Still recession-stunted, London Christmas season leaves time for culture, close friends

Last year I bemoaned the advent of the grim Christmas season. (see 20.12.08) This year, well into recession, everyone knew what was coming. There were no big media parties, a few quiet lunches with agencies and a handful of special events that mixed business with pleasure. (Pure pleasure, this year, was bad form in the workplace.) Nobody moaned, we expected it. And we made plans accordingly. Meaning that I fit in more culture, and more non-work social stuff, than I'd seen in many a December.

On the cultural front, I spent time with Mexican rulers at the British Museum and Indian ones at the V&A. Moctezuma (a more authentic pronunciation, evidently, than our standard Montezuma) at the BM dove deep into a ruler most of us know only as the guy who was on the losing end to Cortez. Indeed, by the end of a very enjoyable wander, I had come to believe that the man was a sophisticated leader cursed with a lot of bad luck. Certainly the impressive range of artifacts, including sacrificial altars, inlaid masks and intricate gold work showed that he ruled over a cosmopolitan, if violent, society.

For really impressive gold ... and jewels, and bling in general, however, you had to go across town to the V&A's Maharaja exhibit. There were lessons to be learned here about the political history of India but, frankly, the main draw was gasping at expanses of solid gold, precious gems the size of eggs and furniture made of ivory and precious materials. These guys made the crowned heads of Europe look frugal and drab. An extraordinary show, sparking great fantasies of what might be possible with a few spare billion.

I satisfied the urge for luxury a bit later with a delightful night at the Threadneedles Hotel. (www.theetoncollection.com) This former bank turned into a luxury pied a terre is in the heart of The City. One assumes it's packed by wealthy bankers during the week, but on weekends this stretch of town is empty. Meaning that they offer their extraordinarily expensive rooms at deep discount packages. Prices still put this in "special treat" category, but had at least they dropped into my value-for-money range. We attended a Christmas Ball nearby, so stayed here on a Saturday night. Our package included a welcoming platter of Christmas treats and mulled wine, and a generous breakfast in their elegant restaurant the next morning. The room was huge and filled with every amenity, from giant TV to iPod dock to California king bed to a table on wheels in the bathroom stacked with design and luxury lifestyle magazines. I spent a very happy Saturday afternoon soaking in the giant marble tub trying out the whole range of bath salts provided. Perfect in every detail ... including the quiet and efficient service ... this is one of the best hotel experiences I've had.

After that expenditure, I could breathe a sigh of relief that others were footing the bill for Christmas meals. The PR agency celebrated at Levant, last reviewed 30.05.08. I found their set Christmas meal disappointing; certainly not the expansive feast of my last visit. But still a tasty outing into culinary novelty, in exotic decor, with belly dancers for entertainment. A more sophisticated outing, perhaps, was our case study agency's choice of Fino, a tapas bar and Spanish restaurant at 33 Charlotte Street. I'm a big tapas fan, and all the other places I've been to in London have that down home Spanish holiday feel, with painted tiles and hams hanging from the ceiling. Fino is bright, modern and elegant, with a menu that takes tapas into fine dining. (There are Spanish main courses as well; we had some of the requisite suckling pig.) I was particularly delighted with their octopus. A hard dish to get right, done perfectly here. Our internal team lunch at the end of the month was at an unusually quiet Yo! Sushi just across from St. Pauls. Dependable and fun, with the conveyor belt zipping options by you.

Meanwhile, One Aldwych demonstrated that hotels can manage fine dining while serving large groups. I attended a fascinating lunch hosted by the publishers of Time/Life/Fortune during which we talked about the state of the media market and where electronic "readers" like Amazon's kindle were taking us. They gave us a preview of an electronic version of Sports Illustrated made for this technology, a beautiful and exciting format that will have me signing up for many of my favourite magazines online when it comes into standard usage. Meanwhile the fillet steak was succulent and the discovery of Argentinian Familia Zuccardi's Malbec was the highlight of my day. I could have drunk a great deal of this rich wine with its explosive fruit notes, but I was carrying on conversations with both the editor in chief of Time and the US editor of Fortune and knew I needed to stay a sober, gracious, intelligent representative of my employer. A shame. It was great stuff.

My finest holiday season dining experience, however, was neither in central London nor footed by a business account. A group of friends met up just before the holiday break at the Princess Victoria in Shepherd's Bush. This place gets cited a lot as one of London's best gastropubs, and is frequently mentioned by famous foodies as a hangout. (Actor Dominic West recently named it as his favourite pub, though we didn't see anyone famous on our visit.) The massive old Victorian interior has recently been subjected to a big restoration, making it bright, clean and functional while maintaining period features. The wine list is as big as the architecture, impressing all of the oenophiles at our table. And the menu, specialising in British traditional and locally sourced, has a wide range of options. Luckily the diners were both close friends and fans of sharing, so everyone was getting little tastes of everything. Delicate seafood, weighty fillets served as rare as requested, the sticky toffee pudding of fantasy ... everything was great. My only complaint would be the noise levels. Those big rooms get a lot of people crammed into them, and those high ceilings only served to ricochet the sound. I'd like to make a return visit on a weeknight, when a more peaceful atmosphere prevails.

But that won't be for a while because now, holiday in the USA beckons.

Trio of restaurant discoveries is Paris' Christmas gift

One of the greatest delights of London life is the fact that places that, from America, are “trips of a lifetime”, become quick and familiar weekend getaways.

Paris comes with an enormous cultural legacy. If you haven’t been here before, or are not sure of repeat visits, it’s almost impossible to relax under the burden of required trips to museums like the Louvre, the Gare du Nord or Musee de Cluny and visits to architectural blockbusters like the Eiffel Tower, Versailles and the Place de la Concorde. But when Paris is easily accessible … the equivalent of a trip to Memphis or Chicago from St. Louis … you can cross a threshold where you’ve done the major sites and no longer feel compelled to pursue the tourist round. It’s then that you can simply wander, window shop and dine, free from cultural guilt.

Which is exactly how the Northwestern Girls spent their recent pre-Christmas weekend. We were concentrating on food, wine and whatever holiday shopping made sense given the punishing strength of the Euro. It was a blissful and relaxed weekend, though the exchange rate made it frightfully expensive.

Our base was the Hotel St. Louis – Marais, long my favourite landing spot in the city. I love this part of town, with its gracious 16^th century architecture, classy boutiques and quiet back lanes. Though adjacent to the Seine and within walking distance of most major sites, it seems quieter and less overrun with tourists than other parts of town. The Hotel St. Louis is an old townhouse with less than 20 rooms. It’s gracious, charming and has a bit of historic flair. Think B&B rather than amenity-rich hotel, however. We shared a junior suite on the very top floor. (There’s no lift here, so be sure you have the energy for long flights of stairs before booking.) The exposed timbers, cathedral ceiling and lofted gallery gave the room great interest, while the three beds (one main, one in the loft, one tucked under the sloping eaves) and modern bathroom made it wonderfully convenient. At 160 euro a night for the room, not bargain basement prices, but certainly fine value for money when split between three.

It was a great weekend for wandering. We stumbled onto an outdoor market in the Marais, filled with local producers who'd brought cheese, preserved fruits, foie gras, wines, etc. in from the countryside. Foie gras, in fact, was to be a theme of the weekend. Not only did we indulge in restaurants, but we kept stumbling into specialty shops offering samples and holiday deals. In fact, the French grasp the idea of free samples in a way still alien to the English; by lunch on Saturday we'd been offered five types of foie gras, chocolate truffles and a wide variety of wines, all gratis. How civilised. Our rambles over the weekend took us around the Place des Voges, through the M

arais, around the Saint Germain des Pres and down the main street of the Isle St. Louis. Good window shopping, as there seem to be more independent boutiques left in Paris than in London these days. But there were few bargains, so we bought little. It was only at the very end of the weekend that we made it over to the "Grands Magasin", the huge department stores with the famous Christmas decorations. Impressive lights, and window displays far better than anything in London, but still not a patch on Marshall Fields' State Street extravaganzas.

Shopping was nice, but it was eating and drinking (and the accompanying conversations) that made the weekend. Find No. 1 was Roger la Grenouille (28,Rue des Grands Augustins), a classic neighbourhood bistro in the heart of Saint Germain des Pres. If you remember enough French to know that grenouille means frog, you won't be surprised to learn that the place specialises in frogs' legs, with one normal menu and one of froggy delights. Hillary was the adventurous one, starting with a pile of legs cooked with small tomatoes, pine nuts and olive oil. Very tasty and, yes, pretty much just like chicken. I, however, was compelled to go for the trio of foie gras, featuring one slice duck, one goose, and some foie gras creme brulee. Our main course orders encompassed prawns, scallops and beef, all cooked to perfection. I can't imagine returning to Paris without coming back here.

Tied for second place were our restaurants for Saturday dinner and Sunday lunch. Saturday found us at Vins des Pyranees (25 rue Beautreillis), a bistro just around the corner from our hotel in what was once a wine importer ... ergo the name. The place came highly recommended and the menu was classic hearty cuisine; French comfort food. Yes, the French can elevate steak and chips to an entirely different meal than the equivalent in most other countries. Embrace the simplicity and enjoy. My one criticism would be the crowd. There were enough people packed cheek-by-jowl in here for me to wonder about fire regulations. Probably due to it being a pre-holiday Saturday night, but not a place to do if you're looking for a quiet, romantic meal.

For Sunday lunch, after discovering that two of our choices were closed, we literally stumbled onto Le Grand Colbert. ("Look, that place is open. It looks nice. Hey, it's in the guidebook. Hey ... it's famous.") Turns out Colbert (2 Rue Vivienne) is one of the city's classic bistros, patronised by many famous people over the years and listed as an architectural landmark. Its interiors are worth the trip alone: tall ceilings, Pompeiian wall paintings, gleaming brass fittings, impressive lamps with globes of frosted glass. You could almost forgive an average meal. Fortunately, the food doesn't disappoint either. We ate off the set menu, making this one of our more reasonable outings. The offerings are simple, majoring on grilled meats and fish, and very nice oysters, but the preparation and serving is done with flair.

French food has a lofty reputation, but it's easy to get bad meals in Paris. I know. I've had them. This time, I got lucky, and now have a short list for all future trips. Who knows. I may even get back inside a museum next time.

There's nothing like an American Thanksgiving

I can't remember the last Thanksgiving I spent in the States. It was certainly at least five years ago, and as many as 10. Given the holiday's close proximity to Christmas, traveling back for it is usually impractical if you have big yuletide plans. But this year, given the "carpe diem" motivations of my mother's illness ... and the ability to do my job from St. Louis for a couple of weeks ... a proper American Thanksgiving made sense.

I indulged in all the critical elements of the holiday. Food. Shopping. Getting up the Christmas decorations. Starting the Christmas baking. Catching up with old friends and extended family. The weather being particularly fine, I was even drafted into raking leaves at my childhood home. I may have grown up and moved on, but those damned oak trees are still carpeting the place in a thick layer of brown which must be removed. It wasn't fun when I was 13; it's not much more entertaining now. But at least I can justify it as exercise needed to stay in all the new clothes in smaller sizes that I just bought.

The highlight of the trip was the Thanksgiving meal itself. This is not a given. I am an only child of divorced parents, without aunts, uncles or cousins in town. The biggest family meal I can put together is for three; rarely does that add up to the festive expectation set by movies. Thus it was a delight to be included as extensions of the Edgar family, where five children of my generation, all married with their own progeny, and random extensions like us pushed the guest total to near 30. The kitchen was a merry production line, laughing children ran laps around the house, wine flowed and there was enough food to feed an army. The patriarch of the family has this event down to a science, clearing out the sitting room and filling it with a huge, medieval-style, c-shaped banquet table.

I was reminded, as I watched the menu coming together, of just how laden with sugars and fats this traditional meal is. Sure, the roast turkey is healthy. But we put it with cranberries and sweet potatoes that could both be desserts, potatoes lashed with cream and butter, and a green bean casserole that masks the vegetables with cream of mushroom soup and deep fried onions. And that's before you tuck into the pecan pie or piled whipped cream on the pumpkin pie. It's a weight watchers nightmare. But damn, it was good.

All this food is, of course, traditionally followed by shopping. My dad played his usual role of wingman, carrying bags and catching up with me between shops. The malls were crowded but not excessively so. I found parking even at midday. The sales were good, but not jaw dropping. Still, I managed to find enough at Dillards, Macys and Coldwater Creek to do all the wardrobe replenishment I needed.

I augmented the holiday routine with one special night out. Kemoll's has been one of St. Louis' finest Italian restaurants since it opened in 1927. (Yes, Italian. Despite the name. In the '20s, people had difficulty with tricky names like "Camuglio", so the family anglicised it to Kemoll.) Their deep fried artichokes, toasted ravioli and variety of veal dishes have marked many a St. Louisan's special nights, including mine. Last year, Kemoll's moved into the 40th floor of the Met Life building, once of the city's highest, thus adding amazing views of the riverfront and arch to the great food.

I have to admit to some flashbacks with the appetizers ... in my high school days this was the American Bar Association, and the venue for my junior prom. It was not the most pleasant of evenings, as my badly-chosen date ignored me in the early hours, then ended up snogging a classmate in my car at the after-dance party. While I was not damaged for life, it was certainly traumatic, and hadn't left me with fond memories of that room. I'm delighted to report that a fine dinner with some excellent wine, in the company of my mother and the adopted sister who's been a best friend since we were three, banished all those nasty ghosts.

As did the idea of a perfectly-chosen date waiting for me back in England. When I introduce him to St. Louis, I'll be treating him to a romantic dinner here.