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.