Rome's Tier 2 galleries yield surprises and peace

I know few European capitals as well as I know Rome. And yet the city barely features in this blog. All of my lengthy exploration took place before its launch. I'll be changing that situation soon, as we head of to the Eternal City for a long weekend next month.

In the mean time, I've been researching and indulging in some fond memories of past trips. One of the most delightfully self-indulgent was an entire week spent in the city, on my own, for R&R before starting a new job.

By that point I'd already visited five or six times and had spent time at all the major sites. My objective: to spend the whole week exploring the Tier 2 art galleries. The ones that appear in guide books, but are well out of the Top 10 lists and nobody you know has ever been to. Travelling by myself was the perfect situation to indulge in such art historical geekery.

In most cases, there are good reasons these places aren't on anyone's "must see" list. Rome is full of treasures, and in the wider context these places have only niche appeal. Though if lifted out of their current locations and dropped in most other cities in the world, they'd instantly become top galleries. And they offer the chance of some rare peace and quiet. Instead of being shoulder to shoulder with the crowds at the Pantheon or the Vatican Museums, I often found myself the only person in the room at these places.  There are even two that I believe should be on your must visit list. I'll reveal which, and why, at the end.

Villa Farnesina
We start in Trastevere, the hip and slightly aloof district across the river from the historic centre and behind the Vatican. The average tourist will never set foot here, as it lacks any of the major sights or tourist hotels, and isn't on the way to any of them. Which might have been exactly why Agostino Chigi, fabulously wealthy banker to the even wealthier Medici popes, decided to build his villa here. (The name comes from a later owner, one of the Farnese family.) Chigi could get a sizeable riverside plot "away from it all", and still be a 10-minute gallop away from the action.  Unique in a city of bulky, forbidding town palaces, the Farnesina is built on a rural plan, as if someone had picked an agricultural estate off a Tuscan hilltop and dropped it beside the Tiber. Only a few rooms are on show, but you're really only here for one. In between painting papal apartments, Raphael nipped over to whip up the frescos in Chigi's dining hall.  (Pictured above.) The subject is the love affairs of the gods, and it's as if Raphael, freed from the constraints of his usual religious subject matter, poured all of his passion into the work.  It's lavish, lush, exuberant and lip-smackingly delightful.  Exactly ... legend has it ... like the parties that played out beneath it.  It's said that Chigi used to encourage the drunken revellers to throw the gold and silver plate into the Tiber at the end of the evening in a stunning demonstration of his wealth.  Turns out he had nets rigged up below, and the servants would retrieve it all at the end of the party.


Palazzo Corsini
Also in Trastevere, this building is a far more sober affair.  It's a rambling late Baroque place of pastel colours, grand galleries and echoing corridors. I found the collection to be second rate compared to other galleries in the city. It's mostly rather gloomy religious art without many masterpieces, but in dignified, light & airy interiors. The most interesting part here is the suite of rooms belonging to Queen Christina of Sweden. (Pictured at right.) They haven't changed since she died, offering a chance to get to know the 17th century monarch who gave up her throne and went into exile in order to keep her Roman Catholicism.

Palazzo Spada
We're back in the historic centre now. The streets around the Campo dei Fiori bristle with aristocratic palaces, most notably the Palazzo Farnese. It's now the French embassy and not open to the public, but standing below at night and looking into the windows of the grand reception rooms gives you some sense of the splendour.  The nearby Palazzo Spada is a close contemporary, though not quite as grand. It's part government building and part gallery.  Four grand State Rooms are filled with16th & 17th century paintings hung in the style of that time: clustered tightly all the way to the ceiling. The collection includes known masters like Caravaggio, Titian, Rubens and Durer .. so it's much better bang for your art historical buck than the Corsini. But the greatest masterpiece here has nothing to do with painting. It's a garden folly in the courtyard. Now known as the Borromini Perspective, the eponymous architect explored the concept of the "vanishing" point with a barrel-vaulted colonnade and a chequered pavement. Stand in front of it, you'll think the hall stretches at least 50 yards before terminating at that statue in the garden at the end. Unless a gardener strays across the illusion, when you'll see that the statue barely comes up to his waist and the box hedges are dwarf. It's all a trick of perspective to make the cramped courtyard of this urban space look bigger. Now a standard trick of garden design on display at the Chelsea and Hampton Court shows every year; this is where they got the idea.

Palazzo Altemps
Yet another cardinal's palace in the same neighbourhood, this one is just behind Piazza Navona. The collection here is mostly classical statuary, and, frankly, if you've been to the Capitoline or the Vatican Museum, this is going to be a Roman nude too far. It's not the collection I found noteworthy, but the setting and the sense of peace. The Renaissance palace rooms (above) contain nothing but the statues, standing in splendid isolation beneath timbered ceilings, bathed in light pouring in the big windows. In most other galleries in Rome, there's rarely an unadorned space. Here, there's an almost austere modernism.  And few other people to disturb your contemplation. If you start to miss the lavish decor, there's a painted loggia overlooking the interior courtyard that will make your jaw drop.

Palazzo Barberini 
Up by the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain you'll find the stupendous pile Maffao Barberini built for himself on the way to becoming Pope Clement VIII. He used the place as an alternative papal palace, explaining the ridiculously grand central hall. It's this throne room you're here to see, its towering double storied height crowned by what many feel to be the artist Pietro da Cortona's greatest work.  It's a tromp l'oeil tour de force, an allegory on Barberini power with family members, gods and saints swirling towards heaven through columns and clouds. The effect is so persuasive you feel you're at the bottom of a well, looking up hundreds of feet. It's vertigo inducing. We also meet Borromini here again, this time in an exquisite, oval spiralling staircase.  There's an art collection best known for three paintings: Raphael's La Fornarina, Caravaggio's Judith beheading Holofernes and a Hans Holbein Henry VIII.

Palazzo Doria Pamphilj
Everything above is now in government hands. Not so this Palazzo, still owned by the descendants of the 16th century Dorias who moved here to extend their power base from their native Genoa. Thus there's much more of a family story here, with an audio guide narrated by the current Prince. There have been ups and downs, though perhaps nothing so interesting as the current generation, where the joint brother and sister heirs recently battled over the right of the Prince's children ... born of a surrogate mother to be adopted by the Prince and his male partner ... to inherit. Nothing like a bit of scandal to enhance great architecture. The rambling place is reputed to have 1000 rooms, and though the interiors are mostly baroque there are pockets of 18th and 19th century renovation. The undisputed masterpiece here is Velazquez's portrait of Pope Innocent X (an ancestor), but the most visually dramatic sight is the grand hall that runs in a square all the way around the interior courtyard, encrusted with statuary, gilt, mirrors, paintings and lively frescos.

My choice? I think the Farnesina and the Doria Pamphilj both deserve to be better known. The Farnesina is perhaps the greatest thing Raphael created; it's certainly one of the most beautiful rooms in Europe. And much easier to get into than his Papal interiors people shuffle through on the way to the Sistine Chapel. Doria Pamphilj is also unique, but in this case because of the continuity and family ties. It lives in a way the static, state-owned galleries cannot. As evidenced by its website, filled with offers of special events and private tours.

If you've ticked the boxes on Rome's must see list, consider one of these for a bit of variety.

National Gallery shows us a different, brighter Goya

Judging from the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds at the National Gallery, my resolve to slip in to see the Goya exhibit before it closed was a common thought across art lovers in reach of London. The last week of the show, which wrapped today, ran at capacity. It wasn't a great viewing experience, but I'm glad I made the effort. Because most of what I thought I knew about Goya and his world was wrong.

My misconceptions are typical, explained the curator in the introduction within the show's excellent audio guide. Killing them is exactly the point behind Goya: The Portraits.

Goya's most frequently-reproduced paintings are dark, disturbing things. There's The Third of May, 1808, where a Christ-like peasant with haunting eyes compels our attention at the very second a brutal French firing squad takes his life. In Saturn Devouring his Son, a cadaverous man has already consumed the head of the bloody body he holds, and is now working on the arm. The last major Goya show in London focused on his abundant sketches of nightmares and witches. An artist emotionally traumatised by the Peninsular War. Dark, sinister, morose, brooding. That's what I thought of Goya. And I didn't have much desire to see more of him.

But Goya lived for more than 80 years, and in his lifetime he was mainly known as a portraitist. Like Reynolds or Gainsborough in England, though working a generation later, he captured the most dynamic and interesting people of his world with panache and flair. Yes, the portraits were beautiful. Even better, the subjects were compelling. In many cases, downright sexy. And Goya has the skill that only a few portraitists have of including a twinkle in the eye, plus an animation in the face, that gives you the feeling these people will step out of their frames and get down to partying once the paying public departs.

History tells us that Goya was a gregarious and gracious man who liked to spend plenty of time socialising with his subjects. He often became their friends. And, of course, the more friends he made, the more he became a part of the social circle he was depicting. It was a virtuous circle that brought him plenty of business. It also leaves us the legacy of portraits lovingly created by someone who both liked and understood his subjects.

The portraits are at their most magical in the years before Napoleonic troops swept into Spain and triggered the Peninsular Wars. At this height of the Age of Enlightenment, Goya was running with liberal aristocrats dedicated to education and the arts. Who also dressed with exquisite style and seem to have been almost universally good looking.  The Duke of Alba, casually leaning against his piano forte holding the manuscript of the Haydn composition he commissioned, showing off how well he fills out his riding breeches, is a thinking woman's pin-up.  His widow, an assertive and sexy woman in a froth of black lace, has been one of the show's most popular images. In the family portrait of the Duke and Duchess of Osuna, the couple show off their allegiance to the ideas of Rousseau by including their offspring looking like natural, informal children. One of them holding the hand of a clearly doting daddy. Unsurprising to modern eyes, but revolutionary at the time. Years later, one of those children had become the Marchioness of Santa Cruz and trusted Goya ... the family friend she'd known all her life ... to paint her in a daringly sensual recumbent pose channeling the muse of music.

Goya's talent for depicting costume made looking at the clothes almost as much fun as drinking in the personalities. Indeed, a historic costume specialist was one of the experts who made the audio guide so interesting. Detailed embroidery on women's fine muslin wraps. Gold braid and medals on military uniforms. Exquisite details on gentlemen's waistcoats. Ladies' intricate hair styles. Lace, feathers, buttons, jewels. It was dressing up treasure box.

Goya was official court painter for much of his life, both before and after the Napoleonic. The pre-Napoleonic Bourbons weren't particularly effective, but they were clearly genial hunting companions. George IV's hunting dog, gazing adoringly upward, is even better to look at than the king's cheerful face and lavish hunting costume. Look at the portrait of his son and successor, Ferdinand VII, however, and you understand that Goya wasn't a flatterer. This new king's clothes and stance are grand, but the look on his face says "I am a pompous idiot". The relationship between the two, unsurprisingly, did not flourish and Goya spent his final years in France.

Many of the National Gallery's recent shows have been anchored by its own paintings, augmented by works from lots of other British collections. Another delight of this show was the almost complete unfamiliarity with the art. Plenty from the Prado, as you'd expect, but the sources were various and wide. Many came from private collections and others rarely left their home countries. Shows often boast that they're bringing together a rare group of items never shown together before, but it seemed more true than usual here.

Exhibition prices have been going up steadily at all of London's museums ... not surprising given the load they carry for funding government-mandated free entry. I've questioned whether some recent shows were worth the price. Especially when seeing the £18 cost of this one. I'm happy to say it was worth every penny.

British Museum shows there's more than you thought to those Celts

Two shows at the British Museum are worthy of your attention if your New Year's resolution includes incorporating a bit more culture into your life. And they both close soon, so hop to it.

Celts: Art and Identity is the current blockbuster in the main exhibition space, and the last to be produced under the inspiring leadership of departing director Neil MacGregor.  It's everything we've come to expect of the museum under his capable hands: blockbuster artefacts, beautifully displayed, but always in the service of a much bigger story. In this case, that's the story of what "celtic" means, how the meaning shifted radically, and why.

It's a show of two parts. The first two thirds introduces you to the ancient Celts, a label Greeks used to define all Europeans outside their Greco-Roman world. The Romans dismissed them as barbarians, held borders against them or did their best to turn them into faithful provincial subjects, but the tribes grouped under the Celtic banner always remained culturally distinct. The show does a fine job of demonstrating the variety of cultures occupying a crescent from what's now Eastern Europe through modern Germany, Denmark, France and Spain. Their written records were sparse, so we understand them through the impressive artefacts they left behind. Torques, drinking horns, jewelled cloak clasps, caldrons, weapons and ceremonial vessels. It's a treat for any fan of jewellery or design. The sinuous lines and abstract animal forms we associate with the term "Celtic" start early and are constantly beguiling. Origins of Anglo-Saxon and Viking cultures are obvious. It's actually a shame this show came after the British Museum's impressive Viking retrospective, as they would have told an even better story had they been staged back-to-back, in historical order.

Many may be surprised at the origins of the artefacts in the early parts of the show. What we now think of as the Celtic nations are mostly absent. That's because "Celtic" in its modern sense is a political and artistic construct of the 19th century. The last third of the show explores this curious evolution.

We pass from the Roman world into a gallery showing off some of the medieval glories of Celtic inspiration, as Irish monks borrowed the curvilinear design ethos to illustrate their bibles and crosses. Then the Celtic world goes silent until the 18th century, when the European romantic movement and patriotic stirrings within the UK's home nations triggered a search for identity.  The Scots, Welsh and Irish started celebrating their ancient past and resurrecting their own languages, even if they had to make things up. Prints, paintings and books here show us how Sir Walter Scott brought back the kilt and the clans while James Macpherson created an epic poet called Ossian, meant to be the Scottish Homer. The Welsh whipped up eisteddfod festivals and a chief druid to oversee things. His regalia ... designed in the 19th century to look as if the pieces had been unearthed from Merlin's pre-medieval cache ... forms one of the highlights of the show. Across the Irish sea, other new-model Celts were rediscovering ancient myths and inventing a new, "old" folk culture. Artists across the UK embraced Celtic design, driving a rage for the look in the early 19th-century that lives on.

Much of what the world now thinks of as ancient Welsh, Irish and Scottish tradition is a fairly modern creation, its look heavily drawn from roots in what's now Germany, France and Denmark. That's the fascinating reveal at the end of this show.

The show's biggest challenge is its size. By the time people hit the modern third, most will be reaching cultural overload. The narrative might have been better had the scope been trimmed. As a museum member, I popped in twice, spending the first visit concentrating on the ancient Celts and the second on the modern. This is the ideal way to go, but if you don't have the luxury, then keep the total story in mind and resist the temptation to linger too much in the early bits.

Upstairs in the secondary exhibition area, the appeal of Egypt: Faith After the Pharaohs is probably In the Shadow of the Sword (one of my favourite books of recent times), you'll find this a worthy illustration of much explored in that history of the development of Islam and its debt to the other monotheists. In a world where differences between major religions are making news for all the wrong reasons, it's useful ... and inspiring ... to take a look at their shared origins.
more niche, but tells a story far more relevant to the modern world. Egypt was a crucible for the formation of the three great monotheistic religions. The show opens with the stark beauty of a torah, a gospel and a koran side-by-side, exquisite calligraphy shining forth under spotlights in a pool of darkness. The galleries that follow use more documents, religious artefacts, grave goods and bits of architecture to illustrate how the three religions often co-existed peacefully. Christianity owed a debt to Judaism, Islam to Christianity, while all borrowed elements from the ancient Egyptians and Romans. The items on display here are less beguiling than all that Celtic treasure, since the most significant artefacts are documents. But the story is intriguing. If you've read Tom Holland's

Celts: Art and Identity runs until 31 January
Egypt: Faith After the Pharaohs closes 7 February

The holiday roundup

As ever with this time of year, my ratio of bloggable activities to spare time to write about them skews wildly out of balance.  The waistline grows, the liver weakens, sleep deprivation booms and work stresses grow as everyone pushes to complete year-end deadlines. The compensation? A long parade of evenings and lunches catching up with people I like, often taking place at special events concocted to make the season special.  Here's a roundup.

Berry's Champagne & Sparkling Wine Tasting
A bargain at £25 a ticket, Berry Brothers' Warehouse Shop laid on three Champagne houses, three English sparkling producers and a range of gourmet food producers for a bit of palate cleansing. Given that every winery was offering their whole range for tasting, anyone not driving easily drank more than the value of their admission fee. Of the French houses: Michel Roux may love Gosset but we were lukewarm; Pol Roger was instantly the most classic and familiar of tastes; Bollinger was our favourite but the £85 per bottle price on our favoured 2005 Grand Annee Rose is a bit rich for our tastes. Even if it is £15 off list price at the Warehouse Shop!

Of the English producers, Hattingley Valley was interesting for being remarkably local, but tasted more like a mid-price Prosecco than a fine sparkling wine. Gusbourne had an interesting marketing approach, making all their wines reflect single years rather than taking the blending approach most sparkling producers use. Our favourite in taste and price was Hambledon, a small and relatively new Hampshire producer that's gathering in the awards. They have workshops at their winery where you get to bottle your own wine, dictating how much "dosage" you want to put in to take your creation along the dry to sweet scale. I suspect a visit will be in our future.

Also on  the workshop list for 2016 is Parsonage Farm, showing off their Hampshire-made charcuterie on the night. These lovely farmers have not only diversified into charcuterie to get more profit out of their pigs, they'll welcome you onto their farm to learn how to do it yourself.  (Pictured above.) Artisan Dairy impressed with local cheeses, and Kokoh Chocolates (a regular favourite of ours) showed off exciting flavours like Himalayan sea salt and wattleseed and coffee.

Coq d'Argent
I was shocked to realise I've never mentioned this restaurant in my blog; a clear case of familiarity breeding contempt. Or, at least, a genial disregard. The Coq sits atop a modern office building above Bank tube station, the building's triangular front pointing towards the Royal Exchange and the Bank of England like the prow of some fantastical striped ship.  Denizens of the offices nearby (and I was one for 12 years) know the Coq's rooftop gardens as one of the best places in The City for al fresco drinks in the summer time. The restaurant has outdoor dining areas on each side of an elegant, modern dining room serving updated French classics.  It's a dependable place for business lunches: upscale but not profligate, tasty but not trying too hard. I've hosted major events here and have found myself dining here two or three times a year, though always in a work-related context. So it was this holiday season, when it served as the venue for a team Christmas lunch.

They do a magnificent job decorating for the season; all the outdoor areas decked out with fur throws, fake snow, frost-covered branches and alpine backdrops to give the place the feel of an Alpine ski lodge. Indoors, every table was booked for the set holiday menu, where £45 got you classics like foie gras, duck breast in a rich sauce and a delicate take on a bouche de Noel. I'm still not sure I'd choose it for a purely social date; the crowd is so assertively professional it can be a little hard to relax. But as a business venue that's been delivering without disappointment for more than a decade, it's a safe bet.

Winchester Cathedral Christmas Market and Concert
In this fifth year of attending this market, familiarity is breeding a bit of dissatisfaction. The vendors Annecy. Sadly, that's not happening. The result? Winchester paled in comparison to the other markets I attended this season. I won't bother next year unless we return for the Cathedral Carol Concert, which was the highlight of this outing. The cathedral choir, plus a cappella group Blake, spiced with seasonal readings from a local BBC presenter ... all in a spectacular setting.
don't change much, and the action is still confined to the picturesque but cramped confines of the cathedral close. With the crowds this event now regularly attracts, I want it to grow, with new and interesting vendors setting up shop in booths throughout the town centre. As in

Beach Blanket Babylon
It's official: I'm old. Used to be that communications industry parties were always dependably in the West End. Now, all the hipsters want to be in Shoreditch. This was the second time in a month I had to schlepp across town to that inconvenient, unattractive, once-dangerous-now-edgy nether corner of London. I hate the whole graceless, soulless, cement-drenched area with a passion, and this venue did nothing to restore my faith. Given the name, I was hoping for some ironic take on '60s spring break films or Tiki bars. I saw nothing in the characterless warehouse to explain the name. Just multiple stories of featureless venue packed with braying, heavily-drinking 30-somethings having a fabulous time.  Presenters at our afternoon meetings had to compete with the cacophony floating up from the ground floor; once we shifted to pure socialising the service was slow and piped music was a
t a level that made conversation challenging. Canapés at cocktail hour featured one savoury and three sweets. Dinner was pots of comfort food like shepherd's pie, macaroni and cheese or chicken curry, all lacking in anything resembling flavour or seasoning.  Service had been so bad that, by the time the food finally came from the kitchen, a crowd had gathered around the service door eager to grab anything that appeared. Two other "mature" colleagues joined me in slipping away as soon as we felt we could.

All that said ... it's been many years since I've worked for a company that funded a proper departmental Christmas party. The simple delight of being there trumped the venue choice. It was organised by the youngsters, of whom there are many. They are delightful, clever and inspiring. And they were having a fabulous time. So if you're a 27-year-old planning an office bash, ignore my contempt for Beach Blanket Babylon and check it out. If you're over 40, trust me. Avoid at all costs.

The Force Awakens
I couldn't resist: we saw it on its opening day. No spoilers ... I'll just say that for me, for the first time since the original film, this captured the magic, awe and delight I felt watching the original as an 11-year-old. There's humour, action, tears, drama and completely believable special effects. I could have happily watched it a second time with only a small break. A return viewing is definitely on the cards for the holiday break.

Light Up Sherfield Park
Seeing how my housing estate embraced Halloween, I thought I'd propose another venerable American tradition: the holiday lights competition. Co-sponsored by the parish council and our community association, we managed to pull together an impressive list of prizes for those who decorated, and for those who voted. While the official number of entrants was lower than hoped, the neighbourhood looked good and I'd guess that about 15% of houses decorated for the holidays. Considering that almost nobody lit up their homes when I first moved to the UK, this is progress. I have high hopes for the future.

Nothing like Alps and fondue to make it feel like Christmas

Restaurant Review: Le Vieux Logis, St. Jorioz, France

Given this year's unseasonably warm winter, a weekend jaunt to Annecy to celebrate an ea
rly Christmas with extended family is likely to be as close as we get to holiday snow. Even there, the snow is only dusting mountain tops. On the valley floor you needed little more than a light jacket to be comfortable.

Whatever the weather, wandering around Annecy's holiday market makes you feel like you've dropped into a Christmas card. Traditional wooden chalet spread across several streets in the picturesque old town, offering a pleasing variety of craft items and luxury foodstuffs that are just that little bit nicer than the typical British market. The lake glistens at the edge of town, castle and church towers loom above you, mountain peaks rim the horizon, Christmas music (ironically, mostly American stuff from the '50s) streams over a sound system. It's everything you want from a Christmas market. But since Annecy isn't particularly known for its market, it's mostly locals thronging the streets.  Even without people to visit, I'd recommend this as a charming pre-Christmas shopping getaway. (Fly via Geneva; Annecy is about 40 minutes from the airport.)

Besides drinking up the atmosphere in the picture-postcard town centre, we have only one "must-do" when we visit friends here: Eating at Le Vieux Logis in the lakeside village of St. Jorioz that our friends now call home. I've mentioned this place briefly here before, but after three visits of reliable quality and family fun, it deserves another mention.

I'm not a skier, but I've seen enough films to have an idea of the idyllic place you want to settle into after a day on the slopes. Stone walled, peak-roofed Alpine architecture, heavy beams, open fire, traditional embroidery on the sheer linen window coverings. It's all here at Le Vieux Logis, without the indignities of gangs of foreigners drinking themselves silly, or the outrageous prices concocted to fleece the tourists. This is an extremely local place: our friends are on first-name basis with the owners and I suspect we were the only ones from beyond the valley dining there than night. Certainly the only English speakers. The food is beautifully simple, because you probably only want one thing when you're in the Alps, right?

Fondue.

Fondue was briefly trendy in the States in the late '70s and early '80s. I remember thinking we were terribly fashionable going to a place called The Melting Pot before senior prom. (I've just looked them up and am amazed to find they still exist.) But the fashion was all about the cooking method rather than the food. Here in the Alps, there's nothing trendy about it. It's just tradition. And they do it well. If there are four of you, as we were, you can have one cheese fondue and one meat, eliminating the need to make a painful choice. The family team running the place brings out the bases, scrambles around to plug you in, then emerge from the kitchen with their pots of steaming joy.  The cheese here has a depth of flavour that is both nutty and grassy; as if you were eating the valley floor itself. Between the groaning platter of bread for dipping in the cheese, and the pile of beef chunks to cook to your taste in  the simmering oil, nobody is going hungry here.  There's a generous mound of salad to complement the main attraction, which works well as a palate cleanser after all those rich flavours. Match that all with jugs of local white wine, and life gets even better.

Le Vieux Logis is also known for their pizza. A traditional wood-fired oven greets you as you walk in the door, and if you can tear yourself away from the fondue you'll be rewarded with a thin and crispy delight that's actually the more delicate dining choice here.

I'd guess that in high skiing season this place is a little less local. Surely, the thousands of skiers who descend upon Annecy's slopes each year must know this place? We're always there out of season, however, so I'll continue to think of it as our little, local secret. Now you know, too.

The Lansdowne, L'Ortolan kick off the feasting season with flair

Over two decades in England, Thanksgiving, Black Friday and the Fourth of July are holidays that ... with the exception of one office-based emergency ... I've always taken off to celebrate the traditions of my homeland. This year, however, is my first as an independent contractor. And in my new world of you-don't-work-you-don't-get-paid, taking a four-day weekend seemed excessive. So I hit the office on Thursday, lined up a celebratory dinner, then took off Black Friday to start the Christmas decorating and indulged in a spectacular feast that night.

I have certainly squeezed in the appropriate American essentials of shopping, holiday decorating and eating yourself silly ... though that last bit was a good deal more elegant than your average family feast, and didn't quite hit the traditional buttons. Though the chef tried.

We had our Thanksgiving Dinner at the Landsdowne Club in London. Thanks to its American heritage (built by the prime minister that settled the American Revolution, later home to department-store magnate Selfridge), the club has always prided itself in hosting Thanksgiving dinner. As we were both up in London, we gave it a try.

It was delicious, though a bit off piste for what most Americans would recognise as traditional Thanksgiving. Posh plating (see turkey, left). No green been casserole. Bread sauce with turkey? Most Americans don't know what bread sauce is, and when you explain it to them they can't wrap their heads around the concept. Most amusing was American pancakes for dessert. Putting pancakes in the meal-finishing slot is a typical European mistake; wildly puzzling to Americans who see this dish solidly in the breakfast category. Meanwhile, there was no pecan pie. But the turkey was delicious, as was my smoked haddock and clam chowder that preceded it. They managed the best pumpkin pie I've had in Europe. Light, airy and a long gourmet mile from the Libby Pumpkin original ... but probably better. The revelation of the night was an Austrian Pinot Noir that was the wine discovery of the month.

This was just the warm up, however. Friday's dinner made your average Thanksgiving meal look like a humble snack.

We've been using L'Ortolan, the only Michelin-starred establishment in our neighbourhood, as our special occasion restaurant since we moved to our current house. A couple years ago I heard people raving about how incredible the chef's table was there, and it's been on my bucket list ever since. We finally took the plunge, booking about five months ago for this exclusive 4-seater table in the heart of the kitchen.

It's a measure of just how much food culture has changed in England that sitting in the kitchen, watching chefs work their magic and having the chance to chat with the staff throughout the evening has become the hottest option in any top restaurant.  It must be a delight for the restaurant owners, who are charging premium prices to squeeze people into unloved, undecorated nooks in their kitchens, then charge them for the most extravagant meal the place is able to deliver.   But if you're seriously into your food, it's worth it.

There is only one chef's table here, seating just four people a night, thus it must be booked many months in advance.

We've never had a bad meal at L'Ortolan, which always delivers the exceptional tastes, beautiful presentations and intriguing wine matches you expect from a Michelin star restaurant. The chef's table is more of the same. MUCH more. It's as if they want to show off everything they are capable of producing. Even though they're small plates, it can be a bit of a trial by the time you get to your fourth dessert.

Yes. FOURTH. That is excessive, even for me.

But before you get to those sweets, you'll start with canapés followed by four fish courses. Then a
foie gras course. Then, for some odd reason, another fish course. Then comes the venison. Then the cheese. And after the aforementioned desserts there are, of course, petit fours to go with the coffee.  Counting every plate with food that passes before you, that's fourteen courses. And eleven of them each come with their own carefully matched glass of wine.

It's four times more expensive than your average dinner out. But since you're eating and drinking four times as much, it's hard to quibble with the value for money.  Of course, you don't weigh up value in a place like this by quantity. It's about quality and ... for the kind of people who'll fork over the cash for a chef's table ... unique tastes and experiences combined with a highly individualised experience.

The dish of the night for me was, rather predictably, the foie gras. The new twist? Pan-fried fresh liver served atop a gingerbread puree (we'd discovered that flavour pairing in Gascony, but this refined preparation kicked things up) with blueberries. A novel combination for me, and magnificent. Even more unusual was pairing it with red wine. Logic and tradition says it shouldn't work, but the Barbera d'Alba actually balanced with the fruit and cut some of the fat with its acidity.

Nipping at that course's heels was an extraordinary venison, served on a white plate painted with a slash of chocolate, dotted with spheres of roasted beetroot, blackberries, deep-fried crispy kale and a quenelle of purple mashed potato. A few years ago, dark purples, blacks and browns were all the rage at the Chelsea Flower Show; this was that trend on a plate. And it tasted as good as it looked.

Other noteworthy entries in this parade were: salmon that was both cured and cooked in a sous vide, for delicate flavour and texture; a crab salad with watermelon and tempura; and a forest floor-inspired dessert with a mushroom carefully constructed out of dark and white chocolate ganaches. The wines were uniformly excellent, though relatively traditional with the exception of that foie gras match.

The most outstanding element, as you would expect, is being in the kitchen. L'Ortolan's chef's table is exactly across from the pass, where all the savoury courses are plated up and sent into the dining room.  The four of us sat along one side, theatre style, to watch the show. And what a show it was. If you're as big a fan of Masterchef as we are, you could sit there for three hours watching plates come together and never be bored. We saw the mood move from enthusiastic "game on" energy to diligent delivery up to high pressure as 9pm, a full dining room and two private parties crushed into a peak of demand. (The action came with equivalent language; this is not a place for the meek hearted.) And then we watched as service wound down, the team spirit reappeared and jollity took over as they cleaned the kitchen and prepared for the next day. Most of the team lives in adjacent staff accommodation, and the camaraderie reminds you of a tightly knit college fraternity.

Though everyone was polite and some section heads engaged more than others, I sense the head chef would have been more relieved if he hadn't had to deal with us that night.  It certainly wasn't the chatty, interactive experience we had at the chef's table at Niche in St. Louis, but L'Ortolan has at least twice the covers and a Michelin star to defend. So I'll forgive them for paying a bit less attention to us, and a bit more to running their business. Still, once they realised how interested we were, everyone did their best to answer questions and give us detail on dishes. In what's famously a male-dominated profession, I found it interesting that it was the women ... sous and pastry chefs ... who were the stars of the evening.

My night reached its zenith when the latter invited me onto her station to check out her sourdough starter and gave me tips for improving my own.  Sure enough, Sunday's loaf was much improved. If I could charge £20 a loaf, I might be on the path to paying for a return visit...

Forget the Vikings; For more remarkable Danish bling, go further back

I have seen a lot of magnificent cultural sights in previous trips to Copenhagen, but it was on this

third visit that I finally got around to what instantly became my favourite: The National Museum of Denmark's headquarters in Central Copenhagen. And it wasn't even for the reason I anticipated.

Most people instantly associate Denmark with Vikings. If you're off to the National Museum, you'd
be forgiven for anticipating a treasure hoard from that blockbuster age to delight your eyes. You'll get some. But it's what comes before that really bowls you over. This collection ... liberally studded with jaw-droppers, items inventively displayed, helpful guides in English as well as Danish ... demonstrates that life here was sophisticated, intriguing and at times remarkably beautiful for several thousand years before those famous marauders burst into our history books.

I wasn't entirely taken by surprise. Twice in recent years I've been to major exhibitions in London in which I found an object from pre-Viking Denmark to be amongst the most memorable. A 3,400-year-old sun chariot grabbed a lion's share of the attention at the Royal Academy's Bronze show in 2012 (I wrote about it here). A copy of the Gundestrup cauldron is one of the best bits of the British Museum's current Celts exhibit. (I owe you a blog entry on that one.) But they're both better here, set in a time frame, surrounded by companion objects and displayed in prominent, awe-inspiring isolation.

The cauldron (above) is beaten silver. It's so big you'd probably need another six inches on each side to wrap your arms around it, and deep enough that a three-year-old could easily use it for a bath. The exterior is dominated by enigmatic faces, the interior by action scenes with humans and animals. At the bottom, a three dimensional cow and several other animals recline, a bit like those comedy mugs that reveal frogs hiding at the bottom when you finish your tea. Having studied the copy at the British Museum just two weeks before, I was amazed at how much richer the detail on the original was. And rather than jockeying in a queue for a glimpse, I was alone to contemplate at my leisure. It's worth dropping by this museum (entry is free) if only to see this magnificent object. And it's unique ... the largest known example of Iron Age silver work.

But there's so much more.

You'll start back in the dawn of human history, and marvel at the decorations on the stone age axe heads. Three thousand years before the advent of anything we'd call "celtic", four thousand before the Vikings, five before anyone ever uttered the words "Scandinavian design", and here are the basic shapes and decorative forms. I can't remember ever seeing such a striking example of a culture's aesthetic principles stretching from foundations right through to the modern age.  Nearby there's an enormous display of amber turned up from Stone Age graves, displayed in a three-level glass cube to drive the abundance home.

On to the Danish equivalent of mummies: bodies inside their dugout canoe coffins, eerily well-preserved by the peat bogs in which they were laid to rest. In one room, cleverly, the museum has created an exact replica of the clothing on the girl now laid to rest here, down to the pleated mini-skirt. A hipster in modern Copenhagen could probably wear it today without comment.

The sun chariot dominates a room on Bronze Age religion, where you see that even though it's the most spectacular example, it's far from alone. Intricately worked gold sun discs in ceremonial settings were clearly a must-have item in 1400 bc. There are weapons and ornaments of spectacular beauty throughout the pre-historic ages, but things really start getting spectacular when you hit the Danes who were contemporaries of the Greeks and Romans ... an age that kicks off with that spectacular cauldron.

The Romans may have dismissed these people as barbarians, but it only takes a few galleries to convince you of their cultural sophistication. Another name is Celts, and their art has permeated our own age. Today, we associate the word with the Welsh, Irish or Scottish, but the term started as a generic description for Northern Europeans who were not part of the Roman empire. Amongst the treasures here, there's a reconstructed chariot, demonstrating how the original ornate metalwork would have adorned a vehicle of phenomenal bling. There's impressive golden jewellery, including distinctive torques and fierce warriors arm cuffs.  A floor-to-ceiling glass case encloses a collection of the spiralling horns called Lurs, suspended on clear wire at varying heights so that the installation itself becomes a work of art. The sinuously-curving, animal-infused designs throughout this section make it clear that we're on the brink of the Viking age.

A magnificent room filled with megalithic rune stones marks the divide. Then it's on to more galleries of treasures, from the domestic niceties of horse collars, storage chests and drinking horns to the darkly beautiful swords and axes that helped win the booty that bought all this lavish excess. The remnants of a small raiding ship sit in a dimly lit room.  across from an impressive collection of shields arranged in a defensive wall. They, like the lurs, hang on almost invisible wire, giving the impression that a ghost army has invaded the gallery in formation.

By the time Christianity appeared and put an end to the Viking era, I was exhausted. I'd just wandered through roughly 4,000 years of history, after all. The upper floor of the museum, picking up with the Middle Ages, will have to wait for another trip. Besides, I had shopping to do.

In addition to a fabulous collection, the National Museum has an excellent gift shop. At Christmas
time, it spills out into the building atrium with a seasonal emporium of festive items. I shopped my way through the city centre on Monday, specifically looking for holiday decorations, but nothing topped the assortment I found here. Good thing I decided to buy when I saw things, rather than waiting. I might not have come home with a sun chariot or a cauldron, but the straw goats, blown glass Viking drinking horns and paper cones for holding treats are going to add their own bit of Danish history to our mantlepiece. this Christmas.