Dominica and Grand Turk take first prize amongst Week 1 cruise destinations

Half-way through a two-week Caribbean holiday, the mind turns to fantasy. Relaxed, free of work stresses, at peace with the world, you start to contemplate: If I liquidated all my assets, would I have enough to buy that beach bar? Perhaps I could be the owner and captain of a little snorkelling excursion boat? Just how much money would you really need to spend the rest of your life hanging out on a beach, listening to Bob Marley and Jimmy Buffett, watching sunsets and coral reefs for entertainment?

More cash than you’d think, no doubt. Especially when hurricanes rip through the islands or no tourists show up at your bar. But it’s a pleasant little fantasy in which to indulge as you hang suspended in turquoise waters, letting the sun dapple your back as a neon contingent of fish darts in and out of the reef below.

We are cruising, a circle tour of the Caribbean from Barbados on the Sea Princess. Destinations thus far: Dominica, Antigua, the British Virgin Islands, St. Thomas, Grand Turk and Jamaica. Cruising is, of course, an odd way to see a place. You’re in port for six or eight hours, generally allowing a choice of one excursion. What you choose to do colours your whole perception of the place, whether or not it’s actually representative. That said, favourites so far have been Dominica and Grand Turk.

Dominica
Dominica is a wild, mountainous place, still covered with rain forest and dotted with active volcanoes. It’s no wonder Disney set much of the second Pirates of the Caribbean film here; the whole place is an adventure movie set. In the morning I set off with a group in a mini-bus into the mountains, a nail-biting slalom up and down badly paved roads with hairpin turns, little passing room and precipitous drops. About 40-minutes from port we arrived at a little parking spot above a small hydro-electric power station and set off on foot. The rocky path cut up through a jungle of banana and coconut palm, wild fig and climbers, following the big wooden pipe that was channelling water down to the station. Over a river, up a further hill, and we’d arrived at our destination: Ti Tou Gorge. Steps lead down to a clear, triangular pool with a rocky bottom, formed by a restraining wall that’s holding back the river. Over the wall is a valley, and a facing wall of jungle across it. The other two sides of the pool are hemmed in by cliff faces, rising and pushing closer together at the far end. At the back, an opening about 10 feet wide leads back into a passage between cliff walls perhaps 30 feet high.

I was furious at myself for not bringing the waterproof camera, as this was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. (Thanks to Dominica's web site for the picture.) The water remained crystal clear, but grew much deeper. The cliff walls waved in and out, sometimes forming peaceful little alcoves. About 20 yards in the current picked up, we came around a bend, and found a waterfall crashing down the ravine that formed the back of the gorge. We swam left, approaching the waterfall to the side of the powerful current it created, then were handed from guide to guide across the foaming white cauldron at the fall’s base. To the right of the falls was an alcove with a ledge; guides helped us to scramble up here, from where we could dive into the base of the falls. Still crystal clear, but now 20 feet deep from the force of the pounding water. After the dive, you could just relax and let the current sweep you back toward the starting pool.

After the gorge, we zigged and zagged around more mountains to get to a hot spring, where steaming, sulphurous water pours from the volcanic strata below. Cooled to tolerable temperatures by other springs, channelled into smooth sided pools, it was a heavenly place to relax. I felt my muscles unwinding in the moist heat as I looked up into the rain forest canopy, contemplating a few wild cocoa pods and a hummingbird hanging above my head. It was hard to imagine how my holiday could get any better than its first morning.

And that wasn’t even all Dominica had to offer. Later that afternoon Mom joined me (the early tour would have been a bit too active for her) and we boarded a boat for a spot of whale watching. After two hours of fruitless but picturesque searching, we finally found a pod of three sperm whales relaxing on the waves. We saw two more groups before heading back to shore.

Grand Turk
The largest island in the Turks and Caicos, couldn’t have been more different. Where Dominica is towering volcanic mountains clothed in rain forest, the Grand Turk cruise ship terminal area is a flat, scrubby sand spit barely higher than the tourmaline waters surrounding it. A classic coral reef island, the waters are shockingly vivid, clear and various in their colour. Until, not too far off shore, the shallows abruptly fall over a 7,000 foot cliff into inky, blue-black depths. (I need to fact check the locals’ depth claim, as it seems extraordinary, but there’s no doubt the water is very deep.) The port here is a couple of years old, at most, and purpose-built for the cruise ships. The buildings are festive, brightly coloured and filled with the usual dazzling array of duty free luxuries. Unusually, however, exquisite white beaches stretch along just a stone’s throw from the port, with a resort style pool and a gathering of bars behind them. This is one of the few destinations in the Caribbean where you can walk off your ship and into the water.

We, however, had decided to go snorkelling, and so boarded a waiting boat to head towards some reefs slightly off shore. Like the buildings at the cruise terminal, the boat was new and sparkling with lavish maintenance. The crew was exceptionally attentive, keeping a close eye on Mom and helping her to paddle around more distant parts of the reef. At our second stop, we encountered one of the rays that are so abundant in these waters. The guide was able to bring her up with a handful of squid, then keep her near the surface while we stroked her. Down below, a rather frightening but benign barracuda, at least four feet long, circled, followed by a whole gang of colourful, smaller fish.

The extreme helpfulness and good nature of the snorkel boat crew was matched by every individual we encountered in Grand Turk. Almost everyone you meet in the Caribbean is cheerful, helpful and attentive to tourists, but on Grand Turk this good nature reached a universality and an extreme beyond the other islands. There seemed to be an honest pride in their island and a delight in the enjoyment of visitors. It reminded me a bit of the people of Botswana, who seemed that little bit more welcoming and enthusiastic than those of the other countries we visited in Africa. Services were abundant, including wheelchairs to ferry tired tourists out the long dock to the ships, and a prohibition against receiving tips.

 All part of the Grand Turk experience. And all, clearly, about encouraging visitors to come to this lesser known Caribbean destination. I’d suspect their plan will bear fruit, as long as hurricanes refrain from knocking this exquisite destination from its perilously flat, yet beautiful, location.

The best restaurant in the world? Without doubt.

The Fat Duck. A name that is already legendary amongst the culinary set. Ranked the No. 1 restaurant in the world by the World Press Organisation, and numerous other list makers, this unassuming former pub in the picturesque Thames-side village of Bray is a fantasy destination for anyone who takes his food seriously.

That said, I approached my initiation to the gastronomic Everest with sceptical curiosity as much as excitement. How could any restaurant deserve to be best on the planet, ahead of millions … probably billions … of choices? Wunderkind chef Heston Blumenthal is known for his science and his bizarre taste combinations, “cooking” with liquid nitrogen and inventing bacon and egg ice cream. It would be interesting, but would it be tasty?

Far, far beyond tasty. This was the finest meal of my life, leaving everything else miles behind in the dust. Blumenthal plays with your tastebuds the way a master musician treats an instrument, pulling out potential you didn’t know was there. Flavours roll through your mouth in carefully calculated waves, sometimes complementing, sometimes clashing, always carefully planned for maximum impact. And it wasn’t just a meal. It was an experience. Part theatre, part spa, part trip down memory lane as you encounter childhood foods cleverly re-interpreted for the gourmand.

Thanks to my kind hosts from Haymarket publishing, we indulged in the chef’s tasting menu, giving ourselves entirely to Blumenthal’s genius. The man can have control of my senses any time he wants.

We started with a procession of tiny dishes, each calculated to bring your senses to life. And I mean ALL the senses. Part of the essence of this place is the belief that taste and the other senses are entwined, and the best experiences link them. So first up is the liquid nitrogen; a magnificent piece of theatre to start the show. Our server (an elegant and beautiful girl we decided had the bearing of some exotic African princess) wheeled a cart up to our table holding a thermally insulated bowl, a chrome jug and another container a bit like the cans you squirt whipped cream out of. First the liquid nitrogen, 190 degrees below zero, goes into the bowl. Then a mousse-like mixture gets pumped out of the container onto a long spoon. Then the server lowers the spoon into the liquid nitrogen. As a white fog spills over the rim of the bowl, the mousse freezes instantly in this tasteless chemical. And then, instantly, to your plate and your mouth, where the combined flavours of tea and lime explode in your mouth, complimented by the odd textural sensation of a crisp yet cold outer layer followed by a gooey interior.

That’s one hell of a start. And you have 14 more courses to come. Describing every one might be a bit tedious, even to fans of the exotic, so let me limit myself to a few of the more mind-bending dishes.

The opening salvo of starters culminated in the woods. In the centre of the table, our server placed a square platter, about three inches deep and covered with a rolling turf of oak moss. Lying atop this moss was a little plastic box for each of us, of the type you get breath-sweetening strips from. Except that this little box had just one strip within. Put it in your mouth, and your taste buds are suddenly infused with the taste of oak moss. At the same time, the server pours something in a crystal stream onto the moss, releasing a roiling white fog that extends over the table and falls down the sides, sending up the loamy, rich sent of the deepest forest. As the mist clears, the waiters place the corresponding dish in front of you: a wafer-thin slice of toast spread with black truffles, accompanying a tiny parfait comprised of layers of pureed pea, quail jelly and langoustine cream, topped by a quail-egg sized portion of foie gras. Blumenthal had magically allowed us to consume an entire eco-system.

And if the trick works once, why not switch environments and do it again? Several courses further on came the mysteriously titled “Sound of the Sea”. This began with a large, beautifully polished conch shell being placed ceremoniously before each of us. A pair of headphones crept incongruously from its mother-of-pearl interior.

Our instructions were simple. Put on the headphones. Listen. Eat what we put before you. We’ll explain later.

The headphones brought a crashing ocean to our brains. It was a realistic and balanced recording of waves, wind and sea birds, instantly transporting you to the coast. It was extremely odd to sit there at first, next to your dining partners but isolated by this wall of sound. But once you overcame the oddity of it, a marvellous lethargy swept over you. Few things, after all, are as relaxing as the sound of the shore. And then, just as you were getting lulled into a trance-like state, the shore was placed before you.

The plate, if it can be called that, was a shallow box about a foot long and eight inches wide, filled with sand. A glass plate was suspended about an inch above that. And on that plate sat a delicately composed assortment of mussels, oysters, eel and various edible seaweeds, artfully surrounded by a broth-based white foam. It looked as if Poseidon had arranged to have dinner roll right up to the beach. And just like the forest that had gone before, the taste here transcended mere food and turned your taste buds into transport, placing you at the shore with your toes in the metaphorical sand.

Less showy but equally inventive, and delicious, dishes included snail porridge with joselito ham and shaved fennel, salmon poached in a thin coat of savoury liquorice and ballotine of Anjou pigeon.

The transition to the sweet courses started with “hot and iced tea”. A clear glass cup set before you, with instructions to pick up and drink as is. And then the odd sensation of hot tea on the left side of your mouth, with cool, thick, sweet tea on the right. No visible difference between the sides, but an extreme one in your mouth.

Blumenthal’s trademark bacon and egg ice cream was another piece of theatre. This time, he’s playing not just with your senses but with our idea of what’s appropriate to eat, when. Who says breakfast food is just for breakfast? This set of courses begins with a tiny bowl of parsnip flakes … looking like corn flakes but bursting with the earthy sweetness of the root vegetable. Then out comes your waiter with a cart topped with a copper burner and cooker, of the type often used to cook food at your table in French restaurants. But the burners aren’t working today, he explains. So out comes the liquid nitrogen. From a completely ordinary box of eggs one is lifted, cracked and “scrambled” in the nitrogen. (Thanks to Blumenthal’s Christmas special, I had already learned this mystery. The eggs are pierced, blown out and then refilled by syringe with the custard mixture that becomes the egg ice cream.) The egg ice cream, looking exactly like the perfect scrambled egg, comes out of the copper pot and gets laid atop a slice of sweet, sticky French bread and a thin, almost translucent, slice of dried bacon. The taste? Sensational. Like the best scrambled eggs you’ve ever had, but with the odd confusion of cold and the high fat lustre of ice cream on your tongue. The savoury flavour of the egg combined with the sweet of the bread and the bacon was exquisite. We all agreed that of all the dishes we tried, this was the one we could easily have consumed in double quantities!

Heading towards the end now, we were shown the hidden sweetness in another flavour: whisky. Blumenthal’s whisky wine gums take you on a tour of a single malt bar, disguised as candy. The serving is innovative once again: a silver-framed map of Scotland, with the tiny, bottle-shaped candies placed atop the region from which they come. Eating in order from mildest to strongest, you progress from the Speyside to the peaty isles, ending up in America with a bit of Jack Daniels. The sensation of something starting as a bit of candy, then growing and mixing in your mouth until it turns into a mouthful of Scotch, was bizarre and magical.

After an almost five hour dining experience, we staggered back into Bray High Street dazed, transformed, and still a bit unbelieving of what we’d just been through. It may be stretching belief to describe a meal as magical, but it’s the best single word I can think of for the Fat Duck. Nowhere else in my experience has food been used with such precision to stimulate so many senses and evoke so many experiences. I left exhausted, awed, impressed … and completely sated.

Northwestern works its magic in unexpected places

Do we choose our friends because they're interesting? Because they bring balance and diversity to our own strengths? Or do we ... even if we don't realise we're doing it ... choose our friends because they're like us?

I was left contemplating this yesterday afternoon as I strolled back to the office over Southwark Bridge. It was an absolutely gorgeous day, full of bright sunshine for the first time in weeks. The sky was that wonderful, watery blue you only get in winter; as if a painter didn't get quite enough colour on his brush before he dabbed it in the water, then dragged it across paper. The bulk of St. Paul's loomed to my left, sparkling in its newly renovated cleanliness. And I was in the kind of satisfied, happy mood that comes from a productive morning of work followed by an excellent lunch with good company.

The lunch was a throwback to what I used to do: wine and dine reporters. But Tony and I have both moved on, me to my marketing role and him to a senior editor's role in which he's running publications, rather than writing them. We hadn't caught up in ages, and it was a real delight to share job news, talk about the industry and catch up on each other's lives.

I enjoy the company of most reporters (after all, it remains the profession of my heart, if not reality), but I've always had a particularly soft spot Tony. We're not close, we don't see each other often, but he's always been one of my journalistic favourites. And then, after nearly five years of knowing each other, we stumbled on a rather significant shared fact. Tony spent a year of his time at university in America, studying at ... Northwestern. All these years I've been connecting with a fellow alumnus, and didn't know it. Suddenly I wasn't sitting across the table from a colleague any more, I was indulging in shared memory with a fellow Wildcat.

And thus, after an even more delightful lunch than expected, I found myself pondering the nature of friendship and human attraction. What is it that allows us to recognise kindred spirits? Is there some subtle sense that allows us to pick up common experiences, beliefs and tastes before we actually start discovering the facts? Are we naturally programmed against diversity, and if so, how does that harm us?

Heavy thoughts for a Wednesday afternoon. And perhaps questions to which I might have had more answers had my "Intro to Psychology" class at Northwestern not been in the spring quarter at 1 in the afternoon during a year with particularly clement weather. I'm afraid I learned more about the workings of the outfield at Wrigley Field that year than the workings of the inner brain.

But one thing I do know, that has been proven time and time again: The crucible of Northwestern forges people I like, even when I don't know we've been through the same fire.

RESTAURANT REVIEW: ROAST
I wouldn't be true to the "foodie" spirit of this blog if I didn't give a nod to the restaurant where all this warm hearted discovery took place.

Roast is one of London's more beautiful dining rooms: a Victorian glass house on an upper floor hanging over the bustle of Southwark's Borough Market. While the architecture of the glass enclosure is decidedly historic, the furnishings of the room are starkly modern, with wooden floors and crisp white tablecloths gleaming under the sun. (And even in gloom, with this much glass around you it's a marvellously light and airy space.)

The food is, as per the name, almost entirely roasted meat. Roast chicken with bread sauce, roast pork with glistening crackling, Aberdeen angus fillets, roast fish. Vegetables are all a la carte and seem to be an afterthought as much as a side dish. Despite the modern decor, we're talking English food at its most traditional. This was my second time to Roast and both outings have been enjoyable. Amongst the starters are salmon and oysters, and the desserts include rhubarb crumble and steamed puddings. There's an invisible but cocooning Union Jack wrapped proudly above this place.

My one criticism of Roast would be price. This is not a place that does well on Ellen's value for money scale. Three courses with one glass of wine is going to set you back £55, minimum. I know I'm paying for the quality of the bird, but there is something in me that balks at paying the same price for an unadorned roast bird that you'd pay in another restaurant for a complicated dish with multiple ingredients and copious prep time behind it. Simple certainly doesn't mean cheap, and here simple mixes with elegance to yield a pricey treat. Best saved for expense account lunches. Which, from the looks of the dining room, was how everyone there was paying. While we all, do doubt, have fantasies of the perfect local pub, that would serve exactly this food for £20 a head. We can dream, can't we?

2008 could use a bit of optimism. Or at least some nice trips and a few good meals.

I can't remember a new year being ushered in with such gloom and doom. The news, as it cuts through the perpetual twilight that is the British winter, is grim.

The planet seems to be warming even faster than expected; it's doubtful we'll make it through the end of the century without global cataclysm. Of course, few of us will live that long, because the triple plagues of obesity, binge drinking and sexually transmitted diseases will take care of most of us in the industrialised world before the polar ice caps really start to go. But that could take years. For immediate crisis we only need look at the economy, which the entire journalistic establishment seems to believe is heading into a grim recession. House prices, the source of most individual's wealth in the UK, are sliding downwards for the first time in years. The banking industry, the source of much of the UK's wealth, is pondering its own implosion. The price of oil has jumped above $100 a barrel, while the train, electric and gas companies all raised their prices in the first week of the year. And there's a very nasty bulge on the side of my 190-year-old house that looks like I may have expensive dates with builders and plumbers ahead.

Clearly, it's time to head out for a nice meal and start thinking seriously about holidays.

First, the meal. Off to St. Alban's on lower Regent Street on Friday for a belated Christmas lunch with a senior executive from my PR agency. Yes, I know most of London is detoxing this month, but January ... especially this January ... is really too grim a month for further deprivation. I went instead for positive moderation. Just one glass of wine, fish and no dessert. During a week I made it to the gym three times, I felt positively saintly.

St. Alban is a stone's throw from Piccadilly Circus, but is a long stride away from the tacky tourist establishments that occupy so many storefronts here. This is a subtle and elegant dining room; the etched glass windows and subtle signage are so low key that you can pass by this place frequently, as I have, and not even realise there's a restaurant here. The dining room is beautifully designed, with expanses of black slate alternating with spots of bright colours like pink and turquoise. It's elegant yet cheerful.

The menu presents itself as contemporary European with Portuguese accents. This played well to my attempt at healthy eating, allowing me to order a smoky, perfectly grilled plate of octopus for starters (they make a big deal of their real charcoal grill) and a herb-stuffed sea bream for my main. Both absolutely delicious. There's a substantial by-the-glass wine list, and they have Sunday lunch specials including paella. This is someplace I'll certainly put on my list to check out again. While not cheap, it does stand out from other places in the immediate area.

It was a nice way to wrap up the first week of the year. Though only a partial one, I'd had enough by the time Friday afternoon rolled around. Home, then, for a quiet weekend, the primary occupations of which were putting away Christmas decorations (always a bit depressing) and starting to think about what to pack for the Caribbean (uplifting).

The big picture may be all gloom and doom, but the immediate horizon doesn't look so bad.