Winter woes make me one of Heathrow's holiday casualties

It's a small world these days. Most of us who've chosen to live an expat existence aren't particularly bothered. Technology puts us in constant contact with our home cities and hundreds of long haul flights a day can get us home. At the back of every expat's mind, however, lurks the same nightmare. What if something happens and I can't get home when I really, really need to?

Welcome to Christmas 2010.

This was always supposed to be a big one. As our relationship got ever more serious, it was a chance for my boyfriend and I to introduce each other to the towns in which we grew up (St. Louis and Copenhagen) and the friends and family there. A chance for us to meet the remaining special people in our lives. Those people had been planning for months, lining up a whirlwind of parties, dinners and special events.

Then things got more crucial. My mother landed in the hospital after her visit in November and has been there ever since. Things don't look good. Forget the holidays. I need to get to St. Louis for her.

But God, BAA and United Airlines seem to have other ideas. Sure, it's me and hundreds of thousands of others, I know. It's not easy for anyone. And at least I'm waiting in the comfort of my own home rather than the refugee camp that once was Heathrow. But that doesn't lessen the angst, the nerves, the nail biting.

My original Sunday flight was canceled. Because I caught it soon after the cancellation was posted (2:45 am, to be precise) I was able to get on another flight. So, if I'm lucky enough to have ended up on one of the 20% to 30% of flights that has been managing to get out of Heathrow, I'm scheduled to be on my way at 3:30 tomorrow. Piers' flight, however, was canceled this morning. And with the thousands more cancellations between my re-booking on Sunday and his need to do the same today ... there were no options left before the holiday. The trans-Atlantic is, quite simply, closed to new traffic until the New Year.

So tomorrow the weather and the airline industry's coping strategies will hand me a Hobson's choice. If my flight goes, I breathe a sigh of relief as I get to my sick mother's bedside, but leave my love alone for the holiday and abandon the big plans to introduce him to my family. If my flight is canceled, he and I are together, but my mother ... to whom holidays are precious things never to be missed ... is alone on what's likely to be her last Christmas.

It's out of my hands. I'll wait for fate to decide where I'm going tomorrow, and with whom I'm spending the big day.

Imperial China's Dim Sum and the Theatre Royal's "Oliver!" top holiday festivities

With the slow creep out of recession, I was hoping to see some return to the wild old days of Christmas office party merriment. Alas, no.

I fear that media company parties at impressive London locations and alcohol-sodden agency bashes reminiscent of university fraternity raves may be consigned to history. I suspect that the recession gave them a chance to look at those huge expenditures and realise they weren't getting that much business off their largess. Instead, as with last year (see 20.12.09), holiday celebrations were limited to smaller team lunches, dinners and theatre outings. Far better for the liver but, given the quality of the restaurants in the mix, no good for the diet.

Christmas outing No. 1 (team lunch with my lead communications agency) was at The Duke of Wellington in Marylebone. A gastropub of the kind becoming classic in London: Scrubbed wooden tables, bit of modern art on the wall, big bar but clearly much more about dining than standing around drinking. There's a first floor dining room we didn't see, and I suspect that might be more in keeping with the high quality (and prices) of the food. But for a large Christmas celebration, the almost Dickensian feel of the ground floor, with its big Georgian windows overlooking classical terraces, was perfect.

The food was good (and has gotten many rave reviews in London papers) though, to be honest, on par with most other gastropubs of this type. The one wacky bit of innovation on the menu that day was lobster macaroni and cheese. Had to be tried, and was certainly edible, but left me thinking there's a reason Italians have made a rule that you shouldn't mix cheese and fish. It's just does not do either of them justice. Otherwise, hearty, seasonal food, nicely prepared and attractively served. If I needed something in the Marylebone, I'd definitely go back, but I wouldn't go across town for it.

Christmas outing No. 2 (lunch with a broadcast/media company) won the novel cuisine award. Eastern European restaurant Baltic was a perfect choice for a cold, snowy day and gave me an appreciation for how well that cuisine matches bad weather. I wasn't particularly innovative in my ordering, opting for gravlax with potato pancakes followed by beef goulash with lashings of sour cream. Talk about stick-to-your ribs food! No surprise that I was warmed, comforted and full after that (no room for dessert), though I could have used a nap. The goulash was excellent, but the potato pancakes were overdone and unexceptional; not a patch on my boyfriend's Danish version. The novelty of the place might see me coming back, however, as there were many other things worth exploring on the menu. And the range of flavoured vodkas behind the bar did make me think a weekend visit could be in order.

Outing No. 3 (lunch with the MD of one of our copywriting agencies) won the good food award. Imperial China is, by miles, the best dim sum I've ever had. It's in a tiny courtyard off Lisle Street in London's Chinatown, and first came to the notice of my host when he learned this was the place the Chinese embassy recommended for taking the ambassador and other officials when British executives entertained them. Certainly we were amongst the few European faces in the place, which is always a good sign. The procession of dishes was diverse, beautifully cooked and well spiced; I wrote down the order because I'd get the exact same again.

Prawn dumplings. Prawn dumplings with chives. Vietnamese spring rolls. Fried crispy squid with sauce. Baked pork cakes with sesame. Crispy cheung fun (a soft rice noodle roll with some crispy fried noodle in the middle). Cheung fun fried in XO sauce (fried sheets of rice noodle stir fried with bean sprouts in a spicy sauce). A veritable feast, coming in ... quite remarkably ... at less than £30 for the two of us. This place is a gem, worthy of becoming a regular haunt. Worth noting, however, that my host warned against coming here for dinner, when the prices shoot up.

Outing No. 4 (with the customer reference programme team) started at Joe Allen's and moved on to see "Oliver!" at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Allen's is unavoidable for any American expat. An American chop house pulled right out of the New York theatre district (the original sister restaurant is there), it serves American classics in a brick-walled, subterranean place just off The Strand. Its decoration wavers between theatre posters and American sports heroes, and the old guy who fires up the piano bar with sing-along show tunes is legendary. The food is good but unremarkable, with two exceptions: ribs and cheesecake. They have the best versions of both these American classics to be had in London. I wouldn't order anything else here. A rock solid, dependable spot for pre- or post-theatre dining.

The production of "Oliver!" has been getting marvelous reviews since its revival. And they're deserved. This is, of course, one of the great musicals, crowded with memorable tunes and enlivened by an exciting plot with interesting characters and real drama. The actors in this production were excellent, particularly Oliver, the Artful Dodger and the rest of the gang of boys. The sets were as much of a star as the actors, with scenery moving in and out, back and forth to give a tangible, detailed London-scape. It is, in fact, a great improvement on the film, which drags heavily in the second half. This version picks up the pace and condenses the drama, still getting all the plot elements in but not giving you time to be bored. An excellent night out and well worth the ticket price.

Though I must admit that given the darker side of the plot, I was rather surprised by all the children in the audience. I wouldn't have recommended this one for an outing with younger children. I don't remember if they spin it this way in the film, but here Nancy was clearly a child prostitute, pimped from an early age by Bill Sykes. It gives a bit more reason for her inability to walk away from him, and adds even more poignancy to the tragedy. "Oliver!" may be the heart warming story of an orphan who discovers his family and comes out right in the end, but ... in true Dickens style ... it's also an exploration of the underbelly of Victorian London and a portrait of an abusive relationship that degenerates into a horrific murder. I wonder if all the parents in the room remembered that before booking?

And thus ends a quiet but enjoyable season of office parties. Now it's time to wrap up work, batten down the household hatches and get out for the big, bi-continental Christmas and New Year extravaganza we've been planning since April. St. Louis, Chicago, Copenhagen ... here we come.

Career choice opened the door to a more spectacular English life

It was in the Banqueting House in Whitehall that my career choice was validated.

The story starts earlier and further away, on a December night in 1985 in Evanston, Illinois. I'd just aced my British history final exam. Realising that I loved the drama and personalities of the island kingdom's story more than anything else, I called my mother and told her I wanted to stay in school to get my master's degree in the subject. Mom blew a gasket. She was a teacher, you see, and immediately saw a career in history as the path to a low-paying, unappreciated career in education. Journalism was already a disappointment from the legal career she'd wanted for me. But teaching history? Horrific. "Make England your hobby, for heaven's sake. Make your career something that will earn you some money."

Now slide forward to 1998. I've followed a career in corporate communications and through stubborn persistence have gotten a post in my company's London office. On this night I'm representing us at a fund raising dinner at the Banqueting House. There's a conservative MP on my right and a government minister on my left. Luscious food is coming out of the kitchen. A chamber orchestra is entertaining us with 18th century favourites. The windows through which Charles I stepped to his execution are open, allowing a gentle breeze to come in with the whir of traffic on Whitehall. The throne of England with its canopy sits behind me, symbolically indicating the presence of the Queen, and above us Rubens' magnificent ceiling stretches. Such dinners for the country's great and good were exactly why James I had Inigo Jones design this room, and we were using it for its original purpose. When normally, it was just an empty shell gawked at by tourists.

And then it hit me. Mom was right. Had I been a historian, I no doubt would have known this room well. But would I have been invited to a glamorous dinner that brought the past to life? Hell no. Taking the corporate track was consistently getting me into places, in ways, that I'd kill for as a teacher, but no doubt be denied.

I think of that validation every time I visit this magnificent room. It is one of the most gorgeous spaces in London, and one few people have made the effort to see. Last week it was perhaps a touch less majestic than usual, as it was filled with trader's stalls for a charity Christmas market for Children in Need. Such craft fairs have become a staple of Christmas here, and offer a way to buy unique gifts from specialty producers. I had gone specifically to visit one of my favourites, Shibumi, a maker of frock coats and waistcoats in marvellously flamboyant floral silks with vivid linings. (See what I'm wearing in the photo of the post just before this one.)

This is the season for markets in a variety of historic locations. At the southeast corner of Hyde Park, just were the Great Exhibition once stood, you'll find "Winter Wonderland", a mix of gift stalls, food and amusement park rides. It looks great, all festive lights and authentic Germanic stalls. But the crowds, at least when we went late on a Saturday afternoon, were claustrophobic. A better bet is the market at Winchester, tucked into the cathedral close. The Gothic walls looming above the traders remind you that such markets have been taking place here for 1000 years or more.

Of the three markets, shopping was probably best at Winchester. Although all had roughly the same stuff. Fashion trends are clearly favouring hand-blown or fused glass jewelry, and silversmiths. Scarves and hats are copious, as are booths selling clever and colourful wooden puzzles for children. Winchester offers the best balance of Christmas decorations, clothing, jewelry, food, toys and random gifts, and this is where I got most of my shopping done. Had I become that academic, I might have visited these markets but I doubt I would have spent much. Like everything in dear old Blighty, unique and hand-crafted gift items are pricey.

Another history-drenched event enlivened the first weekend in December: The British Military Tournament. There's certainly some chance that Ellen the history teacher might have made it here, as it was big on celebrating the past and open to any paying member of the public. It was obvious, however, that the majority attending had some link to the armed forces. This is a revival of a similar event known as the Royal Tournament, last presented in 1999. It's a blaze of pomp, circumstance, marching bands and sparking uniforms. In the old days it was funded by the Ministry of Defence as part of official PR outreach. Despite great popularity, it became too expensive and time consuming to continue. Now it's back as a privately run affair to benefit military charities.

My partner, who has cause to know these things, said it wasn't as impressive as the old show. I, having little to compare it to and easily impressed by gold braid, tall hats and pretty horses, was delighted. The highlight of the show for most people was the gun race. A re-enactment of a part of the Boer War when the Royal Navy had to get guns inland to relieve a siege quickly, participants have to race a gun (as in, a medium-sized cannon on wheels, with a big, wheeled box of ammo behind it) over walls, disassemble it to swing it, and the whole team, over a chasm, reassemble it, fire a few rounds, then go back the way they came. It's impressive.

But for me, not as jaw-dropping as the musical drive of King's Troop Royal Horse Artillery. More cannons, but this time it's heavy rigs carried behind a team of six horses, arranged in pairs and with a rider on each pair, dashing around at high speed. No brakes on those gun carriages and nobody steering them, so it's a feat of extraordinary skill and quite nail biting as the various teams weave patterns and get far too close to each other for comfort. There were other mounted displays, several marching bands and a re-creation of a typical exercise in Afghanistan (complete with a model of a Chinook helicopter dropping from the ceiling to pick up the injured). In general, a big affirmation of the accepted wisdom that the Brits do pomp and circumstance well. One of the factors that made me love their history so much, no doubt.

The final quintessentially British setting of recent weeks took me to the Lansdowne. One of the great London clubs, headquartered in a Palladian townhouse just off Berkley Square designed by Robert Adam, it's unlikely my professorial alter ego would have gotten in here unless she'd followed Simon Schama into TV academe. (Which, frankly, I would have been damn good at.) Fortunately my boyfriend is a member, so I get to enjoy the fruits of his lengthy association. In this case, for a champagne tasting.

Now there's a way to celebrate the holidays. Black tie. Lovely company. The managing director of Laurent-Perrier in the UK talking you through five of their champagnes, chosen carefully to match each course of your meal. (Should I win the lottery, their "Grand Siecle" would become my house brand.) Good food. Like the Banqueting House, the shades of history nearby. In the Adam-designed round room, now the bar, the Americanophile Lord Lansdowne sat down with Ben Franklin and Robert Adam to hammer out the peace treaty that ended the revolution. And just like the Banqueting House, a lovely merger of the historic environment with a social event of the elegance and sophistication to match the building's original purpose. I might have made it to this dinner as a history teacher. But I think my strike rate for such things is a lot better as a corporate hack who made English history my hobby.

Thanks, mom.

Lords' star seems premature, but it was still a worthy Thanksgiving venue

Of all the many things to be grateful for this year, top of the list is the fact that my mother is still alive almost two years after a terminal cancer diagnosis, and managed to make it to England to visit us in our new home for the fortnight around Thanksgiving. That called for some celebration. So as the traditional American holiday approached, the two of us took off to that most English of spots: The Cotswolds.

We stayed for two nights at Windy Ridge, the cozy yet elegant B&B near Moreton-in-Marsh I discovered this summer. (See 27.7.10) On the agenda: A bit of sightseeing, a lot of lounging in front of the fire and one special dinner at The Lords of The Manor, a nearby luxury hotel whose restaurant was just awarded its first Michelin star.

Though an excellent meal for a price below London averages (£58 for three courses), I fear Lords was awarded its star a bit too early, as there were inconsistencies throughout. We start in the car park, where there is no lighting. On a moonless night, it was a blind shuffle to the gap in the garden wall, indicated by the lights from the manor house below. The light in the garden was burned out, so it was a good 50 yards from the car before I could see where I was going. Not a great start.

The amuse-bouche served in the bar while perusing menus was fish and chips. One small goujon of fish, a cone shaped, paper-lined glass holding three french fries and a tiny dish of mushy pea puree topped with half a hard boiled quail's egg. I've seen several TV chefs take this gourmet approach to the English version of McDonalds, and acknowledge it can be a clever way of appreciating the simple. However, if you're going to elevate such basic and familiar ingredients to fine dining, they'd better be good. Unfortunately the fish was overcooked and oversalted, and the chips unexceptional, making the pea puree the star of the little plate. In the dining room, excess salt became a theme, with the bread and next amuse bouche being so laden with it we actually had to send a message back to the kitchen to go easy. To their credit, they did, but it seemed a basic mistake at this level. My mother's main should have been hotter, and the home-made macaroni on it was flabby and leaden, obviously made by someone who has no skill with pasta. Clearly, there were some problems in the kitchen.

And yet, the highs of the meal were lofty. Start with the wine list, the first I've ever seen with an extensive by-the-glass selection that makes recommendations based on food. If having scallops, try this one. Pigeon, try that. A great concept. The dining room is a calm, elegant place of neutral tones and a few colourful pieces of modern art, presided over by an excellent staff who provided copious service, gave us lots of information about our food and chatted enough to liven up the meal, without overstaying their welcome.

A second amuse-bouche once we were at the table was butternut squash puree with candied walnuts and bacon foam; a fantastic blend of flavours and as close as we would get that night to Thanksgiving tradition. The bread tray featured a wide variety of home made delights, with onion brioche with cheese and a focaccia of sun dried tomato and garlic complementing the usual white and wheat.

As with most Michelin star establishments these days, the chef here makes a big deal about locally sourced ingredients. It's an information-rich menu, and you'll know which farm most of the stuff on your plate came from; much of it from "just down the road". I went for a particularly English meal, starting with pigeon before a main of venison. The former was done "three ways", a grilled breast, a tartared quenelle and a bite-sized pastilla. All were excellent and could have easily been expanded into a bigger course. The venison was the star of my show, however, with chocolate and port sauce and beetroot and celeriac mashes. The sauce was succulent, the meat beautifully medium rare. A perfect dish. Mom's choices were more mixed. She declared the scallops on her starter to be the best she'd ever tasted, but the sea bass main with truffle foam was only average. And, as discussed, much let down by the cold, rubbery pasta.

Moving on to dessert, the waiter brought us a lovely little palate-cleanser of vanilla and honey creme fraiche, mandarin jelly and grapefruit ice, served in layers in a shot glass like a tiny parfait. My chocolate delice that followed was exquisitely beautiful and so rich I couldn't finish, which is a rare circumstance for a chocolate lover like me. Clearly, whoever was doing the sweets was as good at his trade as the pasta maker was bad at his. I paid the £9 surcharge for Mom to have the cheese, served from an impressive board featuring 21 English varieties. A fan of really strong flavours (epoisses being her favourite), she was particularly taken with the stinking bishop and the Isle of Avalon, while of the tastes I stole, the milder, goat-based cerney pyramid was my pick.

Finally, this is a place where it's worth paying that extra bit for coffee. You get plenty for your £4.50 extra charge. First the java. Then comes a contraption like a toast rack turned on its side, stuffed with sweet, parchment-thin layers of pastry in a variety of flavours. Next, they wheel out a burled walnut casket which, when opened, reveals colourful ranks of macaroons. But you're not finished yet. One more casket arrives, this one filled with exquisite hand made chocolates. The waiters are generous with their serving tongs, thus sending me home with quite a packet of goodies in my handbag.

A fine experience on balance, with all the little extras delivering great value for money. It was a fitting Thanksgiving dinner. But they were lucky I wasn't a Michelin inspector.

Back at Windy Ridge, happily, everything lived up to expectation. The place is just as magical with frosted lawns and trees surrounding, mostly because the fire in the sitting room dances merrily away and keeps things toasty. As this was mid-week in the lowest of low seasons, we had the place to ourselves, and spent some long afternoons occupying the couches with books in hand and glasses from the honour bar nearby. Theresa's enormous breakfasts are even better when they're stoking you up to go out into the cold.

We did a tiny bit of sightseeing. Christmas shopping in Moreton-in-Marsh, a visit to the Donnington Trout Farm, a drive around Bourton-on-the-Water. But mostly, it was just about relaxing. And giving thanks for being together.