The British Museum presents Hadrian as a man of our time

History isn't fact, but fashion. We interpret it and, too often, shape and shift it to fit contemporary views of the world. Should you doubt it, just look at historical drama. Whether it's Shakespeare's Julius Caesar dressing and acting like a Renaissance prince, Hollywood grafting '50s morality onto sword and sandal epics or old BBC Jane Austen adaptations that make everyone look like '70s dinner party guests, we like to see history through the prism of our modern eyes.
This is precisely what the British Museum has done in their latest blockbuster exhibition on Hadrian, third of the so-called five good emperors and ruler of the Empire at what was arguably its cultural and economic apogee. Thus we meet Hadrian the pragmatic and wise foreign policy maker who pulled his troops out of Iraq. A multi-culturalist who toured his empire appreciating the diversity. An out-and-proud homosexual. And, since nobody is allowed to be completely positive these days, we also get an exploration into his brutality and oppression in sections on the Jewish revolts and the building of Hadrian's wall.

The curators know that they're putting modern interpretations on things, and the fact that they admit it makes it all the more interesting. At one point we come up close and personal with one of the most famous statues of Hadrian, draped in Greek robes. Since the statue was found and sent to the British Museum in the 19th century it's been thought to be proof of Hadrian as the peace-loving scholar and consumer of classical culture. Exactly what the Victorians thought a good ruler should be. Except that in the run-up to this exhibit they cleaned the statue and, acting on a hunch, took it apart. Proving quickly that the head had been stuck onto the wrong body. They then go on to juxtapose this "fake" statue with multiple military images that are definitely authentic. The Victorians saw what they wanted to see; Hadrian's own PR looks as if it was more forceful and threatening.

In 2008 we see a man who is extremely interesting, if perhaps a bit more of a torch bearer for global collaboration and sexual tolerance than he himself might have recognised. This is a great show, although not because of specific masterpieces. It's a show that balances major artifacts with smaller items, diagrams and models. It's the complete story that captivates here rather than a procession of postcard shots, and to that end I'd recommend that it really shouldn't be viewed without the accompanying audio guide and at least an hour and a half to listen to everything. As with his empire, the sum of Hadrian's parts turn out to be much greater than the individual pieces.

That said, there are several jaw droppers on display. First is the introductory piece to the whole show, a giant head and fragments of a colossal body just unearthed in Turkey last year. There are pictures beside it of the excavation. The idea that stuff like this is still waiting to be dug up made all those childhood desires to be an archeologist come to the surface again. The huge model of Hadrian's Villa at Tivoli is a dramatic way of showing off the spectacle of one of the finest sites of the ancient world. The life-sized statue of Antinous is breath-takingly beautiful; so much so it's easy to envision Hadrian's heartache when the young man met his early end. The larger-than-life-sized bronze and guilt peacocks are magnificent, and worthy of long attention. But for me, perhaps the neatest bit of the show was the clever juxtaposition between the dome of the model of the pantheon and the dome of the reading room directly above. You want evidence that Hadrian's architectural taste lived on for centuries? Just look up.

It is perhaps because I know many of the Hadrian sites well that I felt a little unfulfilled at the end of the show. Hadrian's wall, his pantheon, the Castel Sant Angelo (his tomb) and his villa at Tivoli are all awe inspiring sites of immense drama. I have had the good luck to wander around all of them. No collection of items in an exhibition, no matter how well displayed, is going to replace the feeling of actually being there. But the show does put those things in a much better context, and awakens an interest in returning to those sites for a more informed look around. For those who haven't gotten, or can't get, to the real thing, this exhibit must have been the next best thing to being there.

All of which makes me look forward to the next show, "Babylon", with keen interest. It is unlikely that any of us are going to be sightseeing around that part of the world any time soon.

Zuma sets a new standard for Japanese, while Orso is an Italian disappointment

Restaurants where the beautiful people hang out are always expensive, usually easy on the eye, but not necessarily guaranteed to give you a remarkable meal. I remember being distinctly disappointed a few years ago when I took a reporter to Nobu, famous for ... amongst other things ... Boris Becker's love tryst in the broom closet. The food was good, but on par with sushi I'd had in other places. The difference was the outrageously beautiful presentation and a feeling that you might see someone famous at any moment. Which was not enough to justify the breath taking prices.

Thus I approached a lunch date at Zuma on Monday with moderate expectations. It is the new Nobu: Japanese, elegant, in a posh part of town (in this case in a backstreet across the road from Harrods), patronised by the rich and famous. A sure sign of a "beautiful people" restaurant is when a Google image search turns up more photos of famous types at the place than of the place itself, as is the case here. There were plenty of buff bodies, high cheekbones and designer clothes on our visit, but I didn't pay much attention. I was far too captivated by the magnificent food.

We ate as the menu recommends, selecting a variety of dishes and sharing. This seemed particularly appropriate as we were seated in the bar in low, comfortable leather chairs gathered around a high coffee table. It felt more like a living room than a restaurant, especially given the stone walls and subtlety of design.

We started with a variety of sushi; without doubt the best I've ever had. The rice was slightly warm, perfectly sticky, light and flavourful. A meal on its own, made better by the strips of raw fish so fresh and buttery they melted in the mouth. Other shared dishes included their justifiably famous black cod, deep fried chili squid (surprisingly delicate for what's often a greasy dish) and a kobe beef fillet that was the best red meat I've had in a very long time. All this was washed down with tiny glasses of peach sake, the fruity richness of which was a perfect complement to the strong flavours of the meal.

Evidently Zuma has one of the widest sake selections in the UK and its waiters are experts. My host had been here before, so he was already clued in to the peach sake secret. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to have sushi again without wanting a glass.

Later in the week I was faced with the challenge of taking a colleague for dinner without booking in advance ... something I should never do. We headed for Covent Garden, which probably has a higher restaurant density than anywhere in London. Sadly, I have yet to find anyplace I really love in this tourist-packed district.

We popped into Orso, a long-established Italian place I'd eaten at years ago. Its convenient location and broad, authentically Italian menu are a good start, but the service is horrific and the food deeply average.

We waited nearly half an hour to have our order taken; this in an almost empty restaurant with at least five waiters on duty, all milling about near us and sometimes making eye contact, but never coming over. I was starting to wonder if something had gone badly wrong in the kitchen and the staff had been told to buy time by ignoring the customers. Fortunately they had brought us a bottle of red wine, I was getting to know an interesting new colleague and had nowhere else to be, so I let them take their time.

My starter should have been exceptional: veal and bufala mozzarella ravioli. But the pasta was a bit too dense, the meat stringy and the red sauce a bit too close to a tin of chopped tomatoes with nothing done to them. All made worse by the fact that the ravioli were lukewarm and cooling when they got to me. My main course of chicken breast was overcooked and rubbery, making the best part of the meal the baked aubergine (eggplant) and sauteed spinach in the side dishes.

Thus it looks like I will continue my search for a mid-priced, mid-town Italian restaurant that satisfies my tough standards. But if I'm looking for Japanese? Zuma's worth the trek across town to Knightsbridge.

Carpe Diem! A birthday week filled with celebration, friends, fine food and good health

I was irritated this year to find my birthday falling on a Monday. This seems like the worst possible conjunction of special event and mundane reality. Mondays are ... well, you know the songs.

Turns out there's a big advantage to Monday birthdays, however. The day is so inauspicious that everyone suggests festivities on other days, which nicely stretched my birthday over a whole giddy week this year. None of my Friday or Saturday birthdays has ever gotten this much traction.

Festivities officially started on Saturday night, when Guy and I stayed local and headed for my favourite Moroccan restaurant in Windsor. Well off the beaten tourist track, Al Fassia is family-run establishment of no more than a dozen tables, all of them always packed on the weekend. The staff remembers the locals, and always takes good care of their regulars. (In this case, with free dessert thrown on at the meal's end.) The food is proper North African, done with care. Start with delicate, meat-filled bastilla pastries, freshly made hummus or stewed, chilled aubergine. Move on to a wide variety of tagine-cooked meats, succulent and falling off the bone. My favourites include lamb with prunes, and chicken with onions and raisins. All accompanied by heaps of gently steamed, fluffy couscous. A range of honey-based pastries and mint tea is always a good end to a meal here.

Sunday night and celebrant No. 2: Hillary. In a mood to forsake my diet completely, we opted for the Gourmet Burger Kitchen on Chiswick High Road. I had a massive, medium rare burger dripping in cheese, chili sauce and onions that goes to prove that the Brits can actually do this down-home American classic just as well as the originators once they get over their perception that it's "junk" food. (And it also shows that no matter how used to healthy eating I may get, a greasy, high fat burger is still going to taste heavenly.) As it was my birthday ... almost ... we compounded our sin by stopping into the gastropub up the street, The Roebuck, for dessert. Hillary's ice cream looked good, and my chocolate torte was so rich that it was like eating a slab of fudge. Perhaps a bit overpowering, but a nice treat.

Ironically, my birthday itself was spent alone. A crazy work schedule had frightened me into not accepting any invitations because I feared I wouldn't be able to clear work promptly. Yet I had quite an efficient day, so managed to wrap up by 6 and head to the gym. After which, I dropped into Waitrose to get myself a deluxe sushi box and a gourmet cupcake, then took myself to the cinema to see The Duchess, the new biopic of the 18th-century Duchess of Devonshire. A brilliantly executed film with fine acting and lavish costumes and sets. Very much my cup of tea. All very self indulgent, so perfect for a birthday.

Tuesday was the undoubted climax of this great week. My friend Christine arranged a day out at Raymond Blanc's cooking school at Le Manoir au Quatre Saisons, one of the most famous restaurants in the country, and the experience lived up to lofty expectations. We gathered for coffee in the elegant drawing room (the hotel is in a traditional Cotswolds manor house) to meet our fellow students (10 in all) and get our chef's jackets. Then it was off to the very posh kitchens.

The cooking school has its own kitchen, separated from the main food prep areas by glass walls that allowed us to see the buzz of the wider establishment all day, but not get in anyone's way. Our own kitchen looked very much like a domestic model, albeit a very large one with five sets of stoves, ovens and fridges. A large breakfast bar in the centre sat the ten students, who faced the instructor and his line-up of burners and prep areas. The theme was "autumn dinner party" and the idea was to show us a multiple course meal, with some variations, that took advantage of seasonal tastes and produce. The day alternated between demonstration and actual cooking, with a fun group of fellow students keeping up a lively banter.

In the morning we all made mushroom ravioli and a fricassee of wild mushrooms, while watching the instructor produce a traditional French stew with beef and red wine. That became our lunch, eaten around the breakfast bar with our fellow students. After coffee in the gardens we returned for an afternoon of desserts, including three different apple pastries (thin apple tart, Maman Blanc's apple tart and tarte tatin) and a variety of souffles. I am delighted to report that my pistachio version both rose, and tasted great. All in all, a fantastic experience. I learned some great tips, even on items like pasta that I thought I was already very good at. The staff was entertaining and informative, the ingredients excellent and the whole day a fantastic way to relax. I felt like I'd had a proper holiday instead of just a Tuesday off. I'm definitely a convert to the idea of cooking school as holiday, and may need to investigate more options.

Wednesday offered a little respite, and a chance to get back to the gym after work, before a second climax on Thursday. (Why not. A girl deserves a treat.) This one wasn't an event, but rather a doctor's appointment. My mammogram and ultrasound were clear for the second year post cancer, dropping me into a lower risk category, allowing me to only have annual scans rather than every six months and generally taking a major worry off my mind. It never fails that in the weeks before the tests I work myself into a quiet panic, imagining a range of aches and pains in my breasts and the things that might be causing them. By Wednesday night I was running through my schedule in my head, tentatively scheduling my second mastectomy. The relief that washed over me when I learned my fears were all unfounded was just as pleasurable as anything else this week.

Thursday night, out with colleagues for a business dinner. Average food at an unexceptional place called Tao on Bow Lane. An oriental/Italian fusion theme, which is an idea that just doesn't work for me from the start. The food was actually very good, but the atmosphere was horrific. The music implied they were trying to be a nightclub, the jumbo screen above our head screamed sports bar. The chef was saying "nice restaurant" but got drowned in the atmosphere. Delightful company, however, made up for any shortcomings.

Friday night's long, pleasurable denouement was one of Nicholas' famous dinner parties. Staying true to form, he delivered yet another fascinating mix of people around a table filled with a progression of fine courses. The sea bream with chili and salt was a triumph of restaurant quality, and I would have devoured far more of the cheese board (always a centrepiece of Nick's dinners) had I not been conscious of the weigh in looming the next day.

How much damage would all this celebration cause? My final birthday gift was one to myself, for the answer was "none". Despite all the excess, choosing fish as much as possible, getting to the gym and not eatingan excessive quantity of anything allowed me to break even for the week. Which made all those little indulgences that much sweeter.

A sweet homecoming, despite trials and tribulations

I once read somewhere that English is unique in the way it treats the word "home" as not a simple, straightforward noun, but a concept. Home is where the heart is. Home sweet home. You're my home. A house is not necessarily a home. We can have many homes, each with their own nuances.

St. Louis is, and always will be, home. The place I was born and shaped, the place family roots go back for generations. But England is home, too, and I unabashedly fell against the precious door of Thames Cottage and kissed the knocker when I finally stood in front of it in the wee hours of Monday morning. My space. My stuff. My life. There's no place like home. And I'm bloody glad to be back in mine.

Glad despite the series of little disasters that greeted me. No hot water. Not to worry, I can hop to the gym for a shower. Not without a working car battery; the audi is stone dead. Not to worry, I'll call the Automobile Association and invoke that fresh membership. Nope. Due to a clerical error about which they notified me by post on 1 August, my membership was cancelled on 30 August. So coming home felt a bit like camping, and had a load of administrative issues to deal with that I really didn't need given a mad week at work. I am now a good deal poorer, but in possession of a new insurance policy on my boiler and a new Royal Automotive Club membership. Both were happy to give me instant service with the addition of an emergency fee. Lesson learned: buy into this stuff before you need it.

I had a working car, complete with new battery, by Thursday. Hot water, despite new parts on the boiler and two hours of effort, is still not an option until next week due to an unusually shaped washer not in regular stock. The week was so busy that this was mostly a minor irritation, except for the challenge of bathing. Do you have any idea how long it takes to fill a bathtub with boiling water from a tea kettle? At least 25 kettles full, to be precise. I have a new appreciation for the life of Victorian maids.

Being home in London also, inevitably, meant a dive back in to the rush of town. Trains, crowds, deadlines, business dinners. Two worthy restaurants welcomed me back to the capital, both of which I'd return to in the right circumstance.

The Thomas Cubitt is quite a well known gastropub in Belgravia. It's actually a bit of a surprise I haven't gotten here in the two years it's been getting rave reviews, but its location near Victoria Station hasn't until recently been a regular haunt for me. (Our current ad agency has changed that.) The pub has classic, understated Georgian panelling, big gracious windows and tasteful prints on the walls. Though modern in its light grey colour scheme and subtle design touches, there's a simple sensibility here that puts you right back to the coffee houses of the 18th century. It's not too hard to envision Dr. Johnson, Addison and Steele in this boisterous atmosphere, tucking into a roast at one of the stripped-wood tables.

The menu is English with a few French touches, concentrating on good meats and seasonable vegetables. There was a good variety of fish and of game credited to its local source. We shared a variety of appetisers, including some fine pate and particularly tasty oysters. (I've never been an oyster fan, but am trying to develop my taste buds to overcome the gastronomic gaffe. These were the first that I ever really liked, thanks to a milder taste than usual and a spicy sauce.) I opted for the fish of the day (John Dory) and then failed to resist a dark chocolate tart. Excellent throughout. Top restaurant tastes but at gastropub prices; still pricey, but you could bring three courses in here for under £30 with the right choices.

The next night found me at Skylon, the new restaurant inside the Royal Festival Hall. This place is a feast for the eyes. It is probably now the best restaurant with a view in London, taking in a lovely stretch of the Thames from Westminster down to Somerset House and beating, in both food and view, the restaurant at the Oxo Tower that would formerly have held this honour. The entire riverside wall of this substantial building is glass, giving everyone in the restaurant a dramatic backdrop. The design of the restaurant itself is beautiful, evoking some of the best trends from the late '50s, when this building first went up. It's a big space, with towering ceilings and dramatic chandeliers. The sedate colour scheme of taupes, whites and beiges is relaxing, and wisely doesn't compete with the view.

There are actually three restaurants in the space: a brasserie on one end, a coffee bar in the middle and the proper restaurant on the other end. We ate in the last, where the prices definitely tell you that this is a place for expense accounts more than private diners. The service was exemplary, so much so that it felt almost over-staffed. The high ceilings, however, proved a drawback to proper business conversation. The sound of a very large room of chatty diners swirled and reverberated in all that empty space, making talking to anyone other than your immediate neighbours at the table a bit difficult. This is not a place for a quiet conversation.

The menu is your usual "modern European". Dependable, in line with expectations, but nothing particularly memorable. The same description applies to the tastes. I started with pate and moved on to sea bass. Both good, but not remarkable. We skipped dessert, but the place did win my heart by bringing out a tray of sweet nibbles with the coffee. I always want dessert, whether or not the table orders it, so I'm happy when the restaurant helps me to cheat a bit.

Location and vibe jump Skylon near the top of my list for entertaining business colleagues from out of town. But if food is more important than view, I'd head back to the Thomas Cubitt. On either night, however, the ultimate highlight was the same. Going to sleep in my own bed. Yes, there's no place like home.

Escaping to the country is good for the soul

Despite the fact that an increasing amount of its population lives, and most of its business is done, in the big cities, America still likes to think of itself as an agrarian society. We grew to greatness on the backs of those hearty pioneers who sent ploughs through virgin earth and settled the wilderness.

Of course, much of that is a myth. Not only was the land not as "virgin" and "wild" as we think, but many of our ancestors never set foot on a farm. Perusing all four nationalities of my ancestry, there's not a farmer or a country dweller amongst them. (Though there were some fine gardeners.) Still, we all love this idea of the rural idyll, and many an urban dweller aspires to a farm as a second home and escape from the city.

I spent Labor Day in one such spot, revelling in a weekend so American it could have been created by Disney and stuck in the back of Epcot's U.S.A. pavilion. The location: Gerald, Missouri. A classic midwestern one-stoplight town, arranged in a few streets stretching in a grid pattern out from the grain silos next to the train tracks. There's a Dollar General store ("civilisation" in the form of the nearest Wal Mart is half an hour's drive) and a gas station with a mini mart. And not much else. Small wooden houses are generally undistinguished, though a few have some charming architectural details or porches with the requisite porch swing. A community of mobile homes stretches down one hill, some tidy and surrounded by neat little gardens, some a stereotypical jumble of junk, trash bags and old auto parts. And everywhere the American flag flies. The nation's GDP might be made in the cities, but the overwhelming majority of its soldiers come from towns like this. (Don't ever believe small town America is completely oblivious to foreign policy; it's their sons and daughters who are more likely to die for it.)

Gerald might not sound the ideal holiday retreat, but it does have one major thing going for it: the landscape. Miles and miles of rolling hills, forests, clear brooks babbling through exposed limestone, fields dotted with native wildflowers, still ponds ringed with pussy willow. At night, the sky glimmers with stars able to give a proper show freed by at least 100 miles from the nearest source of urban light polution. And it is magnificently quiet. Who would need an iPod if your walk's regular soundtrack was no more than the wind in the trees, the chatter of a stream, the hum of bees and the pad of your dogs' paws on the gravel behind you?

Admittedly, we did inject a bit of noise into this pristine environment. Inevitable, considering that the extended family of which we were invited to be a part swelled to more than 20 when everyone turned up. Country tunes spilled out the boom box, engines revved as the jeeps went off-roading through the fields and shotguns reverberated over the hills. The artillery was a key part of the weekend fun; most people took a try at shooting the clays. I clearly need a lot more practice before I hit anything. This being America, it was perfectly legal to have a wider selection of guns on hand. A few of us had a go with a military assault rifle and the patriarch of the clan looked quite menacing as he threatened a target with his enormous Dirty Harry style handgun. While it was interesting, from an academic point of view, to get a first hand sense of the awsome power of these weapons, I think I'll be happy to return to a world where I'm limited to a heavily regulated shotgun and no fancy stuff. I suspect the respect and discipline with which my hosts managed their arsenal is not as common as it should be.

Much of the rest of the weekend was spent sitting around the firepit, drinking beer, watching the boys barbecue, eating the barbecue, making s'mores, eating s'mores. Relaxed, peaceful, simple pleasures in a green and pleasant land. I think the desire is pretty common in all corners of the globe; this is why people want to escape to the country.