Arbutus stands head and shoulders above its Soho neighbours

Elegant", "sophisticated" and "classy" are not words I generally associate with Soho. It's convenient, given its central location and abundance places to eat and drink, but there always seems to be a bit of the tawdry here. From the unsightly graffiti and ragged gardens of Soho Square to the in-your-face sex shops to the packs of drunken 20-somethings wandering the streets of an evening, Soho has never enchanted me.

It's a hard place to avoid, however, given the convenience factor for meeting up with friends. Add to that the fact that it's a traditional haunt of the creative industries, and you'll understand why I seem to end up here a lot.

Last week there was coffee at the Soho Hotel, a ridiculously trendy, modern boutique hotel tucked down a mews road. The giant cat sculpture at reception always makes me giggle as I imagine the outrageously camp designer explaining the zen mood it would cast over the lobby. Earlier that day I was at Soho House, a private members club that does a brisk business in venue hire. I found their sixth-floor roof terrace to be an interesting place for a seminar, though the hike (no lifts) was a bit bracing for first thing in the morning. I liked the venue better when I was taken to lunch on its first floor many years ago, when it was a good deal more exclusive than it is now. Kettners, famed for being one of the oldest restaurants in London, has deeply average food but a champagne bar with lots of comfortable nooks and crannies. A decent meeting spot to start an evening, but at £9 and up for a glass of something, you're paying a premium for those comfy couches.

At the Soho Theatre I recently helped out some friends filming "voxpop" interviews about technology usage for a new client. A coldly industrial yet functional venue; clearly the place for arcane foreign films. Bar Italia was once the only place in London to get a real cappuccino. But today with Caffe Nero and Costa both doing a fine job, the frenetic atmosphere and jostling crowds make the original spot less attractive. A recent evening at The Red Fort taught me that I can eat Indian without blowing my diet, thanks to an upmarket menu that's all about meat and fish done in delicate spices with few sauces. Though given how peckish I remained despite my £50 contribution to the group bill, not someplace I'm rushing to return.

That's Soho in a nutshell: some impressive bits laid on top of faded glories, all calculated to extract just that little bit more cash out of you than it's really worth paying. A land of luvvies and show-offs, its attractions are the empty calories of London. They satisfy you at the time, but afterward you wonder why you wasted your time ... and money. All of which magnifies my delight when dining in a Soho-based eatery that has a dignified yet unpretentious setting, properly helpful staff and truly excellent food.

I tried Arbutus early this year and, though it was a delightful outing, it didn't make the blog because we had the quick and simple pre-theatre menu. (For tales of the performance of Turandot that followed, see 24.01.09.) It did make my own personal "must return" list due to a combination of distinct flavours, attentive service and a deeply intriguing wine list. Our waiter had recommended a bottle from the Balearic Islands ... not something you see much ... and we were stunned by the mellow, fruity richness of this very modestly priced selection.

The memory of that wine was driving our fantasies as we sat down at the table. So imagine our horror at the discovery that the list had changed and it was no longer featured. Turns out the Balearic origin was so odd they couldn't move enough bottles to keep it on the list. The manager saved the day by recommending a quirky, modern little Tuscan morellino, thus averting crisis and turning our attention to the main event.

The menu at Arbutus is modern European, with some interesting twists. It's the kind of place you might find tripe, or rabbit, or exotic vegetables of which you've never heard. Fear not, there are plenty of more traditional options, but these tend to be prepared and presented in innovative ways. My starter of ricotta gnocchi, for example, was more of a dumpling: perfect little balls of fresh cheese encased in a layer of gnocchi dough like ganache inside a truffle, served with a salad of sharp and slightly bitter leaves that contrasted perfectly with the richness of their companions. I moved on to bouillabaisse, and have never seen it presented so well. This was an upscale, elegant version of the old peasant favourite, served in a procession of gleaming copper pans. One held grilled fish and vegetables, another the soup base, and a third two types of rouille, one pink and one white, poured to settle side by side like a culinary yin and yang. Next to this, the requisite croutons. In addition to being great fun, this presentation allowed me to really savour the flavour of the fish, which would have been lost had it bubbled away in the rich, pungent broth. Perhaps not quite as atmospheric as eating it out of a single big bowl beside a harbour in Cassis (my best-ever boullabaisse experience), but it tasted a great deal better.

Samples from my friends' plates allow me to tell you that the spring vegetable risotto was pretty well perfect, managing to maintain the individual flavours and crispness of the greens while getting the rice al dente, and the bavette of beef was just as good as the noble fillet at Boisedale. (See 29.03.09.) The waitress was cheerfully compliant when we ordered one dessert with three spoons, avoiding the snide looks that so often used to come with requests for sharing, tap water or take aways. Sharing thus allowing us all to get a bit of the mango panna cotta without feeling like we were being too profligate. True to Arbutus' form to that point, the dish managed to meld its ingredients while keeping its flavours distinct, giving us the tart pop of the mango in delicious contrast to the mellow richness of the cream.

Unlike the pre-theatre menu, Arbutus in prime time is not easy on the purse. Our bill toted up to £55 per person for two courses and the shared sweet. Oh, and the wine. So delicious that we had to have a second. It was just as good as the Balearic, but at £30 a bottle not such a great deal. Still, with this quality of food and service I have to call it all a fine value for the money. Other Soho spots may offer proverbial "empty calories", but here they're full, rich and good to the last fork.

Luxury, fancy dress and strapping men ... Rugby may be the game for me

It was rather amazing to contemplate, as I strolled toward the towering metal struts of Twickenham's stadium, that in 14 years of living in the UK I'd never attended a professional sporting event. (Unless you count polo and horse trials, which always seem more like popping into a Ralph Lauren commercial than watching an athletic activity.) It was time for me to break in to the world of British team sport.

Rugby was the game, and a friend's corporate box was the setting. I expected to like it. I can enjoy just about anything from the luxury seats. Fact is, I loved it.

The game itself was a revelation. Like most Americans, I had only the sketchiest exposure to rugby, associating it with a minority of very rich kids from the East Coast. The last time I saw a match Michael Jackson still had his own nose and I was loitering with sorority sisters next to a Northwestern field. The game? We could never really figure it out. We were really only there to watch the boys. Big, muscular, quite remarkable boys.

This time someone actually explained to me that you can't pass the ball forward; a basic fact that revolutionised my grasp of events. Better yet, this was a Sevens tournament. Teams of just seven men, as opposed to the normal 15, play seven-minute halves with just one minute between. It makes for a fast paced, rapid passing game that's over in a quarter hour. While two teams play on the field, four others are prepping on the field's margins. Tackling is fierce and padding is limited, creating the possibility of grievous injury at every turn. Boredom is impossible.

Evidently Sevens are a bit of a minor league, showing off the skills of boys on the brink of the big time. This was the second day of an international tournament that laid on a rapid-fire procession of matches. Earlier in the day I'd gotten to cheer on the Americans who made a valiant effort but lost twice. Able to put my allegiance behind my second passport without a crisis of conscience, I was amply rewarded. England powered through the tournament and made the final, against traditional powerhouse New Zealand. They were down 21-0 at the half and things looked grim. Then they shocked the hell out of us, scoring four tries in those seven fleeting minutes and sending the crowd into convulsions of rapture.

The drama on the field was matched by the entertainment off it. I was unprepared for the fancy dress aspect of English Rugby, where it is evidently de rigueur to coordinate costumes with your friends and turn up in masquerade. I saw a pirate crew, monks, cowboys and Indians, comic book heroes, one Pink Panther, two Winnie the Poohs and too many cross-dressing men to count. (They may have granted me citizenship, but the English man's love of female dress, like the popularity of Marmite or the propensity to whinge constantly, is an aspect of national identity I will just never grasp.)

I could have been perfectly happy being part of this madness in the regular stands. Viewing it all from a box just elevated the fun to a higher level. Two servers took care of five of us, meaning my champagne glass was rarely more than a third empty before a hovering arm topped it up. We tucked into a four-course meal at lunch time in the privacy of our suite, all crisp white linen and fine wines as the lads outside the glass wall tackled, ran and strained for our entertainment. Outside to the terrace to watch more action and get more top ups (by now had switched to a chateauneuf du pape as robust and fruity as the boys in tutus a few rows down), and then suddenly it was tea time and the table indoors was groaning with more food.

After England's stunningly unexpected win, we went reeling out into the streets of Twickenham, dancing along with the festively attired ... and now well sozzled ... crowds. Too crowded, in fact, to attempt the train, so we wandered to a leafy bit of the Thames riverside and settled into a pub garden, admiring the glimmering twilight and reveling in the first properly warm night of the year.

After all that food, drink and excitement, I finally found myself on the 9:15 train and was home and in bed before 10:30. Satiated, sleeping soundly and dreaming of big, muscular, quite remarkable boys. Twickenham or Northwestern fields: Some things remain constant through time.

Two weeks from a tweeter's eye view

I've been messing about with Twitter over the past fortnight.

It's primarily been driven by work. We're trying to determine which elements of social media will become compelling when reaching senior executives. Because it's all free, and we have almost no budget this year, everything is worth a punt. Thus my entry into the Twittersphere.

Ironically, I think it could end up being a better business application than a personal one. As a subscriber to all of my competitors' web sites, I'm getting what's essentially a consolidated news feed of what's going on in my industry, as prioritised by fellow marketing hacks. Most useful. As a subscriber to various favourite cultural organisations, I receive a consolidated push of what's happening, when, and some good tips for my weekends. My PR colleagues tell me it's becoming the defacto standard for pitching stories to journalists, who love the 180 character limit and the way it weeds out the dross.

As a tool for my own social networking, however, I'm less than impressed. Status updates on Facebook do me just fine when it comes to keeping up with people. I find it difficult to imagine why anyone would be interested in updates from my life at the frequent pace Twitter seems to encourage. Nor do I need that micro-level of detail about my friends' lives. "Heading out to the grocery store now." "Back and having tuna on a bagel for lunch." Ho hum.

I've stuck to blogging because I am assuming, dear reader, that I'm continuing to pick events from my life interesting enough to deserve further exploration for you. Turning these into stories and reviews requires planning, evocative proof points, a bit of crafting and a lot of thought about what you might find interesting. Of course, all that takes time, and requires an event worthy of a few hundred words. Twitter does have an appeal for covering more marginal experiences, or for when life makes crafting a full column a bit challenging.

The past two weeks have been busy, but not wildly eventful. Let's give Twitter style a try, with updates of less that 180 characters for the past fortnight.

• Recently redundant friends look great, glowing with health & relaxation. It's a paradox: Work pays for life, but drains life from us.

• Lavender in Clapham deserves a try. Cozy bistro cum gastropub. Watermelon, feta and fennel salad a revelation. Good value.

• Nirvana Spa siphons off my stress. Warm Ocean Pool with 100s of jets magnificent. Lucky with cancellations; got a facial. Perfect Sunday.

• Won bottle of champers at Economist wine tasting. Not my doing; picked team of clever boys with exceptional taste buds.
  

• Experiential marketing seminar at Soho House comforting. I may not have budget to do much now, but am proven visionary in what I once did.

• Long Thames-side walk. Banks verdant and bursting with flowers. Local wheat field is an ocean of luscious, waving green. How I love May.

You get the idea. Any of those probably could have been developed into a proper blog entry, but I didn't have time. The 180-character limit is a fine discipline, but I suspect if you're a fan of this blog in the first place, it's because you want more. Thus you'll get a proper write up on the madness and mayhem that is the London Sevens Rugby Tournament at Twickenham soon. But first...

• Off for long bike ride. Must exercise away some of the weekend's excess of food and drink. And exploit sunshine while it's making an effort.
  

Star Trek at the IMAX sweeps me back to childhood delight

It's a hot June night in 1977. The 13-year-old Ellen, squirming with excitement, takes her place in the front row of the old (and now long disappeared) Creve Couer cinema with a bunch of school friends. It's a big event. Not only have they all been trusted to be on their own for a few hours without parental guidance, but they're about to drink in the phenomenon of the summer. The giant screen in front of them is one of the few left from the glory days of movies; somehow it has managed to avoid the subdivision into multiple, small viewing rooms that swept through American movie houses in the '70s.

The lights go down and that innovative text shimmers out of the darkness, towering above us, receding into the distance. A fairy tale begins. And then a starship rumbles over our heads, filling every bit of our line of sight given the size of the screen and our first row seats. Our jaws are slack with amazement, even as our little-girls' legs swing back and forth in excitement. This was Star Wars seen at its best: fresh, completely new and displayed with technology that enveloped us fully in the experience.

Most children of the '70s have a similar memory. The premier of Star Wars was, after all, one of the most iconic events of the decade for those too young to care about Watergate or the Vietnam War. I hadn't thought about that night for a long time, until this past weekend when Star Trek and London's IMAX theatre catapulted me back 32 years as effectively as if I'd stepped into some time-warping vortex.

I had never seen a general release film on an IMAX screen and had my misgivings. Was it worth the £6 or £8 you paid over a screening in your local cinema? The technology seemed to suit action sequences, but would simpler scenes be overwhelmed by the size? What, after all, was all the fuss about?

And then the lights went down, a starship slid over my head, my jaw went slack with amazement ... and I got it. Like a front row view of that old screen in Creve Couer, IMAX is so big that it strips out all peripheral vision. There is no sense of the edges of the screen. No dimly distracting glow of the exit signs or the side walls of the room. The steep camber of the seats means that most of your fellow viewers are out of your line of sight as well. In two hours I only noticed movement around me once, and that was when a woman in the row immediately in front of me left and returned. This complete absence of distraction means you are carried into the film in a far more compelling way than the normal experience. Add to this a film that benefits from a broad visual sweep, and you're in business.

In addition to being dazzled by the technology, I was delighted with the film. Its rip-roaring pace, uncomplicated story (bad guys v good guys, no grey here), clever but not particularly violent action and frequent bursts of humour make it an old fashioned adventure yarn highly reminiscent of the first Star Wars or the original Raiders of the Lost Ark. No surprise that my head strayed back to the '70s. The casting is brilliantly done, making it easy to imagine all of these characters maturing into their more familiar, mature versions in the television show. While you would need little knowledge of the Star Trek franchise to enjoy the film, knowing what the future holds for these characters is what drives a lot of the humour. And very clever much of it is, too.

Star Trek is a classic summer adventure film that sends you out of the Cinema grinning from ear to ear. Don't miss it on a big screen. The bigger, the better.

Yorkshire's charms compensate for difficulties getting there

You have to give the M1 its due: It's consistent. In all the years I've lived in the UK, I have never managed a smooth and quick run up this critical North/South motorway. It seems to attract construction, accidents and gridlock like open garbage lures foxes. 

Somewhere in my fifth hour of creeping Northward, I began to question whether the weekend could possibly be worth it. Twenty four hours later, scrambling up the strange formations at Brimham Rocks to view the lush patchwork of Yorkshire Dales spreading to the horizon, sun on my face and distant bleating of hundreds of lambs in my ears, I had to admit the answer was "Yes". 

Yorkshire is a pain to get to, but once you're there it is surely one of England's best counties. 

 Our objective was countryside, walking and a bit of culture, all of which come thick and fast in this county. We mostly avoided the towns, getting only close enough to York to see the outline of the minster, and spending just an hour strolling through the early Victorian charms of Harrogate. The discovery of the trip was, without doubt, the aforementioned Brimham Rocks. 

The rocks are large formations, some up to three or four stories tall, worn away by erosion into truly bizarre shapes. My favourite, thanks to my university nickname, was the Dancing Bear. You'll note the resemblance. The rocks are scattered across the top of a long, partly-wooded ridge, as if some gigantic child had spilled his collection of prized stones over the land. The hilltop situation means the impact of the strange shapes is augmented by spectacular views of up to 40 miles. You can climb, walk round, lounge atop or simply admire the stones; a circle of the whole site is about three miles. 

 

Equally impressive, though the work of man rather than glaciers, is the landscape at nearby Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal. Fantastically picturesque abbey ruins sit at the bottom of a deep, wooded valley, bisected by a sparkling stream. When the late 18th/early 19th century appreciation of the picturesque was at its height, a local aristocrat noted the potential of the site and "improved" it with a landscape garden stretching along the stream below the abbey. The water follows its natural course to a lake, then disappears under a bridge to reappear in the next valley as a set of rigidly sculptural pools dotted with classical statuary. Paths lead up into the hills where you discover a range of follies in different architectural styles, all carefully situated to take in the views below. This ranks, along with Stowe and Stourhead, amongst the country's finest landscape gardens. 

 

Yorkshire is not, however, just about the great outdoors. There's an impressive density of country houses up here; probably greater than any place in England outside of the Southeast. The obvious magnet for most tourists is Castle Howard, and we didn't resist its lure. I had been there on one of my first trips to England and wasn't that impressed. Many know the house through productions of Brideshead Revisited and have high expectations of the exterior and the grand hall. But few appreciate that most of the house was destroyed in the 1940s, leaving the majority of its state rooms an empty shell. When I visited in the '80s, 

I remember being irritated at paying quite a lot to see a small handful of rooms. It just wasn't value for money on the average country house scale. I am happy to report that things have changed a lot in 20 years, and the Howard family now makes the most of what's on hand. There are still only a handful of state rooms to see, with the main hall and long gallery being both most impressive and most familiar from the film sets. But now there's a series of guided tours of the grounds led by an articulate and scholarly lady; a fascinating exhibit on the women of the family in the burnt-out section of the house; a reconstructed first floor with exhibits on the two versions of Brideshead filmed here, one of the film sets left in situ and great views over the main hall; a range of quirky, interesting shops and a good buffet-style restaurant with an elegant dining room. 

The weather, though windy enough to chill our bones, was sunny and clear. Thus the walks through the bluebell woods and around the gardens were just as visually stirring as the architectural treasures inside. Like Fountains Abbey, Castle Howard's grounds are a giant landscape garden with long views over rolling landscape to outrageously lavish garden follies. 

The Howard Mausoleum is just as beautiful, architecturally, as the house itself, and the temple of the Four Winds is certainly one of the most pleasing follies to be found in any garden. One of the guided tours offered us the chance to get inside the latter; a rare treat. Were I very, very rich, this is exactly the kind of place I'd create to house al fresco dinner parties. I think I'd get along well with those old Howards... 

While almost everyone knows Castle Howard, few have heard of Beningbrough Hall. Which is a shame, because this place is a little jewel. An elegant, simple mid-Georgian house of red brick with white stone accents, it's grand enough to be showy but small enough that you could fantasise about moving right in. (If you won a big lottery.) Beningbrough didn't come to the National Trust with any furnishings, but they've done a fine job over the past few decades getting some appropriate pieces in place. It's the house itself that appeals here, however, especially the cool, elegant entry hall and the magnificent cantilevered staircase. Beningbrough also serves as the overflow gallery for the National Portrait Gallery's collection of 18th century portraits, and the room stewards are well informed about who's hanging on the walls and why they're interesting. The dining room holds half of the portraits of the Kit Kat Club, an 18th century gang of movers and shakers who decided to be immortalised in unified style. The scandal, political intrigue and relationship dramas associated with the men in the portraits convinced me that someone is missing one hell of a historic soap opera opportunity here. Just as good as the Tudors, but fresh and unfamiliar. Maybe I should be pitching to Showtime... 

We were particularly impressed with how efficiently the place is set up to appeal to visitors. In addition to the room stewards, several of whom are costumed as people in the portraits, there's an informative audio tour of the whole house. This comes as part of your admission fee and is, sadly, still a rare treat at National Trust properties. On the top floor you'll find a series of exhibits for kids that are so engaging you'll wish you were ten again. 

We were dying to have our faces photographed and laid over those of the famous portraits, but elbowing the tykes out of the way didn't seem appropriate. 

Add to all of this a range of attractive walled gardens, a well-stocked farm shop and a charming village with a cozy pub serving hearty traditional fare and you'll see why we spent most of a day here. Amazingly, none of these attractions is more than 30 miles away from any other. Once you've fought your way up the motorway, you don't have to do much more driving as everything is on your doorstep. We headed south vowing that we really needed to head up here again soon. There's a lot left to see once you break free of that damned motorway.

We were the youngest guests by miles, but the in-room Nespresso machine was nice...

I have just had one of the stranger long weekends of my life, thanks to Warner Holidays. I can't say I wasn't warned.

Warner operates country house hotels on a cruise ship model: room, food and loads of entertainment for a single package price. The intent is to make the country house a destination you never have to leave during your break. Guests are limited to those over 21. But, frankly, it might as well have been over 61. Despite the assurance of the rep in the call centre that our choice of hotel skewed "a bit younger than average", the two mobility assistance carts parked on either side of the front door sent a strong message on arrival. We were in for an odd weekend.

The hotel in question is Nidd Hall, a pleasant late-Georgian pile just north of Harrogate in Yorkshire. It's surrounded by lovely grounds (very pastoral, with a lake and scores of sheep), has grand reception rooms, a big indoor pool and is wonderfully central for all sorts of sightseeing. I had some vouchers I had won at work that could be used on this hotel chain, and a friend looking for a getaway over her birthday weekend, so we thought we'd give it a try. I used the vouchers to upgrade us to one of the premium rooms in the body of the manor house, and off we went. While I wouldn't do it again, and wouldn't have considered it good value for money without the vouchers, it was both a relaxing and amusing weekend.

After we got over the shock of the herd of retirees, shuffling in packs between the dining hall and the entertainment, we developed coping strategies and actually had a good time. These consisted of spending a lot of time in our well-appointed room, hanging out in the fitness centre, selecting the bar far away from the main entertainment and upgrading our meal package to the smaller, more exclusive restaurant.

Our room was surprisingly modern and elegant, made all the more cheerful by a welcoming spread of fruit, wine and chocolate when we arrived. Clearly recently remodelled, the paintwork and upholstery were pristine and the appliances all new. The flat screen TV came with a DVD player and, to our extreme delight, there was a Nespresso coffee maker with a large sampler selection much depleted by the time we left. We were on the second floor, with views out over the front of the grounds and a window that caught the setting sun in all its glory (amazingly, it was a mostly-sunny bank holiday weekend) and filtered it onto a comfortable sofa. The view out the bathroom window was particularly spectacular, taking in a medieval church, a venerable old churchyard and expansive fields beyond. The bathroom itself was a bright, modern space of white tiles and a luscious grey-blue paint, well kitted out with Gilcrest and Soames products and a large towel warmer. In fact, the only drawback to this paradise came once you slipped in bed ... where you found horrifically uncomfortable foam pillows and sheets that felt suspiciously high in artificial materials.

This, we came to find, was the hallmark of the whole Nidd Hall experience. The majority was top quality ... and then there'd be some glaring element that seemed cheap, tawdry and out of place. There's an impressive staircase hall and a lovely range of drawing rooms furnished in proper country house style, but the entrance hall had chipped paint, seemed bare without a carpet and was cluttered with service equipment when we arrived. A bad first impression. The fitness centre featured one of the nicest pools I've seen in any hotel, lined with tall arched windows bringing the gardens, light and landscape into the scene. But the desk staff charged 50 pence to use a towel. (A fee I consistently avoided by looking shocked and stating that I had not brought any money.) The exclusive dining room had recently been remodelled, featuring lovely panelling, pleasant art, a fine sound system and excellent views over the gardens to the lake. They were clearly going for the hip-and-modern-within-historic-walls look, and had chosen to forgo tablecloths to show off the clean lines of the furniture. Except that those tables were composite wood and looked like they'd been bought in bulk from Ikea. Crisp, white linen could have completed the room, its absence brought the whole look down.

The food, I must admit, was much better than expected. The main dining room was a bit overwhelming, given that it catered to the occupants of more than 200 rooms, and the buffet had a long way to go to meet the lavish abundance of a cruise ship. But you had the option to order off a menu and when we did so we were impressed by both the presentation and the flavours. The better dining room, to which we upgraded for £7.50 per person per night, had an broad range of items under a continental European umbrella. I had a sirloin steak one night, sea bass the next, both worthy of a good restaurant.

And then there was the entertainment. There was certainly a full array of it, including archery, shooting, dance lessons and films during the day. With the glories of Yorkshire all around us, we didn't contemplate staying on property. (Though getting a bow in my hands after all these years was tempting.) But clearly, people do. I suspect this is because most of the other guests seemed to be Northerners, so were more interested in the hotel as a resort destination than a sightseeing base. On the Friday night we took a quick look in the cabaret lounge but didn't stay long so as not to embarrass ourselves by laughing out loud. There are few things on this planet more amusing that watching white-haired English people doing country & western line dancing. (One wonders if they experience the same horrified amusement watching Americans in costume at medieval fayres?) But Saturday, we couldn't resist. It was time for Herman's Hermits.

Hard to believe, but these guys were once as big as the Beatles. Now they're doing bank holiday gigs for pensioners in the North of England. They were actually pretty good ... I'm into something good is a fine tune ... and were clever enough to mix their handful of hits in with covers of other early '60s classics. We sat at a table in the very back, sipping after-dinner drinks and taking in the whole bizarre scene with much bemusement. The best part of the night? Realising that neither of us were born when these songs hit the charts. I haven't felt that young and vibrant in ages.

Bliss for the top 1% and wannabes: Grenadier, Carpenters Arms and Stafford deliver on posh desires

It's a figure we've heard endlessly in the past fortnight: People making £100,000 per year or more represent the top 1 per cent of the British population. They are the "super rich" in the minds of the government, and as of next year they will be made to pay much more. Especially those making more than £150k, who will now come under a new 50 per cent tax bracket.

For a lot of people, it's a hard figure to believe. Many tourists have an impression of a rampantly prosperous country. They start in London, where they're surrounded by well-paid professionals, high property prices, expensive restaurants and endless stage sets of fine architecture. In the countryside, they're likely to stay in posh B&Bs run by people with cut glass accents and fine educations, while touring charming villages and historic houses. I remember a family friend concluding, after a 10-day visit, that Britain must be much, much wealthier than the United States. No. It's just that the things most people come to visit are owned, patronised or staffed by the well-educated and the well-compensated.

It is, of course, the height of bad taste to discuss the details of your compensation with anyone besides headhunters and prospective employers. But most corporate management types in London, from their late 30s on up, seem to either be making more than £100k or within striking distance of that threshold. At least, they're talking and consuming like they are. Given the outrageous cost of living here (mortgages over £1000 a month not unusual; £20 to get to London on a rush hour train from the suburbs; £50 for a typical night out with friends; £65 to fill your car's tank; £100 for an unspectacular weekly grocery run), it's hard to contemplate survival on what the government says is an average salary: about £25k per annum.

I thought about that a lot when I met up with a high school friend, who was staying with her family at the exquisite Halkin, just behind the Lanesborough near Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park corner. We went on to dinner at the Grenadier, a pub right out of the pages of the tourist board fantasy book that I doubt has had anyone making the national average salary come through the door in years. Other than the staff, of course. A few days later I was discussing the brutal tax regime with stressed friends at the magnificent Carpenters Arms in Chiswick, where the most cheerful part of the meal seemed to be the seeming bargain of just £43 each for three courses and drinks. I rounded off the week sipping white wine in the courtyard of the Stafford Hotel in a beautiful little courtyard just off St. James' street, hearing people well over the £150k mark discussing plans to depart for countries more appreciative of business success.

At all three places ... and most certainly at the last ... a customer making less than £100k per year would NOT feel like someone in a national majority of 99 per cent. In fact, she would have wondered what was wrong with her, that she still seemed to be nipping at everyone else's heels. Such is the illusion (delusion?) of life in London. The people living within that dream are filled with much dread that the new definitions of "super rich", and the hefty taxation on the horizon, will destroy this country. Killing off innovation. Driving high earners to other countries. Eliminating the lubricating cash that cascades through the economy from their generous spending. A nightmare is emerging of a cash-strapped, deeply average Britain that's lost its world-leading industries and thought leaders and depends on tourists splashing money around against an ever-weaker pound. (Hmmm. Sounds much like the country I first visited in '82.)

Should that financial and social armageddon occur, the Grenadier, the Carpenters Arms and the Stafford may all be living on borrowed time. So you might as well get there soon.

The Grenadier lies down a winding mews road near Hyde Park Corner, easiest to find if you turn onto Wilton Row from Wilton Crescent and follow the road as it winds. You're on an almost completely traffic-free lane, filled with buildings of sparkling white Regency charm. The pub itself was an officer's mess for Wellington's troops (hence the name) and is so traditional they've even arranged to keep one of the old red phone boxes in front of it. It's a tiny place, with one front room and bar and two small back rooms with a few tables for dining. The decor carries on the Wellington theme and it's blessedly free of pop music, gambling machines or any of the other paraphernalia of the modern establishment. The food is resolutely traditional, majoring on fish and chips, pies and the house special beef Wellington. The quality was basic and unexceptional, and I wouldn't go out of my way to eat here again. Unless I were once again hosting tourists, in which case I'd reserve well in advance. This is exactly what most tourists dream about when they think "English pub".

For food, I'd be back at the Carpenters Arms in Chiswick. It is actually a bit of a misnomer to call this place a gastropub. It has a pub's name, and a long bar, but it is in reality all restaurant. Everyone there had booked tables and was laying in to two or three courses. Like the Grenadier, it's tucked away on another street of pristine and gleaming Regency architecture, but now far enough from London to be fronted by little gardens spilling over with spring blooms. The dining room, however, is much more modern than the Grenadier's, with simple fittings and lots of bare, scrubbed wooden tables. Nothing distracts from the quality of the food, which is local and seasonal. The menu is heavy on seafood and displays some interesting pairings and rare ingredients. (Salsify fritters, anyone?) I started with a plate of English oysters accompanied by a perfectly balanced shallot vinaigrette. Next was poached pollack, again perfectly cooked, served with black beans, fresh guacamole and pico di gallo. It is almost impossible to find decent Tex Mex in this country; I certainly didn't expect to find the best I'd had for years beneath a fish in a resolutely English establishment. God bless global diversity. All that saintly fish consumption left room for dessert, which was a small chocolate pot with a caramel base. Delicious, though ... and this is something I almost never say ... it was actually a bit too rich. Everyone else reported delight with their entrees, and a fine wine list with lots of options between £15 and £25 completed our satisfaction. This place is a treasure.

The Stafford is an exquisite little hotel wedged into a back street between the Ritz, Green Park and St. James' Palace. It's built within the frame of one of the aristocratic old houses back here that survived the war, and it reeks of the establishment from the portrait of the Queen Mother above the fireplace to the tasteful lounge that looks more like something out of a private country house than a public establishment. The Stafford has the grace and architectural elegance of the Ritz or Claridges, but with the size and quiet of a boutique hotel. If I were a visiting American with a lot of money to spend, I'd stay here. The bar in the back of the hotel spills out into what once must have been the mews and stables for the original town house. Hard to believe it's just through an arch off busy St. James'; I've walked by here a hundred times and never known it existed. I am delighted that a friend who works locally let us in on the secret, and now I pass it on to you. In a part of town surprisingly short of quiet, elegant places to grab a drink, this is a real find.

Whether you're amongst the super rich or just bumbling along with the rest of the population, these places all deserve your appreciation. They would fit on most people's list of what constitutes the "Best of British". I like to think that is relevant to more than 1 per cent of the population. We'll see...