English high tea is still a celebration, though an overpriced one at The Savoy

One of the classic questions in job interviews is: "are you an optimist, or a pessimist?" Journalism school's infusion of cynicism, and 25 years of banging my head against various corporate brick walls, can incline my knee-jerk reactions to the latter. But I think this blog probably gets to the essential, more positive nature of my character.

Since the turn of the year I could have shared my anxiety over the renovation of my mother's house in St. Louis, sucking in enormous amounts of cash to bring the place up to a standard that will sell. Or the even greater worry about what happens if it doesn't sell. Back home, I could tell you how my property woes continue with expensive repairs to my old house in Datchet, now rented out. I could moan "why me" about the complete collapse of my lovely convertible, which now requires a new engine. (You may sense some stress about cash flow here.)

I could whinge quite a bit about being sick; the hair loss, the lack of energy, and the lingering chest cold that morphed into pneumonia, or the horrible pain every time nurses go digging around trying to hit one of my delicate, hard-to-find veins. I could bore you with my panic over my rapid weight gain (the combo of stress eating and no ability to exercise is lethal). I could explore the frustrations of returning to the office, especially during the nightmare of planning and budget battle season (which I will never do, of course, because I don't blog about my work). Or I could consolidate it all and tell you about the stress dreams that are coming every night, usually about being lost, late for an important date, or both.

But such gloom is not what this blog, or Ellen Ferrara, is all about. I far prefer to concentrate on the fun, cheerful, entertaining and glamorous side of life. Must have been that steady Disney diet in childhood. So today, we're going to talk about afternoon tea.

Back when I was just an eager and occasional British tourist, I had a vague idea that just about everyone in the country paused to drink tea and consume a light, sweet snack around 4pm in a civilised prelude to their late dinners. Moving here, I learned that "tea" is an alternate word for dinner for many people (especially northerners), or the evening meal you serve your kids before putting them to bed and having a proper dinner with your partner. The idea of most people, who barely have time to gulp a sandwich at their desk for lunch, stopping for a sophisticated afternoon ritual is ludicrous. The "tea" that Americans expect has been relegated to holiday afternoons or grand hotels. And the latter are usually filled with foreigners trying to capture a ritual that's only flourishing in the England of Downton Abbey and the other historical dramas that shape the rest of the world's perception far more than reality of this country.

All of which brings us to the Savoy. My visiting American had never had the full on ritual. Turns out I was lucky to get a table. Working 10 days out, on a Wednesday in low-season January, the Ritz and Claridges were already booked. (Recession? What recession?) But the Savoy had a table. I hadn't been there since its recent refurbishment, which closed the place for three years and cost the new Fairmont Hotel group owners more than £220 million. Why not?

The restored and updated Thames Foyer, home to the afternoon ritual, is an architectural triumph. They've opened up the ceiling to natural light for the first time since WWII, filling the central space with a gazebo topped with a stained glass dome, all modern but channelling Edwardian elegance. The room is finished with subtle, classic Georgian decor and generous couches and arm chairs with more of a French feel. It's elegant, sophisticated and you can comfortably settle in for hours.

The tea itself is less impressive, both in experience and taste. Even with the finest of ingredients, I figure the per-head wholesale cost for high tea can't be more than £7. We're talking a couple of scoops of gourmet tea with some hot water; a variety of narrow finger sandwiches with the crusts cut off (generally an allowance of one complete sandwich per person, if you joined up the strips); scones with clotted cream and jam (generally

two each); a variety of gorgeous, mini French pastries and thin slices of cake (about four per person). Even adding in a percentage of staff costs, running costs for the building and the salary for the pianist, you're still making a hefty margin. Because tea in any of the grand hotels is around £40. Add a glass of the heavily promoted champagne, and the tip, and you're crossing the £60 mark.

All of which means this is about the experience, not the meal. It's likely to be for a special event. Given those dynamics, I expect perfection, especially from the service. The Savoy tries, but is not up to standard. The food is average. The sandwiches were the traditional fillings, thinly spread, unremarkable ... and I even tasted a few slices of bread that might have been approaching stale. The scones were fine, but I've had far better in many a countryside tea garden, and the pots of both jam and clotted cream were too small. Sure, you can ask for more, but then you have to wait on the staff. (More on them to come.) The pastries and cakes were the best of the offerings, but this quality is easily bought in from a range of French patisseries in London. I must commend them on having a more savoury tea for the less sweet-toothed, which cut out the scones for scrambled eggs and salmon ... though I wondered why they didn't make the substitute for the much sweeter pastries.

Most impressive on the culinary front is the tea menu itself, which featured multiple pages of beautifully-described exotic teas. It's no wonder part of the renovation is a new tea shop, given that most of this stuff isn't generally available.

Service is genial and, as we've come to expect at every level of London establishment, foreign. Everyone's English was excellent, but nobody got any points for speed. Glasses of water requested while perusing the menu took ages to arrive. We ordered champagne, which seemed to be a signal to the staff to hold back the pots of tea until our glasses were empty. Meaning there was still no sign of the tea to go with the scones, which is about the only food on the planet with which this confessed coffee preferrer thinks the stuff actually works well with. We finally had to ask for it, and our different pots arrived and were poured at different times. Sure, there were five of us, but as this variety is the point of high tea and they had plenty of staff, this shouldn't have been a problem. The more savoury tea was a lovely idea, but they didn't coordinate its serving with the traditional one, meaning Piers was lagging far behind the sweet-toothed girls and had to call over the staff to get two of his four courses started.

Since I know the majority of my payment is going to service, I have to put the Savoy far down my value for money scale. Seeing the restoration was worth it, and the company and occasion (a reunion of our bridesmaids) made for a delightful afternoon, but I'm not setting foot back in the place unless someone else is paying. My own cash ... with more extended reservation time ... would go to tea at Claridges, which impressed me when last I indulged and recently won one of the papers' best tea in London award. And I wouldn't mind trying the Ritz, though I expect to be surrounded by Americans and Chinese. I haven't been since my first London trip in '82, when the then-£20 fee (now £42) was a painful sacrifice. But it served as dinner, and it had to be "done" to say I'd had the full London experience. I can't deny it. That early foray into the sophisticated luxury of one side of English life, no doubt, influenced my desire to move here and the entertainment choices I've made since.

Clearly, my tea cup is ... and has always been ... half full.

Locatelli's back on form, while L'Ortolan gives culinary cred to Reading

It's a rare and wonderful thing to hit two Michelin-starred restaurants within a week. Something I haven't done in years, and something quite unexpected while still working quietly from home while dealing with the chemotherapy. But the motivation mounted: I wanted to pamper my visiting friend, I had a coupon and I got a sign from God.

Anne, the closest thing I have to a sister, returned to London after the whirlwind tour of serving as my matron of honour for the wedding. This time, it was to be all about R&R, and her birthday. She wanted to look after me and have a quiet life, reading, watching TV and generally relaxing. A very far cry from the action-packed, pressure-driven life driven heavily by a 3-year-old back in St. Louis. Toddlers, I have been told, aren't really conducive to relaxation. Much less to high-end restaurants. So I thought we'd lay it on thick.

For Anne's birthday, we started at Nirvana Spa, which I've joined since that great outing with my bridesmaids in September. (See 14.9.11) We soaked in the hot jet pool, napped on the heated ceramic lo

ungers in the twilight-lit, Morroccan inspired fountain court and had a dainty ladies' lunch. The virtue of which was undermined by a shared bottle of Pinot G

rigio. Then it was off to the nearby one-starred L'Ortolan, which had sent a five-course for £45 invitation out to all spa members. How could one say no?

L'Ortolan occupies a charming old vicarage house in a village on the outskirts of Reading. It's not the kind of place you'd expect to find such high end cooking. (Reading would never make the "exclusive" list and the village of Shinfield is isolated and otherwise entirely residential.) The restaurant has maintained the feel of a private house; you enter into the staircase hall, turn right for the bar which extends into the conservatory, left for the restaurant that occupies the rest of what were once the lounges. Upstairs are three private dining rooms and I sense from the website that they do a roaring trade in small special events.

The food is solidly in the modern, French-inspired gourmet range, with innovative pairings, exquisite presentation and all the latest cooking trends. We went for matching wine flight, which of course blows the value-for-money curve, but is always my preferred way to do a chef's menu. Especially when you have a good sommelier, as this one was, who's ready to chat about the pairings.

We started with confit salmon (cooked "souvide", of course. Can any chef resist the slow water bath at the moment?) with olive oil jelly, beetroot, pink grapefruit and liquorice oil. I know, it sounds like a bizarre combo, but it worked well. Brought together by an Austrian Grüner Veltliner. Yes, I know this variety. But only as the fruity, somewhat raw stuff you drink in tankards during new wine celebrations in the taverns of Grinzing. Usually at some stage before climbing on top of the table and pretending to be able to sing in German. This one was sophisticated and well balanced, making the grape worthy of further exploration.

Next, the foie gras course, with white wine jelly, raisin puree and smoked duck. Could have had seconds. Served with a gewürztraminer that was drier that the usual foie gras pairing, but held up ... perhaps

because the jelly and the raisins were bringing in the sugar from elsewhere. Next onto skate for a main course, layered with chicken mousse and watercress panna cotta, dressed with samphire, brown shrimp and cockles in their exquisite little shells. An elegant dish, made more so by the white Burgundy from Saint-Veran that gave off a wonderful little hit of peach on the first nose.

Then came a cheese course. Not the traditional cheese trolley wheeling up for your choice (though they have one of those as well), but the chef's selection of a blue cheese and a small goat's cheese parcel rolled in hazelnuts. Served with a very agreeable port that made Piers, the evening's designated driver, quite glum he couldn't indulge. Finally a plate of rhubarb multiple ways for dessert: as compote, ice cream, crisp and poached. Served with an Asti moscato, the first sparking dessert wine I've ever had, but it won't be the last.

At just a 25-minute drive from the house, L'Ortolan is worthy of note as a local "special event" restaurant. The problem, of course, is that it is a drive, meaning one person will always have to forgo the wine. But, unlike its London fellows, they do seem to do more deals to bring in the diners. One to keep an eye on.

That was meant to be the big treat of the visit. But with my chest cold refusing to clear, my oncologist had set up a day of tests, culminating with a visit to a chest specialist, the afternoon of Anne's arrival. The plan was to pick her up at Heathrow, drive into town, do the medical stuff, meet up with

Piers for dinner and drive home. Giorgio Locatelli's new cookbook and series inspired me to call the restaurant, which isn't too far from the medical crowd on Harley Street. He's always booked months in advance, but there might be a cancellation... And sure enough, there was my sign from God that he wanted me to give Giorgio another try: a table available at 6:30.

I'm delighted to report that Locatelli's is back on form, after the disappointment there last year that saw it slip from my No. 1 slot. (See 21.5.11) Anne and I started with the papardelle with wild boar sauce, which really is one of the supreme winter comfort foods of the Italian kitchen and exquisitely done here. Piers went with an equally satisfying pasta with wild mushrooms. It was definitely a winter menu and we all opted for comforting, warming main courses: rabbit, veal, venison. All beautifully cooked, with highly flavoured sauces served atop decorative yet delicious sides. And, unlike most French-based Michelin starred places, these are plates substantial enough that you're challenged to finish them. The sommelier was on hand to recommend an interesting and moderately-priced (for this wine list) Puglian red that had all the deep fruit we needed for our respective meats.

There were no cannoli to tempt me to disappointment on the dessert menu. I went surprisingly simple (and at £5,50, the bargain of Giorgio's menu) and went for the ice cream. The pistachio here is a real standout, made, so I read in the new cookbook, from nuts from Bronte that are considered the best in

the world. If the gelato was anything to go by, it must be true. Anne was duly impressed by the Locatelli classic cheese plate with the matching honey pots. Piers, however, was let down by the tiramisu, which was beautifully served in an oversized martini class but not enough of anything besides delicately flavoured whipped cream to make much of an impact.

Overall, a delicious and deeply satisfying meal. But does it put Giorgio back in my No. 1 spot? Probably not, I must admit. Not because of quality of food or service, but on the value for money scale. Regular readers will know I've increasingly become a fan of the tasting menu. Let the chef direct you, and graze over a variety of five or six smaller courses to experience a complete culinary picture. Locatelli's does not do, and has never done, tasting menus. You are on your own for three courses. Or, if you really wanted to push the boat out, you could do the traditional Italian four, with antipasti, pasta, main and sweet. But the servings here are large enough to make that rather excessive. And expensive. Three courses and with generous wine at Locanda Locatelli will cost you about the same as a tasting menu and wine flight at other places, and while Locatelli's place scores high on the satisfaction and comfort index, it's not the rounded experience that a chef's menu might give you.

I still have to ask myself ... if London had better Italian restaurants overall, would Locatelli's be so exceptional? And able to charge such a premium? While I have not had any better Italian in England, I've had plenty of equivalent meals, for much less, in the Italian countryside. Given the cost and time of travel, however, I suppose Giorgio nets out OK if you consider him not just a meal, but a quick trip to Italy. He's still in my top five.

Random musings from the sick bed

What an odd 11 weeks it's been. Time seems to have flown as quickly as ever, despite the fact that I've spent most of it in bed or on the couch. Free of corporate politics, deadline pressures and a packed social diary, you'd think time would crawl. No. Life continues upon its rapid pace, but with a different focus. A more esoteric focus, perhaps, as my waking hours have mostly drawn in to books, TV and the internet, as anything more active than a short walk is just too much effort.

Here are some random observations from my sedentary life.

I shall be slower to bash the long-term unemployed.

Though few people will be so vocal in front of strangers, get any group of middle class professionals going on the long-term unemployed, or, indeed, on most people on benefits, and the attitude is pretty harsh. Why don't they just get a job? Easier said than done for many reasons, but after 10 weeks off sick I realise it may not be because they're lazy bastards, or because there are no jobs out there. It may be that their minds have atrophied beyond the ability to embrace a work ethic. Work is no different than a tough gym workout. Do it every day, you get used to it. The longer you lay off it, the more alien it seems. I'm back to work this week ... part time, as I have the energy, and on background projects ... and it is HARD.

Concentrating on a tightly-packed, activity-mandated eight hour stretch after weeks of complete freedom is a challenge. The bad bits of the job look worse, and the challenges steeper, after time away. How much more difficult if approached after a long break, when real fear would have built up about whether you could handle such things. The brain is like a muscle, responding best when trained to handle certain tasks. If you've allowed it to go stale for a long time, the re-entry would be difficult, if not impossible. Of course, my brain's far from dead. It just hasn't been thinking about anything modern or corporate. Instead...

Tolkien deserves his reputation, many of his imitators do not.

The first thing on my reading list, with weeks of time stretching before me, was The Lord of the Rings. These are perhaps the most critical books of my husband's formative years, and he still finds joy in re-reading them, and in a role-play version of the world on line. I've always been more of a Chronicles of Narnia girl, never making it past the mid-way point of The Two Towers back in high school. But I've enjoyed Peter Jackson's films and read plenty of fantasy indebted to Middle Earth, most notably George R.R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire, of which I am an avid fan. So, in order to fill in a shocking gap in my core reading, and to bond better with my husband, it was time to knock off the whole trilogy.

It deserves its magnificent reputation. I don't think I was old enough on my first attempt, thus got bogged down in the gloom of the second book. But it really is a delight, and so obviously the mother of a genre. The complexity, the depth, the rich characterisation are all so much better than much of what's being written now. I emerged with not only an increased respect for Tolkien, but for Peter Jackson, whose accomplishment of putting together the films is even more obvious after reading the source material. Ditto my admiration for Martin who, on close examination, does indeed deserve all those comparisons to Tolkien. Sadly, modern writer Christopher Paolini doesn't fare so well.

My next book after LOTR was Inheritance, the fourth and concluding book in the series he started with Eragon. Having read the first three, I was compelled to wrap it up, but it was a trial. Maybe I wouldn't have been so hard on it had I not just emerged from Middle Earth. But it was badly in need of editing, far too derivative of Tolkien's original and just plain boring. Why his publishers didn't force him to combine books three and four and wrap things in a traditional trilogy, I'll never know. (Well, yes I do. Profit.) The fantasy genre in the hands of masters like Tolkien and Martin is worthy literature; Inheritance was just painful.

I finally understand Thomas More

I've been balancing my reading with a steady diet of BBC documentaries, fed up on demand on my iPad via iPlayer. One quirky little show was on the education of his daughter, Margaret More, using her as a focal point for looking at the details of a humanist education of the 16th century. (Arguably, one of the best ages for a liberal arts education ever.) The presenter emphasised that Cicero was an almost sacred text. Everyone would be familiar with him, and every lawyer would know him intimately as one of the founding fathers of the profession. Which triggered a revelation for me. I've never been able to fully understand More stubbornly sticking to his principles, leaving his family behind and going to the scaffold in opposition to Henry VIII's marital and church manipulations. But if you're a Cicero worshipper, it all falls into place. Just like the great Roman, you're taking a stand against tyranny. And like him, your stand will take you to a noble death. More was following a historical precedent established and well known by all those who shared his education.

Maybe I do want to visit Jerusalem

The Holy Land has never even approached my top 20 travel destinations. To say I had no desire to go there is an understatement; I'd probably actively avoid it, given how many other destinations in the

world I'd find more interesting. Why, in that area alone Petra, the crusader castles, the ruined city of Palmyra or the beach resorts of the Red Sea all seemed a far better use of time.

I can thank Simon Sebag-Montefiore for getting me to re-think my opinion. His three part history of Jerusalem on the BBC was absolutely fascinating, liberating the city from religious hyperbole and modern strife, instead putting it in a historical context as a city drenched in the culture, stories and architecture of many notable societies. I was so captivated I downloaded the accompanying book and tore through it at high speed. It is an epic story filled with scores of fascinating characters, the majority of whom you've probably never heard of. The Caliph Hakim (aka the Arab Caligula) and the crusader Queen Melisende could both carry their own feature films. Architecturally, Sebag-Montefiore goes beyond the look at the usual religious sites to introduce a layered city where most buildings combine notable architectural elements from a variety of great empires. Of course, it's a tragedy as well, the most illuminating thing in this history being the fact that over 3,000 years more bloodshed ... and far more lost opportunity ... has come from arguments within religious groups than between them.

So if someone wants to drag me to the Holy Land in the future, I won't be so reticent. As long as I have my copy of SS-B's book on my Kindle to lead the way.

Giorgio suggests Sicily has arrived

One of my best Christmas presents was Giorgio Locatelli's new cookbook, entirely devoted to Sicilian food. That a Northern Italian, Michelin-starred chef would write what's essentially a hefty love letter to Sicily is a surprise. One compounded by his new television show on the BBC, where he wanders the island with his mate Andrew Graham-Dixon, art historian and Caravaggio expert. (Two intelligent, sexy, middle aged men wandering around Italy indulging in art and food ... this is pornography for the cultured woman.)

On my first trip to Italy, I spent the summer with a wealthy family outside of Milan, who shared their class' horror of Sicilians. Lazy, useless, a drain on the national economy ... take every bad opinion of ghetto dwelling American blacks, transpose it to Italy and you have the opinion. I kept my mouth shut about my origin. If Europeans went to Sicily at all, it was to get cheap beach villas, ignoring the poor ... and perhaps even dangerous ... inhabitants. The new cookbook and the TV show indicate a sea change. Europeans are looking at Sicily seriously as a cultural destination. The mafia is a spent force and culinary exports are highly prized. Looks like it might be time to be proud to be Sicilian.

PD James brings Austen back to life

Another favourite book of my sick leave was Death Comes to Pemberly, crime writer PD James' homage to Jane Austen. James takes Pride and Prejudice and extends it, with such literary dexterity in the early chapters you'd swear you were reading an actual Austen manuscript someone had just unearthed from her Hampshire attic. Many people have attempted Austen sequels, and I've read a fair number, but I've never read one that captures both the tone and mood of the original so well. Of course, James being James, our plot soon becomes a murder mystery. It's not the trickiest of plots; I'm not sure a fan of the crime genre would be that gripped. But it's enough for any Austen fan to delight. Particularly as James doesn't just bring the former Misses Bennett into the action. References to characters from other Austen classics waft through the plot, giving you a delightful sense that this is a real world, where all of those classic characters co-exist and might, on one eventful night in Bath or London, actually bump into each other at the Assembly Rooms. As with the TV show described above, this was so good, it too can be described as pornography for the cultured woman. Or just the literary equivalent of a very large box of Godiva chocolates. Pure bliss.

The Frette sheets are worth every penny

And finally ... I've always considered bedding to be an important investment. After all, even when you're healthy, you're spending at least a third of your life there. So I've never had an issue investing in the Hungarian goose down pillows and duvets, the high thread count sheets and the best blankets. But, admittedly, over the years I have wondered if the £300 I laid out on my various Frette sheet sets were worth it. I mean ... it seemed reasonable to me at the time, I got all three sets for at least 50% off ... but more than a few people's jaws have dropped at the price tag for sheets. (Not my mother, bless her. Joanlee knew a bargain when she saw it.) The oldest of those sheets is now a decade old, and still like new. And you know what? Given the amount of time I've spent in bed the past three months, that cotton is more than just a sheet. I sink into the crisp, heavy, cool luxury, settle my now chemo-balded head into that hungarian down, and feel like I'm in a 5-star hotel somewhere very far away. Not in suburban Basingstoke, fighting chemo side effects and a chest cold and watching time go by until I finally feel human again. Yup. That's worth the money.