this was served with elegance, precision and presentation worthy of any high end European restaurant.  Sitting at the chef's table ... four counter seats next to the pass, overlooking the open kitchen ... enhanced our experience.  The whole team was happy to chat and able to multi-task, plating up whilst explaining details about preparation and comparing favourite dining experiences.  It was, frankly, the chef's table experience I've always wanted in London, but hadn't yet managed.

In fact, there were only three things that told me I wasn't in a British Michelin-starred establishment.  1. The merry, casual din.  Fine dining at home is rarely this informal and never this loud.  2.  The wine presentation.  All excellent wines, but poured without ceremony and without the detailed explanations that a European sommelier would normally do.  (That, I missed.)  3.  The price.  $95 for a 10 course tasting menu, $55 for wine pairings.

British friends, that is 98GBP all in.  Less than half of what I paid for that much lauded and inferior meal at Hibiscus.  And, frankly, what I bet many of you have paid for a three-course dinner with plenty of wine at your local gastropub.  I keep telling you people you need to visit the Midwest.  Here's another reason why.

Miloš delivers Spanish heat at The Anvil ... though a lot less than expected

The popularity of the UK's Classic FM ... which treats classical music like the modern stuff, with song-length excerpts of the best bits and chart countdowns ... shows that bringing pop music marketing to the classical music scene works wonders.  The industry needs to be careful, however, or this strategy can backfire.

I'm thinking of a clear case of bait and switch in the marketing of the Miloš Karadaglić concert in

Basingstoke last night.

The Anvil, a surprisingly good arts centre in the heart of town, regularly hosts classical music within its broad repertoire.  It's a wonderfully intimate space, with top tickets the price of cheap ones in London, and a commute time of five minutes for us.  When we saw Miloš, one of our favourite classical guitarists, heavily promoted as being in concert, we snapped up the tickets.

The reality:  an evening with the English Chamber Orchestra, with Karadaglić as guest artist playing two pieces:  Rodrigo's Concierto de Aranjuez and a short romance.  A limited role in the programme is fairly standard stuff in traditional classical concerts, but the posters clearly promised a night with the 30-year-old star.

I can picture the discussion in the marketing department now.  "We need to appeal to a broader audience, and this kid is hot.  Just look at him.  We'll promote him like a rock star, and the young girls will flock in."

Karadaglić is, indeed, exceptionally easy on the eye.  He's also wonderfully talented.  Born in Montenegro, he won a Royal Academy of Music Scholarship in London and signed his first record contract in 2011.  His most recent album, Latino Gold, is both soothing and evocative of warmer, more exotic climates.  It's a favourite summer soundtrack of mine at the moment.  Added to all that, he seems to be a genuinely pleasant guy, who comes across well on TV interviews and appeared to have a strong rapport with the conductor and the orchestra last night.

His performance was assured and confident, bringing two very familiar pieces to glowing life.  Some classical music doesn't sound that different in performance than it does at home on a good sound system.  Not so the Rodrigo concerto, to which Karadaglić gave a whole new layer of depth and resonance.  In the cosy confines of the Anvil, about 20 rows back from the stage, we were also treated to the fascinating drama of his flying hands magically stroking sound out of his instrument.  I don't think there's anything quite as much fun to actually watch people play.

In the wider programme the orchestra continued the Mediterranean theme with Rossini's Overture from the Italian Girl in Algiers , Falla's Ritual Fire Dance from El Amor Brujo (it may not sound familiar, but you'd probably know it if you heard it) and Mendelssohn's Italian Symphony (No. 4) in its entirety.  I enjoyed the latter just as much as the guest star.  It's popular enough that all four movements were familiar, but I don't think I'd ever heard it as a complete symphony.  It's an exquisite piece, wrapping up an evening that left me feeling like I'd been sitting in some bouganvilla-draped courtyard drinking sangria and fanning away the heat.

So no disappointment for me, despite my surprise at young Karadaglić's brief appearance.  And did the marketing ploy work in the end?  I fear not.  Most of the upper balcony was empty, and the audience was solidly our age and above.  No teeny boppers swooning over the guitarist, despite his swarthy good looks.

I suppose the pop approach only takes you so far.

My English garden starts sinking some roots

I officially declare my garden OPEN.

We gained a lot by buying a new-built house on a modern estate.  Square footage.  Energy efficiency.  Value for money.  But I gave up the garden.  We'd looked at some beautiful spaces, with plenty of room and established herbaceous borders.  What I got was a blank slate.  A modest-sized, L-shaped garden, with perhaps 100 feet of lawn sloping down a slight hill and a patio onto which the back door and the sitting room opens.  Two sets of steps, with a flower bed between them, head down to the garage, my office door and the path to the drive where we park the cars.  A tremendous advantage:  the whole garden is enclosed by 8-foot brick walls.  The disadvantage:  It's overlooked by neighbours.  That's the inevitable sacrifice of a modern estate.

But the money we saved on a new house gave me budget to devote to garden construction.  And so, perhaps for the only time in my life, I've done things the way you're supposed to.  I started out with a plan.  I hired landscapers.  I had all my hard landscaping done first.  I built everything around an impressive water feature.  Then I had my beds dug with several tonnes of topsoil and manure.  And finally, the plants.  A garden is never finished, but as of this weekend I declare Phase I concluded.  The foundation is established.  Now ... I have 20 or 30 years to potter.

If you came in the back gate ... the way we come in and out of the house every day ... you'd see this.  That first flower bed, between the stairs, will eventually be filled with flowering perennials.  For now, I have to screen it from meddlesome dogs.

The first plants in the bed between the steps offer a clue as to what it may eventually look like.  A gentle pink rose, Geoff Hamilton, anchors the bed.  The magnificent blue anchusa Loddon Royalist is blooming now, while the monkshood behind it, braced by the obelisk, will add blue colour later in the summer.  Behind you get your first glimpse of my pergola, one of the architectural anchors of the garden.  The lurking puppy trying to stick his head into things shows why this bed is screened off.

Look behind you at this point and you'll see a lovely little alcove that's a sun trap in the morning.  That's an espaliered apple, egremont russet, that's going to be growing up the wall.  (A rare and wonderfully tasty apple that's great with cheddar cheese.)  It's behind what will eventually be a little hedge of lavender.  The gate on the right leads to where we keep the cars, and is our main entry in and out of the house.

Walk a little further and you get to the water feature.  It's the centrepiece of the whole garden, with an upper pond cascading into a lower.  Some vivid orange goldfish live there, but wouldn't oblige to be in this afternoon's photos.  The pond gives a lovely soundtrack to the whole garden, and provides me with the opportunity to use water plants within it and alpines in the rocks around the edge.  Pots have their place, too. That's parsley in the foreground, and an oversized bowl of spinach at the back.

Now we've reached the far side of the garden and have turned around to look over the water feature back towards the gate to the drive.  From here you get a sense of the two levels ... the upper patio, lined by herb beds, has doors into our laundry room and sitting room.

This starts to give you an idea of my colour scheme.  Purples, pinks and blues.  That's a beautiful little double geranium in the foreground, and a lovely clump of Siberian iris that should be blooming in the next week.  Bright pink sea thrift, behind the iris, is settling happily into the cracks between the rocks.  Here you can see the one major disadvantage of the garden ... the apartment building across the street that looks over us.  (Fortunately the patio and the French doors to the sitting room aren't overlooked.)  A possibility ... when I have at least £500 spare ... is some large pleached hornbeam planted on the other side of the wall to make those windows less intrusive.

Above the water feature you have the only significant bit of lawn I've left in my design.  Mostly to provide a base for the hammock stand, to the honest.  (This gets afternoon sun, and an ipod set up on a hammock-side table streams baseball games off MLB.com.) You can see a lovely dwarf ornamental cherry in the foreground, just to the left of centre.  This is the anchor for the flower bed at the top of the water feature.  The path to the front gate (this opens onto the main road at the front of the house) is covered by a custom-made pergola that will eventually be draped by a light pink rose called the generous gardener.  At the back is another herbaceous border, and the Tunisian tiles that used to decorate the back wall at Thames Cottage.

Here's that back bed, seen a bit closer.  On the right you have the generous gardener, now just a little starter plant.  Under the obelisk is a bunch of sweet peas, starting slowly because of our cold spring.  One challenge of this bed:  the three feet on the left never get any direct sun.  So I've built it up as a little hillside and have planted foxglove, ferns, heuchera and hosta.

Standing at the end of the pergola with that bed at your back, you look left and see the patio.  The beds are filled with kitchen herbs and greens we cut and use regularly:  rocket, fennel, rosemary, sage, oregano, basil.  I have different kinds of mint in pots on the corners (chocolate, apple and basil), and that's an olive tree in the corner.  The Weber kettle is, of course, just next to the back door.  Over the wall you can see one of the glories of our location ... the wildflower meadow, wetland and trees over which the North side of our house looks.

And if you look down, over the water feature, you see the lower patio.  This gets the afternoon sun so is a great place to sit and enjoy cocktails.  We can set a table here for dining outside ... helped by that thing that looks like a coffee table, but is actually a firepit.  (We cooked dinner on it tonight but, despite the fact it's early June, had to go inside to eat in a comfortable warmth.)  The screen at the back matches the pergola, and separates the formal part of the garden from an area I've set aside for the dogs and the greenhouse.  The two doors you see on the left are part of the garage; the one on the left leads into the garage itself, and on the right leads up to my office.  (From which, on a warm day, I can leave the door open and hear the gurgling of the waterfall from my desk.)

Behind the screen I have a little area of lawn I jokingly call "the paddock".  There you'll find this great lean-to greenhouse, currently housing tomatoes, eggplant (aubergine) and poblano pepper plants bursting to life.  Our carpenter, Andris, custom built the dog house at right to match his pergola and screen.  Sadly, neither dog seems inclined to spend any time it it.  That brick wall is the back of the garage, and the window is the toilet underneath the stairs to my office.

And finally ... my favourite plant so far, the wonderful anchusa Loddon Royalist.  This photo doesn't even begin to capture the intense indigo blue.  It seems happy to be sinking its roots into my (much improved) Hampshire soil.  Hopefully, others will follow with equal zest, and these great garden bones will be softened by clouds of colour.

A woman's name belongs above this three-star door

There are currently four restaurants in the UK holding three Michelin Stars.  Only one of them is run by a female chef.  Sadly, it's Gordon Ramsay's name, rather than hers, above the door.  Which is a real shame.  Because Clare Smyth and team gave me one of my most memorable dining experiences.

What separates three stars from one or two?  It's hard to put a finger on it.  The food's no more elaborate, the ingredients no more precious.  If anything, the dishes were simpler.  But there was perfection in their simple elegance.  Every element there for a reason, every flavour distinct and complementary, every plate arranged as a work of art.

This treat was the other half of our Chelsea Flower Show excursion.  Normally, we three girls ... former PR colleagues ... meet up annually at the Hampton Court Flower Show for breakfast and a long catch up before hitting the display gardens and the plant sales.  This year I've ruined that by heading to the States in July.  So we went for Chelsea instead.  And, as if a sign from God, the day I got the tickets I also found a table for three available at Restaurant Gordon Ramsay on Hospital Road, about 150 yards from the Show entrance.  There's a £55 set menu for a three-course lunch.  Not cheap, but we figured we could stretch to that.  And since the big difference between Chelsea and Hampton Court is that they don't sell plants at the former, we argued to ourselves that  we were spending on food what we normally laid out in horticulture.

Too often on these set price deals I'm lured to more expensive menus, because there seems a wide gulf between the cheap options and the rest.  Not so here, where we were all delighted with the choices and felt no need to wander.

While perusing the menu we nibbled on savoury profiteroles stuffed with chicken liver mousse; a lovely complement to the kir royales we'd felt the need to splurge on.  Next came the amuse bouche, a spring pea puree decorated with tiny flowers and vegetables (pictured top); an homage to the gardens down the street and as delicious as it was beautiful.

I was sorely tempted to go on to the lobster, asparagus and herb tortellini with lobster, broad bean and

tomato consommé.  (It certainly would have been the weight watcher-friendly choice.)  But, fortunately, my friend Alex ordered that so I could have a look and a little taste.  Light, delicate yet packed with flavour.  The magic words "foie gras" had jumped off the menu page, however, and I felt compelled to order the chicken liver, foie gras and bone marrow crouton with artichoke, apples and truffle vinaigrette.  Despite its rich ingredients this was delicate as well, with the meaty elements in an elegant sufficiency beneath the seasonal crunch of the fruit and the raw, shaved baby asparagus.  Presentation was again artful, with the circles of vinaigrette matching the pattern of the serving plate below.

On to roasted rabbit loin with Bayonne ham, salted baked turnips, toasted hazelnuts and pickled mustard seed.  Stunning.  Rabbit's a tricky meat to cook; easily dried out. Each bite-sized morsel of loin rolled with ham was, as you'd expect at this level, perfect.  Salt baking (all the rage in London right now) transforms a turnip's flavour into a concentrated, richer version of itself.  And pickled mustard seeds were a revelation, adding a bit of crunch, sweet, savoury and tart all in one go.

Dessert was the one place I was tempted to wander off the set menu.  Cheese, no matter how lovely the cart, wouldn't satisfy my sweet tooth, and roasted pineapple with coriander financiers (small, almond-flavoured sponge cakes, not bankers), coconut sorbet and vanilla cream sounded too virtuous.  Having been surprised by the peanut butter mousse at Bruno Loubet's place last month, I decided to give it another go.  This time a quenelle of the stuff served beside banana parfait, a bitter chocolate sandwich and caramelised bananas.  Like the rest of my meal, this was a combination of ingredients that could have turned into a stomach-filling lead weight in the wrong hands.  But again, Clare and team created a small work of art so concentrated in flavour, yet light in texture, your taste buds spun with satisfaction.  Leaving your stomach replete, yet not stuffed.  I sense I might finally get a handle on the portion control challenge if I had a three-star chef in the kitchen.

All of the surrounding elements were as fine as the food.  Clare recently appeared on Saturday Kitchen talking about the redecoration of the dining room:  its greys, silvers, mauves and gentle pinks create a soothing, neutral setting while still looking distinctive.  A delightful German sommelier is happy to work to a budget and, indeed, has something to work with.  There are a reassuring number of bottles priced between £35 and £60 on a comprehensive wine list that, as you would expect, rises to stratospheric names.  And prices.  (He produced a £55 Austrian white, a seasonal special not on the menu, that performed the admirable trick of working across our diverse menu choices.)  Front-of-house staff is constantly on hand ... I'd guess there are 10 of them for the 40 diners ... managing to anticipate every need while being unobtrusive.

And, the sign of great service:  when they make a mistake, they over compensate.  We'd almost finished our wine.  Alex had just a sip or two left in her glass.  A waiter had topped it up ... with water.  Easily done, to be honest, as the wine was very pale and we were sitting next to the window in a pool of sunshine that further drained colour from the glasses.  But it shouldn't have happened.  And, let's face it, you don't want to waste even one sip of a £55 bottle.  Mortified, the sommelier apologised profusely and then matched each of our desserts with complementary glasses of appropriate dessert wines.  Turning a mistake into yet another reason why this extravagant lunch seemed like value for money.

I'm sure other tables spent far more than we did.  But we engaged in a lot of amusing banter with the waiters and took obvious delight, and a deep interest, in every course.  Plus the wine mistake.  All of which, I suspect, contributed to the maitre d's invitation for us to take a peek into the kitchen on our way out.  And so through the swinging door to a pristine laboratory of gastronomy.  Sous chefs already working away with military precision on prep for the dinner service.  And Clare Smyth in the centre of it all, brow furrowed over menu notes while she kept one eye on everything going on.  Every inch the general of her troops.  Stern, in complete control, yet beautiful and serene.  (In the middle of a long work day in a hot kitchen?  Not fair, really.)

We had a short chat.  She was gracious and welcoming.   "Your name should be above the door," I said.  She gave me a knowing little smile.  I suspect she's heard this before.  Someday soon ... whether over this door or another ... I'm sure it will be true.