If you don't slip on that ice, there's plenty to see in Iceland's short days

Iceland is the land that health and safety forgot.

Not for this sturdy Nordic land are legal warnings about the dangers of hot coffee or slippery roads.  Weather closures?  Don't be silly.  Iceland stays open all year, despite the dark, snow and ice.  Drive.  Hike.  Climb behind a waterfall.  If you're stupid enough to slide into a ditch, slip and break a bone or plunge to your death off an icy trail, that's down to your own lack of common sense.  The Icelanders, after all, are all indoors having a soak at their community hot water pools.

We managed to fit a fair amount of exploring into five days, with the only casualty being a badly jammed kneecap when, despite taking great care, I wiped out on a sheet of ice that covered the car park at the Reykjavic Saga Museum.  But, really, it was just a matter of time.  Pretty much every car park, pavement and side road in the country was a skating rink.  (The notable exception being the Blue Lagoon which, one assumes, has such an enormous flow of foreign tourists they feel the need for more thorough clearance.)

There is no bad weather; only inappropriate clothing.  If I ever do Iceland again in the winter, I'll be going with slip-on crampons to slip beneath boots with much better traction than the fashionable but useless version I took along.  I'd made the mistake of anticipating lots of snow, which any time spent looking at average temperatures would have told me was a mistake. Thanks to the Gulf Stream, the whole country hovers, on average, a degree or two on either side of freezing all winter.  This, inevitably, leads to a world wavering between water and its frozen form.  It is, after all, called ICEland.

So why in the world did we head to this treacherous, real-life version of the Frozen set in the depths of winter?  Two reasons:  northern lights, and one of the most spectacular New Year's Eve traditions in the world.  We did indeed see those magical lights, and the turn-of-the-year festivities lived up to expectations.  More on those in the next entry.  But, even for the most ardent, that's less than 12 hours of activity.  How do you fill the rest of the trip?

Sightseeing is possible, despite the fact there are just over four hours of daylight at this time of the year. In Reykjavic, they just get on with things in the dark.  In the countryside, you time your visits so you're driving to and from your destination in twilight, saving the sun for the sights.  Although "sun" is a relative term.  Low on the horizon, screened most of the time by thick banks of clouds, the light source is less sunshine and more a murky, pearlescent illumination.  The landscape was dark rock peeking through drifts of snow, mediated by tones of grey and the occasional fungal green.  It's like living in a black and white film.

But a very, very dramatic one.  We spent three days on the south coast, where imposing volcanic peaks drop into strips of flat, water- and glacier-scrubbed fields before black sand beaches give way to plunging surf.  Waterfalls plummet down cliff faces.  Meandering streams cut stark deltas, free of any grasses or trees as they flow to the sea.

Our south coast highlights:
Seljalandsfoss - Conveniently located within sight of the main road, you can't miss this one.   Its great claim to fame is one that needs warmer weather:  stairs at either side give you access to a cavern behind the falls.  At this time of year the way is completely iced over, so we just gazed in admiration at the power of the water thundering off the cliff.

Skogafoss - A little further back from the road, but another one that's easy to drive up to, wander a few steps and admire.  Like the one above, it's another wide, straight, thundering fall from a cliff edge above.  This one is in the back of a valley, however, so a touch more picturesque.

Vik - Hard to believe, but this tiny hamlet of around 300 inhabitants is the biggest population centre on this stretch of coast.  It's raw nature with a few farmsteads for 50 miles in either direction.  Thus the petrol station, restaurant and small woollen mill here are a big deal.  For the best sight, however, you leave your car and walk a couple hundred yards out to the beach, where the dramatic stretch of black basalt sand with atmospheric basalt pinnacles rising out of the waves offshore has featured on lists of the 10 most beautiful beaches in the world.  And the drive into Vik from the west, sweeping around a mountain pass with spectacular views before descending back to the coast, is equally dramatic.

Gamla Fjosio - This little restaurant sits in that wilderness to the west of Vik, not far from the visitor's centre for Eyjafjallajokull.  That's the tough-to-pronounce volcano that shut down air traffic across Europe in 2010.  The visitor centre is a barn with some photos and information boards inside, on which we decided not to lay out £4 per person to explore.  I'd rather put it in this place.  A homey, barn-like interior with no more than a dozen tables features a simple but tasty menu, all based on the cattle from the farm here, and served by the family.  My "volcano soup" (spicy beef and vegetable) was a tasty and warming starter, while Piers' cured beef had him asking for recipe tips.  We went on to a steak sandwich and a burger, both very good.  The drawback, like anything in Iceland, is price.  This very simple lunch with a couple of drinks each came in at £30 per person.


Our Reykjavic highlights:
The Cathedral - I admired the building on my visit in 2013, but discovered two new aspects this time.  First, the tower is pierced and illuminated, giving a filigree effect in the dark.  Which is, of course, most of the winder.  Second, you can take a lift up the tower and then it's a short climb up to a viewing platform below that filigree.  The views over town, shimmering in the pre-dawn half light, were magical.

The Saga Museum - Calling this a museum is stretching the point.  There are no historic artefacts here and it's not particularly scholarly.  Think Madame Tussaud's does Icelandic history.  Pay your money, get an audio guide and

walk through a series of sets in which life-sized wax figures act out some of the high points from the first settlers through to the religious reformation.  It's good context for understanding the history, if not awe inspiring.  A side room where you can dress up in Viking costume, complete with chain mail, helmets and weapons, is that little extra that makes admission worth while.

The National Museum of Iceland - Once you've gotten the cartoon strip version at the Saga Museum, come here for the real stuff.  Precious artefacts from settlement through the modern age.  A tiny votive statue of Thor, an intricately carved medieval church door, local silver production, native costume, and much more.  A horrifically ugly building on the outside, but indoors its elegantly designed and everything is well displayed.  If I could re-do my 2013 trip, this is the one thing we would have seen in town.

The Blue Lagoon - Pretty much as I described it the last time.  We went on New Year's day, however, and this was probably a mistake.  The crowds were substantial, even with our pre-paid vouchers, so we forked out an additional £30 per person to skip the queues and upgrade to a premium package.  That gave us a couple of free drinks, gown and towel rental, and a booking (only) in the restaurant.  Another expensive lunch, albeit in more elegant surroundings that the Gamla farm.  The high-ceilinged room looks out through glass walls at the steaming lagoon and the Icelandic specialities are beautifully presented, but the service isn't particularly attentive.  We advised the staff about Piers' tomato allergy, and discussing menu choices, they then thoughtlessly served up sun-dried tomato bread.  Which, fortunately, he didn't eat too much of before we realised what that subtle flavouring was.  I'd return to the lagoon any trip, but not on a holiday and probably not for the restaurant.

'Tis the season to be very, very busy. Here are the highlights.

Even without all the pressure at work, it would have been challenging to do all this stuff AND write about it.  Your correspondent only has so much discretionary time.  Here's a summary of the best holiday events.

Winchester Christmas Market - It seems that England now has almost as many "European-style" Christmas markets as the German holiday heartland its copying.  It's Winchester that's become my holiday tradition.  Just half an hour south of our house, good park-and-ride that's free on Sundays, excellent variety of craftspeople and an achingly picturesque site tucked in the shadow of one of England's most beautiful cathedrals.  Stall holders are either craftspeople (particularly fertile ground for silversmiths, glass artists and weavers) or purveyors of unusual gift items.  I almost always find things for those hard to buy for people who seem to have everything.  And if you can't find something here, the town beyond still boasts a satisfying number of independent shops.

The Christmas Balls - This was the year when "Strictly Come Dancing" took over the party scene, forming the theme for both black tie events I attended.  My husband's military gang extended an alumni invitation to their annual gig.  Organised by serving soldiers and put on in their Territorial Army HQ, it has a sweet dance-in-the-gym feel that evokes memories of high school.  Made much more sophisticated by a military chamber orchestra playing for us over cocktails.  After dinner, a couple of Strictly stars did three display dances, then gave a cha cha lesson.  Which, much to my surprise, got most of the room on its feet.

The Women in Advertising and Communications London (WACL) ball was in a different league, as you'd expect of a major fundraiser organised by female execs who run events for a living.  The ballroom of the Savoy has always been one of London's better venues, and is now looking magnificent after the grande dame's three-year, £220 million renovation.  This was a brilliantly themed event, honing in on the exotic South American end of ballroom dancing.  A troupe of Brazilian Mardi Gras performers welcomed us and ended cocktail hour with a boisterous drum procession into the dining room, where they showed off their capoeira moves before leaving us to eat a three-course Brazilian dinner.  Another pair from TV's Strictly showed up for a tango and pop artist Ellie Goulding dropped by to sing a few hits.  The WACL organisers certainly know how to warm people up for a charity auction; the pounds were flowing.

The Montcalm at the Brewery, London - This quirky, modern boutique hotel is worth considering for anyone who needs to be in The City (we booked it for the military ball) or simply for someone who's after a more unusual London base.  Lord knows it's well off the tourist track, on a quiet street in between the Barbican and Moorgate; the area is a ghost town on weekends.  Which means you can get some deals on the rates (and street parkng).  The hotel links several buildings in what was once the Whitbread Brewery, a late-Georgian model of mass production.  Thus you get picturesque, historic exteriors and hip modern intetiors.  Lots of black and grey, exposed stone, modern sculpture, a waterfall dribbling down a lobby wall, etc.  In our room, a glass panel separated bathing area from sleeping.  You could lounge in the tub and watch TV.

Bombay Sapphire Distillery Tour - This wins my vote for best new tourist attraction in our area in years, and is sure to be somewhere I bring visitors repeatedly.  Bombay has spent a fortune refurbishing the Georgian mill on the river Test that made paper for British banknotes in the Victorian era.  It's a gorgeous, rural spot about 20 minutes south of Basingstoke and would be worth a wander for the architecture and surrounding woodland and riverscape alone.  The distillery tour is well organised and cleverly scripted, but rises above the average in three ways.  First, there are two modern glass houses in the middle of the complex where you can see the botanicals used in the gin as they grow in nature.  Second, there's a room of scents where you have a sniff off all those botanicals, in several forms, punching a card to indicate which you like best.  Finally, you end up in a cocktail bar where they whip up a drink for you based on the aroma profile you selected.

Ming: 50 Years That Changed China - I didn't get the chance to linger with an audio guide in this latest British Museum blockbuster, but I did wander through twice.  The show focuses on a time period roughly analogous to the English Civil Wars when China was, arguably, at the height of its artistic flowering.  The items here ... many never seen outside of China before ... present an elegant, sophisticated and advanced society of achingly good taste.  Not only is all of this stuff beautiful in its own right, but you can see influences on style to the present day, particularly in the pottery and painted scrolls.  There are sumptuous Imperial robes, beguiling portraits, haunting temple figures and fascinating weapons and armour.  I was particularly intrigued by the lacquer furniture which, when displayed alongside an explanation of the complexity of the process, is awe-inspiring.

The Christmas Films (The Hobbit, Paddington) -In our Tolkein-obsessed household, the release of Peter Jackson's final Middle Earth saga was always going to be a big event.  My husband had a few quibbles with just how much artistic license Jackson's team took with the plot, but on the whole enjoyed it.  As did I.  Which, given the fact that at least 65% of the film is fight scenes, is an accomplishment.  It would have been easy to slip into boredom, but the characterisation and magnificent sets held my interest.  Paddington required a small friend for admission and was a sweet, innocent, funny joy.

Italian trio (Luce e Limoni, Tartufo, Ciccheti) captures holiday dining prizes, Brasserie Gustave offers French respite

December is always a madcap month;  Inevitably the busiest for the social diary, this year it also coincided with a particularly awful time at work requiring dedication to the first half of my work/life balance.  Ergo, a wealth of potential, distinct blog entries are crunching down into two summaries.

Today, the highlights of the holiday dining out.  Tomorrow, the cultural and activity highlights.

Luce e Limoni - My favourite new discovery of 2014 finished the year as well as it started it.  I had two festive holiday meals here, and both parties were delighted.  Although in at least one case, vast quantities of their fine Fiano wine gilded the lily.  The large shell pasta stuffed with crab and the swordfish in a breadcrumb, herb and pecorino crust were the superlatives, but there wasn't a complaint across the two dinners.  Add great service.  I'm by no means a regular, but I have been here enough for the staff to recognise me.  They took special care not to ignore us when big groups could have dominated their attention one night, and ended our meal with free limoncello another.  True Sicilian hospitality to go along with the authentic food.

Tartufo - Another return to a discovery from earlier this year.  It's exceptionally difficult to find restaurants open on Christmas Eve in London.  Tartufo's location within a hotel (11 Cadogan Gardens) forces its opening, and its location a stone's throw from Sloane Square made it perfect for dinner before midnight mass at St. Mary's Bourne Street nearby.  The starter of rabbit rolled in pancetta was the best rabbit dish I've had anywhere, any time, and the conte di cavour was the same memorable chocolate indulgence as on my first visit.  If anything, the menu has become even more resolutely Italian, moving away from the Franco-Italian fusion that was this place's original signature.  Best of all: three courses for £35, four for £40; a steal for this part of town and probably the best value for money of any of these restaurants.

Ciccheti - This bustling hot spot on Piccadilly, just off the Circus, bases its menu around the Venetian concept of small plates of snacks they will nibble in bars on the way home for dinner.  Essentially, Venetian tapas. Meatballs, small pizzas, griddled prawns, arancini (deep fried rice balls), prosciutto, grilled vegetables, etc.  All done with a deft hand and authentic flavours.  My one complaint: there's no "assorted feast" option to make it easy for you to order a variety.  I wouldn't go back here for a formal meal ... both restaurants above are better and this place is very loud ... but it's a great concept for a large group and it's a quality find in a part of town reknown for tourist rip-offs.

Brasserie Gustave - I decided to give my husband a break from the Italian onslaught with this well-reviewed French brasserie in Chelsea.  Resolutely traditional in menu, wine list and the preparation of key dishes (steak tartare, veal diane, crepes Suzette) at your table.  My french onion soup and steak tartare were exemplary.  This is the kind of food you dream about finding in Paris, and rarely do.  The prices on the wine list, however, make this a pricey choice if you're doing a long, boozy catch-up lunch with friends; though the staff is happy to let you linger and end your lunch as the clock approaches 6pm.

Here's a local view of the madness in Ferguson

I couldn't resist penning this letter to the BBC this morning when their coverage asked "are you in St. Louis?" Yes, I am. And here's what I see.

I'm on holiday here in my home town, St. Louis, though I've lived in the UK for 14 years and am now a British citizen. It's breaking my heart that this is the image of St. Louis that's going out to the world. It's so unrepresentative and misses all the subtleties and nuances … like people judging London solely on the violence in Clapham in 2011.

Images of burning police cars are flashing around the world, but nowhere have I seen coverage of what I'm experiencing. Puzzled locals watching this madness from their living rooms, feeling unable to go out because the whole city is filled with anxiety. People who agree reform is needed, but also think the police were just doing their jobs. A whole community and local economy shut down by what's happening in a small part of it. Locals feeling a local issue is being politicised and blown out of all proportion by extremists on both sides who are coming here from out of town to leverage this situation for their own purposes.

Clayton, the administrative centre for St. Louis County, is shut down, tens of thousands of people working from home. Schools and shops closed. We were out last night for what was supposed to be a reunion of school mates to see me while I was in town … everyone was rushing to get home before the announcement. We closed the place at 8pm; they, plus every other restaurant in this suburb, closed early because there was nobody out. I shudder to calculate the financial implications of a whole city grinding to a halt.

Add captionA handful of locals still out at this usually-crowded Kirkwood restaurant watch the indictment announcement with rapt attention

And all of this for something that's incredibly localised. Ferguson is a tiny part of the St. Louis metropolitan area. Ironically, though Clayton was shuttered in anticipation of trouble, there was almost no action there. Instead, mindless thugs are looting and burning their own neighbourhood. Those are mostly locally-owned businesses, and friends tell me most of those people won't be covered by insurance because there are civil unrest clauses that get the insurers off the hook. I'd understand … though not agree with it … if the rioters went to an upscale neighbourhood and wrecked havoc with the people they perceive as oppressing them. But destroying their own neighbourhood is an act of madness. And, sadly, reinforces an opinion in this much-segregted city that people should just let the bad neighbourhoods sink beneath the problems they cause for themselves.

Few people would deny that St. Louis county needs reform. It's a bizarre and unique (to my experience) administrative set-up dating back to the 19th century when city fathers threw the borders out to the furthest reaches they could imagine, and then disassociated themselves from the poor farmers who then settled beyond the limit. Today, St. Louis County is the richer and more populous sister to the city, surrounding it like a crescent. But it's made up of scores of "towns" and "villages", each running into each other, some with 200,000 residents and independent viability others little more than speed traps with mayors. Some very rich, some very poor.

The local authorities bent over backwards last night to show how they followed the rule of law, setting out evidence and leaving no detail unspoken in an indictment announcement that took over half an hour to deliver. Those of us left in the restaurant stood in rapt attention. Then we headed home through abandoned streets to watch exactly what we expected unfold on TV. It didn't matter what the verdict was, most people believe. Troublemakers were going to kick off and cause trouble, no matter what.

Meanwhile, the world will remain ignorant of the wider picture of St. Louis. A gracious, cultured place of rich history and welcoming people. Home of the oldest cathedral and oldest continuously operating farmers' market West of the Mississippi; one of the world's greatest botanical gardens, founded by an English immigrant who modelled it on Kew; art, science and history museums that are not only of spectacular quality but … like the UK … free to all in the belief that culture should uplift all in society, not just the rich. Long home to immigrants … "The Hill" is still a vibrant Italian community celebrating those who came 100 years ago ... but continuing hospitality means the city now hosts the largest community of Bosnians outside of their home country. And rather than focusing on black people burning and looting, we can celebrate black citizens whose greatness was forged in the richness of this city: Scott Joplin, Josephine Baker, Maya Angelou, Bobby McFerrin, Arthur Ashe.

There is so much more here than the "easy" story of a segregated town, burning police cars and protest. I hope some of that gets told.

Phew. I feel better now.

GrEAT carries off the British Brasserie challenge; Holborn Dining Rooms fail badly

I've been at two restaurants in the past week that are both trying to capture the British Brasserie magic Jason Atherton does so well at the Berners Tavern (reviewed here).  A small, little-known place in Mayfair called GrEAT British succeeded far better than the more glamorous Holborn Dining Rooms, where poor service underpinned average food.

Tucked in a narrow storefront on North Audley Street between Grosvenor Square and Oxford Street, the first GrEAT British triumph is value for money.  We all had three courses, with about half a bottle of wine per person, added service, split the bill and came in at £52 each.  Which is reasonable for any good meal in London, and an absolute steal for anything beyond chain restaurants in Mayfair.

The second triumph:  it's beautiful. (See photo above.)  Though it's now been open for two years it still looks brand new, bright and elegant as a kitchen advertisement in a high-end design magazine.  Wooden panelling in an elegant pale green (Farrow & Ball, I'd guess), black-and-white tile floor, table tops made from old Victorian fireplace surround tiles.  The food comes out on custom-made wooden platters, slate tiles or elegantly-glazed hand-made pottery, sides served up in individual cast iron pots, sauces in tiny, bright copper saucepans.  Someone has put a lot of thought into the look of this place, and succeeded with panache.

Thankfully, the food matches the care taken elsewhere.  It's a resolutely British menu, with classics like fish and chips, cottage pie and sausage and mash anchoring a menu that changes to take advantage of seasonal specialities.  I think my scrumptious potted beef was the star of the starters; my husband's duck with blackberries the mains.  Warm chocolate pudding with salted caramel ice cream, hazelnuts and cinder toffee would make any sweet-loving Brit weep with national pride.  There's room for improvement:  my sausages were a touch overcooked, the opening bread basket offered just four wee slices of sourdough for the £2 charge (not enough to carry all the inspired cod roe spread that came with it) and a rather strange and irritating mix of background music (urban funk, alternative pop and discordant jazz) clashed with the soothing elegance of the interiors.  But those are fine points to move a solidly good experience to great.

Sadly, I can't say the same for the Holborn Dining Rooms, which took the place of the much missed Pearl when the Rosewood Hotel re-opened after a long renovation.  Holborn's stated mission is exactly the same as GrEAT British, but attempted on a vast scale and at double the price.  There's no denying it's a buzzy, beautiful dining room … red banquettes, marble and brass, high ceilings, imposing Edwardian architecture … filled with fashionable people.  On first impression, it's a close cousin to the Berners Tavern.  But the similarities end there.

I started with a deeply average steak tartare, meat not cut finely enough, lacking in any distinct flavours, uninspiring in presentation.  My companion's jumbo prawns looked good, but she said they were overcooked and flavourless.  My fish of the day was undistinguished, lacking flavour, accompaniment or much sauce.  It desperately needed the side dish the waiter told me I wouldn't require to make it a meal; I waited ages for the chips which were the best part of both courses.  Elsewhere at the table, steaks weren't cooked properly, food was cold and nobody could muster praise beyond average.  The sweets were the only noteworthy part of the meal, with the caramel cigar and the queen of puddings (a traditional concoction of bread crumbs, jam and meringue) both getting good reviews.

This was all further undermined by the genial, yet slow and forgetful service.  There were long gaps between courses, one diner served well after the rest of us, finger bowls to accompany the peel-your-own prawns laid down when diners' hands were already dripping with most of the course, sides delivered when the mains were almost finished.  And in a place clearly heaving with diners on expense account, ridiculously slow wine stewards who left empty glasses throughout the meal and collected them between main and pudding, when we all still wanted more.

Thankfully, the company was so good we could ignore the other shortcomings.  We had a good night despite the food and service, not because of it.  Give the Holborn Dining Rooms a pass and head to Mayfair, where you'll get the same style of food with better preparation, service and value at GrEAT British.

Berrys, BBC Food Show anchor an indulgent weekend

Truth is, most of our weekends revolve around good food and wine.  But this one was a bit more festive than usual.  I'm abandoning my husband to head off to the States for Thanksgiving week, cutting into the weekends on either side.  So I wanted to make sure our last full weekend before my departure was something special.  A kind of romantic gateway into the holiday season.

We started with a tutored tasting at Berry Brothers' Basingstoke offices on Friday, dedicated to exploring the Left and Right Banks in Bordeaux.  At £90 a ticket this is a serious investment in wine education, but it was for limited numbers (12), sold out and ... when considered critically ... worth the price.  We had generous samples of 11 wines, none of them retailing for less than about £40 a bottle.  The most expensive went for a whopping £190, some were no longer available to purchase, and £70 was a reasonable average bottle price.  Realistically, it was a way to taste wines we'd never otherwise get a chance to sample.

We both took detailed notes, asked copious questions, and … floating on a cloud of grape-fuelled euphoria … left our tasting notes in the taxi.  So I can't give you the details I intended.  Here are the highlights I remember.

Nine reds, two whites, one champagne.  The last not Bordeaux, of course, but evidently even the growers in the area reject their own sparkling stuff for the traditional.  This one was a 2000 vintage R&L Legras and here, happily, I am a cheap date.  I found it too yeasty, too bold with honey and fruit notes, and not sparkling enough.  My preference runs to drier, more biscuity sparkling wines with a simpler taste profile, most of which can be acquired for less than this bottle's £65 price.

We moved on to a white, there to prove the point that Bordeaux does produce them.  Perfectly drinkable, but unexceptional.  It's the reds the region is famous for, and that's where we spent our time.  We learned that cabernet sauvignon dominates on the left bank, where soil is stonier, and Merlot on the right because it copes better with clay, but that all good Bordeaux wines are blends.  I clearly preferred the left bank wines, finding the right too tannic and sharp.  Though, admittedly, those wines improved with the strong cheeses provided; everything here is really to be matched with fine food, not drunk on its own.

Good value Margaux
The left bank reds were all rich in black fruits, old enough for their tannins to have mellowed into magnificent complexity.  This is where the difference between a perfectly acceptable, moderately-priced bottle and a fine wine becomes clear.  With these, there were multiple scents on the nose, and when you drank, noticeable shifts in taste as the wine lingered in your mouth.  The initial hit, holding a mouthful and what you got on the finish would all be substantively different.  My favourite, if memory serves, was the 2000 Chateau Giscours from Margaux.  You'll no doubt recognise the name; Chateau Margaux makes one of the most famous red wines in the world.  This is nearby.

Berry's official tasting notes say:  "Dark ruby. Fragrant and full bodied and flattering. Solid with some lead pencil character. A big beefy mouthful but definitively left bank. This may well be good value and provide lots of solid pleasure, but it will never be subtle."  Yup.  Is that describing my taste in reds, or me?

"Good value" is clearly in the eye of the beholder; this goes for £92 a bottle.  I won't be popping up to Berry's to get a case for the Christmas table.  The tasting, however, does give you insight into how a great wine develops.  Buy the 2013 now and it's £22.50 a bottle.  Lay it down for 13 years, and you should have something akin to the pricey 2000 I liked.  In wine, as in so many things, time = money.

The food and spirits show
It's been fascinating to watch this show evolve over the years.  I first encountered it as the London
Wine Show, when we were all getting serious about understanding what we were drinking.  That merged in with a food show as attention turned to the whole picture.  The BBC took over sponsorship and now it's a festival of foodie delight, packed with celebrity chefs, cooking demonstrations and hundreds of vendors offering everything for the kitchen.

A few years ago, I remember the big trend being artisan bakers.  This year, it was boutique distilleries.  There were at least 20 scattered through the show floor, most displaying their beautiful little copper stills and the array of ingredients they infuse their products with.  Gins led the way but there were almost as many vodkas.  While fine with mixers, in almost every case these were suitable … and even preferred … for drinking neat.  The careful distilling practices stripped out the alcohol burn and left something mellow, sippable and well-flavoured.  In some cases, very well.  Toffee vodka was on several stands and was clearly a popular Christmas option.  Though with the alcohol percentages involved, dangerous stuff.

We succumbed to Black Cow pure milk vodka.  They distil the world's only dairy-based vodka from cheese whey, a bi-product from the Barbers' family dairy in Somerset. (The curds go into some tasty cheddar.)  The vodka is, unsurprisingly, creamy in taste.  And so unusual, we couldn't resist.  Our odd assortment of other shopping also included: a variety pack of Wyke Farms Cheddar; jars of crema di pistacchio from a Sicilian importer; light sparkling Japanese sake; a bulk buy on the Eat Water Slim Noodles that are my lifeline when I'd dieting seriously; Oz Clark's latest wine guide (autographed); a new pepper mill; some clever re-usable storage lids and a seriously high-end steam iron.  No, it has nothing to do with food, but we needed to upgrade and it was a great deal.

We were tempted by, but avoided:  A £959 gizmo, as used on Masterchef, that replaces your food processor, blender and stock pot; a Burgundian wine importer who let us sample his best stuff and then was trying to get us to buy more than £1000 worth; all manner of posh salamis and pork products from around the world; tempting varieties of gourmet chocolate and lots and lots of cakes.

An audience with the masters
They seem to have finally gotten the traffic flows right at Olympia.  This show was crowded, but not at the uncomfortable levels of our last visit.  Perhaps because there are now sister shows in Birmingham and Glasgow, and back-to-back sessions in several theatres draw crowds off the show floor.  For us, these sessions are what elevate this from a fun bit of shopping to an entire day out.  Many are free in theatres scattered around the hall, but the serious talent performs in an auditorium with ticketed, assigned seats.  You get to choose one show with your overall ticket purchase, and can add on more for £5 each.

We chose Michel Roux Jr. and Tom Kerridge, two big favourites in the Bencard household.  Both are exactly like their television personalities.  Roux is suave, sophisticated and elegantly confident with a constant undertone of wry humour.  Kerridge is the simple West Country lad made good, a larger-than-life, exuberant, charmingly self-deprecating man of the people.

Roux spun tales of his time as a junior chef at the Elysee Palace, knocking up Sunday brunch to satisfy Mitterand's huge appetite.  He created it as we watched:  scrambled eggs laced with double cream, served in oversized, savoury choux pastry buns, topped with slices of chicken breast sautéed in a port and veal stock sauce.  Jaw-droppingly indulgent, and it's inspired me to try my hand at choux for Christmas.

Kerridge managed a three course meal in the same time, assistants flying to finish bits and pieces for him as he kept us as entertained as a stand-up comic, telling tales of the origin and development of his two-Michelin starred pub.  I remember his eggs benedict done with lobster, guinea fowl braised atop a stew of mixed veg and potatoes, and can't remember the dessert.  I was concentrating too hard, by that point, on his announcement of a new pub in Marlow.  He's opening on 29 November, just down the street from his famous Hand and Flowers, in what had been the Coach and Horses.  (He didn't mention whether he was renaming.)  Most critically, this place doesn't take reservations, which is quite a relief for anyone who's discovered the wait for a weekend table at the original is a full year.  There's very little news about this floating about on the internet.  I suspect he's going for a soft launch to work any wrinkles out before he throws the full publicity at it.

So there's your top tip for the Christmas season.  Get to Kerridge's Coach and Horses in its first few months, before it gets famous and you have to wait for hours for your non-bookable table.

A very special Remembrance Sunday as London marks milestones

It was always going to be a special season of remembrance.

In a year that marked 100 years since the start of World War 1, 70 since the D-Day landings and the end of official British operations in Afghanistan, war and its sacrifices dominated the national agenda,  The amazing poppy display at the Tower of London, which I wrote about here, elevated awareness even more, with millions flocking to London just to see it.  Last week I rode up on the train next to a man who hadn't been to the capital in 20 years, but this was enough to draw him up from Somerset.

The icing on the cake, however, was my husband's invitation to march with veterans of his army unit in the official Remembrance Day parade past the Cenotaph, which transformed us both from observers into participants.  Him fully and me, of course, in a very minor, proud-hanger-on sort of way.

The atmosphere around London on Sunday was extraordinary.  There is a fellowship amongst comrades in arms that is extraordinary, and beyond anything I've experienced in civilian life.  They may not know each other, they may be generations apart, but they all share the same commitment to a cause and the same unique experiences.  Those of us who are related to them can share just a bit of this.  The result on Remembrance Day is like a family reunion … for tens of thousands.  Everyone smiles at each other, everyone is kind and considerate, everyone strikes up conversation easily.  (This is not London as we know it!)

Upon arrival at Waterloo, a line of taxis decorated with poppies waited to take veterans to their places, free of charge.  I accompanied Piers onto the vast parade grounds behind Horse Guards, where organisers were standing with placards naming their various divisions and organisations.  Around 5,000 usually march; this year, totals were well over 8,000.  I left him and his colleagues to their catching up and wandered about to drink in the atmosphere.

Heightened security made a sinister element to this year's events, sadly, due to terrorist threats.  Massive concrete barriers turned Whitehall into an exclusion zone; to get onto the street itself you had to wait in a hefty queue and go through airport-style screening. I skipped that and circled the route, watching viewers streaming in.  Even the far sides of Parliament Square, where you'd just glimpse a bit of the marchers turning back towards their starting point, were packed five to eight people deep.  It seemed a missed opportunity not to put screens up both there and in Trafalgar Square to handle overspill and let people participate communally.  I can only speculate that organisers were caught off guard by just how many people came to London.

I settled in for the two-minute silence at the top of Whitehall, just below Trafalgar Square.  From there, I had a glimpse of one large television screen set up along the official route, so I caught the official laying of the wreaths by the Queen and the government officials.

The silence itself is a profound experience.  To stand in what's normally one of busiest traffic points in London, amongst thousands of people, and have the world go quiet … it seems impossible.  And yet it happens.  Even cars and busses stop.  The absence of sound is so acute, it is almost a noise in itself.

And then one sound broke into my consciousness.  A grandfather kissed the top of his grandson's head.  And that said it all, really.  We gather remember those who have fallen.  But more importantly, we gather in hope that the next generation will not be called upon to risk a fall.

Between human nature, religious conflict and the global political situation, it's an unlikely hope.  But
the fact that we cling to it, despite those realities, validates the sacrifices.  A better world is always worth fighting for.

Atherton's Berners Tavern, Little Social elevate comfort food to high art

Look past all the media and marketing, and I suspect Gordon Ramsay's greatest contribution to the culinary world will actually be his proteges. I wrote about the wonderful Clare Smyth here last year.  Now, it's time to discuss Jason Atherton.

Though I wasn't aware of him at the time, it was his early genius that so impressed me the first time I wrote about Maze, and his departure from that restaurant that triggered the disappointment I recorded in my second.  Since then, he's worked his way to global chef superstardom, with restaurants all over the world.  His London anchor is the Michelin-starred Pollen Street Social, where I have yet to eat.  But in the past 10 days I've managed to dine in both of his unstarred, yet much celebrated, other restaurants in town:  Berners Tavern and Little Social.  Both were fantastic.  Though, as you might expect, neither are easy on the wallet.

Berners Tavern
London's post-recession fine dining scene has pulled back from ostentation.  Menus are still expensive, top places still require extensive forward planning to snag a table, but the stresses of recent years have favoured classics plated with flair, in dining rooms of understated elegance.

Which makes it more than a bit ironic that Atherton's "tavern" … while given a homespun name and presenting a straightforward menu of classics … is set in one of what must be one of the most jaw-droppingly showy dining rooms in London (above).  This is a place to see and be seen, redolent of another era. A massive, high-ceilinged open room, gallery-hung walls full of art, overlooked by exuberant plasterwork.  It's the kind of place where the food doesn't necessarily have to be that good, especially considering its attachment to the uber-hip, Ian Schrager-designed Edition Hotel.

In reality, it's the grand stage set that's not needed.  This food would be magnificent even in the sort of rustic, wood-panelled country spots "tavern" means in my home state.  The menu is upmarket European grill, limited choices, heavy on steaks and the catch of the day.  The descriptions don't say "fine dining", but the tastes and the plating up certainly do.  I have a simple measure for great food:  no matter how good the company, how intense the conversation, or familiar the dish … it's so good that you have to pause as the first bite hits your taste buds.  Everything else around you fades and, for a moment, all you can concentrate on is the magnificence of what you're chewing.

This was clearly happening for all four of us at the table, as each course triggered a respectful little silence followed by exclamations of delight.  I started with a steak tartare that balanced every subtle element perfectly.  On to roast monkfish with a creamy sauce.  We wrapped by splitting two desserts, an elegant eclair and a sinful layered chocolate affair in a mason jar that was all your comfort food fantasies on steroids.

Little Social
Little Social serves the same sort of food in a much cosier environment.  Here, the mood is Parisian Bistro, but clearly one in a very exclusive neighbourhood, and staffed by unusually cheerful and chatty French people.  The name comes from its big sister:  Pollen Street Social is just across the street.

Even more than at Berners, this is comfort food taken to an elegant extreme.  I could have started with the steak tartare here, and was sorely tempted to go for a comparison.  But cod brandade called:  an emulsion of salt cod, olive oil and potatoes into a thick, smooth, unctuous mash that's exactly what you want on a rainy, windy winter's evening.  Wisely, the starter portion is sized to allow you to appreciate more comfort food for the main.  In this case, the ultimate gourmet burger.  Aged Scottish beef, bacon and cheese, caramelised onions.  It is possible to have this with a supplement of pan-fried foie gras which even I, lover of that delicacy that I am, thought was a saturated fat too far.

I was tempted, however, by the restaurant's signature "poutine", evidently a Canadian speciality introduced by the Canadian head chef.  And if I were snowed in for a few months in the dark, far north, with moose and wolves beyond my door, this and a few cases of Moosehead lager would make all right with the world.  The poutine did not live up to the rare and unique billing the waitress gave them, however, as on arrival I realised they were simply what any Chicagoan would call "loaded fries".  French fries with cheese sauce, beef gravy, jalapeños and chorizo.  Just a bit of each, and all nicely balanced.  Which, once again, elevates the dish to something really special.

Having gone for much heavier comfort food here, nobody could march on to the tempting dessert menu.  We split an order of chocolate truffles; just enough to put a sweet end on things and complement the coffee without filling us up more.

Of the two restaurants, I'd probably head back to Little Social over Berners Tavern, unless I wanted to really impress someone or celebrate something big.  Both absolutely deserve their reputation, and suggest that Atherton's doing a better job of maintaining quality across his restaurant empire than many other executive chefs do.

My only complaint about both is that they're operating under the new timed table philosophy we're seeing more and more in London.  In order to turn tables twice in an evening, they're giving people strict two-hour slots.  I understand the financial drivers, and admit it does sharpen up the service, but it makes having a leisurely three-course meal a challenge.  At Berners, they moved us from our table to another in the bar for dessert.  That was equally pleasant.  But at Little Social we would have been ejected to barstools at a long bar; not so good.  So I'd avoid both of these if you want a long, leisurely catch-up with someone.  For a quick but elegant elevation of comfort food to gourmet cuisine, either of them fit the bill.

A masterpiece of ancient Rome in a Bucks stable … for just one more week

 Tucked in the Buckinghamshire countryside, for just one more week, you can see one of the finest complete mosaics of the Roman Empire.  If that's not surprising enough, get this: it's from Israel.  This is its last stop on a world tour while its new museum in Lod, near Tel Aviv, has been under construction.  If you're lucky enough to live anywhere in striking distance, get to Waddesdon Manor before the special exhibition ends next week.

What's the big deal?  There are very few mosaics from the Roman world that are this big (50 ft long by 27 feet wide) and in such perfect shape.  Other than two missing spots at one end, it's perfectly intact.  It  is marvellously beautiful.  And it conveys a sense of culture and conviviality that reminds us of just how good life could be in the Roman Empire.  Even at its edges.

This was, fairly obviously, a dining room floor.  Just below the central octagon two leopards … the standard bearers of the wine god Dionysos … hang off the sides of a large wine flagon.  The immediate message is clear: welcome, you'll have a fine time here.

If this first image promises fine drinking, the rest tells you how well you'll eat.  On one end, a dazzling variety of fish that might end up on your plate swim beneath the ships out to catch them.  On the other, a bevy of creatures of the field and forest.  Around the centre, the best of both, shown in loving detail.  And in the central octagon, an exotic scene of African animals, including an elephant and one of the earliest giraffes shown in Western art.  Its quality … in colours, in realistic portrayal of the animals, in the stylistic unity of the whole piece … is on par with the finest examples I saw in the blockbuster Bardo museum in Tunis, Tunisia (Which I wrote about here).

It's all the more interesting because it comes from Israel, someplace we don't often associate with peaceful, cosmopolitan daily lives in the Roman empire.  (Blacker episodes of a destroyed temple or Pilate's judgement are more likely to come to mind.)  Amazingly, it spent the past 1,700 years just one meter below ground level.  Experts believe it was a fluke of all four original walls falling inwards that protected the floor.  It was only another fluke, of road construction, that revealed it to the modern world.

How did it get to Waddesdon?  The manor is one of the homes of the Rothschild family in England.  Unsurprisingly, the famous family of Jewish bankers have strong ties with Israel.  This house has always been a quirky one; it's a perfect French chateau set in the middle of the English countryside.  So why shouldn't they have a perfect Roman imperial floor in their barn?

If you have nothing on next weekend, get there and check it out before it start its journey back home.

Tower's poppies best part of day of too-expensive restaurants & plans gone astray

Restaurant Reviews:  Gaucho, Tsunami

You would have to have unplugged yourself from all national and social media over the past few
months to be unaware of the poppy installation at the Tower of London.

Since the 5th of August, volunteers have been "planting" ceramic poppies in the moat.  By the 11th of November there will be 888,246; one for each British fatality in World War 1.  Officially called Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red, it's the wonderful idea of ceramic artist Paul Cummins and stage designer Tom Piper, and it is … with no exception … the most emotionally gripping piece of installation art I have ever seen.

It's effective in photos and on television, but nothing compared to the impact of seeing it in person.  If you have the chance, go.

The poppies flow out from strategic points atop the Tower's battlements, cascading down like a stream into the moat below.  Piper has worked magic, with placement that leaves subtle lines of green and undulates the flowers.  The naturalistic curves mean that you can can look closely and pick out individual blooms, or allow your eyes to go slightly out of focus and take in the vast ocean of red.  It's stunningly beautiful, drifting between the greys and whites of the stonework and the emerald green of the grass.  Until you remember what it actually means.  Every stem, a death.  All those names, on all those war memorials, accumulated here in horrific, terrible beauty.  It is very hard to hold the tears back.

It's also a fine reminder that this is fundraising season for the six major charities that support our armed forces.  This year, you can buy one of those ceramic poppies in addition to your usual label-decorating support.  More information here.

The rest of our day out in London couldn't really stand up to that.

We'd planned to wander through Borough Market and graze across gourmet food carts for lunch.  While I get this way fairly often for work, Piers hasn't been here for years.  I wanted to show him how London can hold its own against similar food markets in Paris and Barcelona.  But I hadn't counted on the weekend crowds.  It was shoulder-to-shoulder madness, with queues 20-deep at every dining and drinking option.  There may be more vendors here on a Saturday, but I'd advise the relative sanity of a weekday visit.

So we started walking up the south bank of the Thames, thinking we'd find someplace before too long. Through Hays Wharf, past numerous riverside pubs and restaurants, all were packed.  Leading us, finally, tired and starving, to the first empty table we saw at Gaucho Tower Bridge.

Really, I should pay more attention to my own blog.  In August 2010 I said of another of its branches that I'd return to any of the other restaurants I'd been to rather than "this outrageously expensive Argentinian chain … that is clearly set up to extract every penny it can out of its well-heeled clientele." I said more.  Nothing's changed.  We had nice but unexceptional steak tartare, some tasty sides, a decent bottle of wine, and spent precisely five times as much as the most generous budget I'd envisioned for market grazing.  Never again.

My plans misfired on the British Museum, as well.  With a quick lunch before the poppies, we should have been into the Ming exhibit by 3:30.  Instead, waving our membership cards for last-minute admission, we arrived just before 5.  With less than half an hour to skip through before closing, I can tell you that the show offers a beautiful range of objects and paints a wonderfully comprehensive picture of life during one of China's most culturally sophisticated eras.  It's also exciting to see how versatile the new exhibit space is, being used in a very different way than for the previous Viking show.  Clearly, I need to get back.

After recovering from all that rushing around with a pint in the Museum Tavern across the street (an old favourite), we trekked across town for the last planned event of the night.  Meeting our friends Tracy and Beric usually calls for sushi, since we're all big fans, and a good friend tipped Clapham's Tsunami as "good as Nobu, but much cheaper." Had to be tried.

Maybe it was the fault of our late lunch.  We weren't particularly hungry, and we were still in a bad mood from the sticker shock of the bill.  We found the menu overcomplicated and trying too hard.  Foie gras sushi?  Please.  Fusion can go too far.  They accidentally served us a yellowfin tartare we didn't order.  In a little mason jar, with fancy toasts and odd dressings.  All too fussy.  Meanwhile, we spotted no Japanese faces in the open kitchen, and there wasn't any option for combination sushi platters.

We ordered a satisfying variety a la carte.  A shared double order of their soft shell crab tempura was
the standout, by far.  Otherwise, it was tasty and nicely presented, but nothing special.  Had I only had the light lunch we'd planned, I'd probably have left hungry.  Our portion of the meal cost about the same as our lunch, and that was with double the wine.  Good value in comparison to Gaucho, but I know I would have been much happier pulling sushi off the conveyor belt at my enduring favourite, Hiroba on Kingsway.

Fortunately, the company outweighed any disgruntlement with the food, and the poppies made the trip into town … and all the expense … worth while.  I just wish more of that cash could have gone to services charities rather than to the restaurant bills.

Zaha Hadid dreams a futurescape I'm ready to occupy

You don't find me talking about work much on this blog.  It's rare that the world of corporate communications in the IT services industry intersects with the culture, travel, food and wine I write about here.  But sometimes, the planets come together and there's a wonderful moment when my "work" world makes my "life" soul sit up and take notice.  Yesterday brought one, in the form of a senior director from Zaha Hadid Architects.

My company was sponsoring a conference in central London on innovation.  On the agenda: "smart cities".  That's the concept that with technology and connectivity we can do amazing things to make cities better places to live.  While having less impact on the environment.  The architects were there to point out that things can look good, too.

I'd long been aware of Hadid, whose buildings regularly show up in design magazines and culture supplements.  She was the first woman to win the Pritzker Architecture Prize, and pretty much the only woman getting headlines in a thoroughly male industry.  I've only been in one of her buildings … the swimming pavilion in London's Olympic park, because most of her work is scattered around the world.  But I had an impression of buildings that were curvy, dramatic, elegant and beautiful.  In a word: feminine.

Turns out that's just the start.  The Hadid practice's philosophy is an organic, people-centric riposte to the brutalism of late 20th century architecture.  Probably more akin in its philosophical foundations to high Gothic than to Meis van der Rohe, as Director Patrick Schumacher explained in a fast-paced, intellectually rich illustrated talk.  I think some of the IT and corporate crowd were starting to drift.  I could have listened to him all day.

In Hadid's vision, social order requires spiritual order. Architecture is a force for good that can prevent a collapse into chaos.

The typical modern city, clustering streets and buildings with little reference to the unique topography around us, is creating ubiquitous urban sprawls with no local distinction.  They have no soul.  It's the natural topography that gives a place identity and order.  Schumacher used the outskirts of London as his example: "a cancerous outgrowth, identity-less."  The feature that gives it unique identity?  The sinuous meander of the Thames.  Thus Hadid's architectural prescription for modern London is round and meandering, something we saw in the aquatic pavilion.

Schumacher said this starting point creates "islands in the urban menace."  They further humanise their designs by focusing on, and celebrating, the spaces where people come together.  Entrances, atria and hallways are all big design features in Hadid buildings.  Rejecting the fashion for putting a building's guts on the outside, they clothe their work in "smart skins" which hide what's going on.  Just like a living creature.

There's no denying that Hadid buildings are boldly modern.  But this philosophy makes them human and organic as well.  Many are huge, but there's a warmth and intimacy about them.  The skin, the curves, the relationship with the surrounding topography … it all drew my mind back to the great Gothic architects, with their forests of columns branching into canopies of groin vaulting, illuminated by massive windows.  Hadid is modern, but the company philosophy is rooted in ancient truths.

Certainly, they're top of my list should I ever be called upon to found a utopian city.  And I'd love to attend a proper lecture from Hadid or one of her partners.  But for now, I'll just have to add more of their buildings to my travel "bucket list".

Familiarity breeds appreciation for Sherfield's Four Horseshoes

We are blessed with a truly fine local pub.  I was reminded of just how blessed this weekend, when we had the rare circumstance of two pub meals in one weekend.  Dinner Saturday at the favoured Four Horseshoes in Sherfield-on-Loddon, lunch Sunday at our old local, The Queen in Dummer.

The vast gap between dining at those two pubs drove home the superiority of the Horseshoes.  And prompts me to tell you more about it.  Because, frankly, it's worth a drive for non-locals to eat here.

It has all the qualities you'd expect of a proper local pub.  It looks the part, with Georgian bones, an open fire, exposed beams and a garden.  There's even a skittle alley.  A satisfying seasonal menu on top of expected pub classics like fish and chips and burgers.  But, importantly, it's not just a restaurant.  The bar opens into two rooms, and you're as welcome to drink and socialise as to eat.

Most importantly, perhaps, it's owned and run by a local couple who are almost always around.  Scott and Jules were long-time village residents when the last owner decided to retire.  Scott, seeing the place's potential, bought it and started the transformation into the gem we see today.  This summer, they did a major renovation of the interior, losing the dated elements that said "old boozer", laying wooden flooring throughout, brightening things up.  The old world charm remains, but now there's a touch of modern elegance as well.  All this means that there are, inevitably, locals in this local.  Scott and Jules remember names, everyone chats socially, and it's clearly a meeting place for the neighbourhood.

It's the food, inevitably, that gets us through the door.  (At two miles, it's just far enough to keep us from wandering by for the swift pint alone.)  We've come to depend on seasonal specialities, local game, good sauces, deftly-handled vegetables and tasty desserts, all prepared well and served with attention to presentation.  Saturday was no different.

I started with a duck and cranberry terrine served with warm brioche which, had I been restraining my appetite, would have been enough for the whole meal.  Piers tucked into the ultimate winter warmer: an enormous home-made Scotch egg (above), centre still jigglingly soft, served on a salad studded with black pudding.  Our friend Guy went a bit lighter with a line of bacon-wrapped sardines.

The specials menu was so tempting we each were deciding between three possibilities.  I don't think there was a chance to go wrong, however.  We all ordered different things, and all proclaimed satisfaction. I had my first venison of the new season, rare with a rich sauce and horseradish mash that was worth giving up carbs the rest of the week for.  Across the table, my second choice of Gressingham duck looked fabulous (and tasted so, too, in the bite he gave me).  Guy's tower of liver and onions on a bed of creamy mash actually smelled good enough that I might reconsider my aversion to this dish in future.  I ended with a slice of lemon tart, which was no doubt an indulgence too far, but I wanted something to cut the rich flavours that had gone before.   (The boys settled for more wine.)

The next morning we went clay shooting.  It was an exquisite early Autumn day: trees just touched by hints of red and yellow, clear blue skies with billowing white clouds, just a hint of chill in the air.  The view from Chalky Hill offers up a panorama of rolling, pastoral beauty. There are few things so quintessentially English as being out in this landscape, surrounded by people in tweed and Barbours, well-behaved hunting dogs at their sides, practicing your shooting skills.  Just in case you get invited up to the big house sometime soon to bring down a few grouse.  I, of course, won't bring down anything unless I practice a great deal more … although I do seem to be better with the clays that mimic rabbits.  It might be the memory of the little pests that ate my flower garden in Texas.

Such a morning pretty much demands lunch at a country pub so, being on the other side of Basingstoke, we headed for The Queen in Dummer.  When we lived nearby, this was the best gastropub in the area.  It's high on charm, and the menu looked promising.

Just like the horseshoes, there's a standard pub menu and specials on the board.  But the arrival of the food revealed a vast divide between the two kitchens.  Scallops tasted past their prime and hadn't been cleaned thoroughly, corals neither removed nor fully included.  That might have been excusable, but grinding your teeth against bits of shell was not.  Salt and chili squid had a too-heavy breading that made them look suspiciously like they'd come out of a freezer bag.  Local wild boar lacked seasoning and was let down by what was supposed to be an apple and Armagnac sauce, but was just a sweet, gloopy mess of onions.

Everything came out on the same heavy, industrial white plates, potatoes and veg piled on artlessly.  Rationally, I know presentation does nothing for the taste of the food.  But the Horseshoes has invested in new china of different shapes to show off different dishes, and dresses them with an artful tower here, or a swirl of balsamic glaze there.  It ads to the sense of occasion.  At The Queen, the plates looked no different than what you might dish up at home in a hurry.

Such a stark contrast, so soon after a fine dinner at The Horseshoes, reminded us that if we're staying local … we might as well stay really local.  Because we have something special on the doorstep.  And those of you without the gastropub of your dreams?  Climb in the car and head to North Hampshire.  We'll meet you for a pint.  And maybe the chef's tasty rabbit papardelle with mustard cream sauce.


Sadly, The Four Horseshoes lost its chef during the summer of '15 and the owners decided they'd had enough of the business. A change of management is on the cards. Until new ownership and a fresh review, this article is no longer an endorsement, but a fond memory of what a local can be.

MasterChef pop-up a fine concept that falls down when it gets to the table

If the intent of the MasterChef pop-up restaurant is to give you the feeling of being a judge ... some highs, some lows, a couple disasters, all with charming personality ... then the culinary franchise's current London offering is a success.  If, however, it was supposed to deliver a fine dining experience to match a "proper" restaurant, I fear that, at least last night, they've failed.

The concept is a fine one.  Especially in this foodie-filled capital, where thousands of prosperous professionals follow the shows with the same devotion they'd give to a football club.  (My husband and I bonded, early in our relationship, texting commentary back and forth while watching Series 6 from our respective sofas.)


Take over the top-floor canteen of a London office building with a fine view (the Blue Fin) for five weeks.  Line up 12 former winners and finalists. putting three in the kitchen at a time.  Let each trio design a five-course tasting menu.  Advertise.  Sell out in advance.  Invite diners to arrive early for pop-up bar in the roof garden with stunning views.  Feed them, while allowing them to peek into the kitchen where the stars are at work.  Have the chefs work the room a bit as they near the end of service.


But beware, MasterChef.  These aren't just regular diners.  You've self-selected a group serious about their food, attuned to culinary criticism and with high, and informed, expectations.  Expectations that neither the food nor the service lived up to.

We started with 2010 winner Dhruv Baker's spiced crab cakes with tamarind yogurt dressing.  Which didn't hit the table until more than half an hour after we sat down; we were left alone so long we thought they'd forgotten about us.  Light on crab, heavy on potato; if he'd called them crab croquetas they would have worked, but as crab cakes they fell short.  The dressing was the best part of the dish, but I felt myself channelling Greg Wallace: I want more sauce, mate!  The elegant presentation was, oddly, let down by a black plastic plate.  Was picnic-ware part of the pop-up experience?  (No, other courses were on proper china.)

The second starter, a pork and prosciutto terrine (pictured), was more successful.  This came from 2012 finalist Tom Rennolds, who many will remember as the perfectionist plasterer turned king of presentation.  Mouthfuls of chewy porcine goodness, with a lovely textural element added by the crunch of popcorn and crispy prosciutto on top.  But I hit two pieces of gristle so hard I could have cracked a crown had I been chewing with more force.  Schoolboy error.

We were excited about 2012 finalist Andrew Kojima's scallops, mackerel and sea bass with soba noodles, miso butter and ponzu.  It was exactly the kind of Anglo-Japanese fusion that made him so appealing as a contestant.  But the balance was wrong, with the mackerel overwhelming the other fish, made worse by the fact its skin was flabbily inedible.

Dhruv rode to the rescue with a main course of Achari-spiced duck with carrots and plum jus, a beautiful balance of sweet and savoury with a complexity of spices.  We wanted more.

Dessert was another high point, with two offerings on the same plate.  To one side, Dhruv's lemon, lime and cardamom tart with chai masala, another triumph of Asian fusion.  But it was Koj who pushed all my pleasure buttons with a melt-in-mouth pistachio cake with burnt white chocolate ice cream.

These were served at erratic intervals, some coming quickly and others taking so long we expected one of those classic MasterChef scenes where the contestant pops out of the kitchen to apologise for a bit of a crisis and say he needed 10 more minutes.  Perhaps the fire alarm that went off mid-meal?  Though this, presumably, only excused the timing on the fish course.

The delays gave us time to ponder the extreme youth and variable quality of the wait staff.  The table beside us seemed to have chatty fellows who explained who'd designed each dish and gave a bit of detail.  Ours just put the plates down with a smile and recited the dish name that was in the menu.  We wondered if the whole pop-up was an apprentice scheme to train up new, young talent?  If so, good for them.  But warn us so we can modify our expectations.

As the evening wound down, Dhruv and Koj wandered out of the kitchen to do some table hopping.  No sign of Tom.  Clearly, nobody had organised this.  The ideal would have been to give the three a rotation, so every table got a couple of minutes with one of the star attractions.  Sadly, it was far more casual, with them spending lots of time at a handful of tables (not ours, sadly!) and drifting away.

I'm enough of a fan of the franchise to watch out for a return of the pop-up in 2015, and I'll probably book a table.  But I do hope they work out the kinks.  I'd prefer to be channelling a bit more satisfied diner, and a bit less John and Greg.

Undersea adventures make the Maldives truly unique

The sea turtle swam towards me with a fin upraised, as if wanting a "high five".  He looked at me for a moment, close enough that I could clearly see his beaked mouth and look into his gentle eyes.  I popped my head out of the water, looking to alert my fellow snorkelers, but they were on the other side of the reef.  So I returned to the turtle, who had now started poking around in the coral below ... a thicket of what looked like stag antlers, with bright blue tips ... for a snack.  I was close enough to stroke his shell, and he wasn't bothered.  We swam along like that for a while, at peace in the quiet waters.

And that was after I'd been swimming with whale sharks.

I've been on a lot of magnificent beach holidays, but never one as good as The Maldives once you get in the water.  I quickly realised that a holiday here is much like an African safari, alternating bursts of wildlife observation with breaks to recover from your awe.  People who think they'd be bored "just sitting on a beach" are missing the point; the magic here is beyond the beach.

The unique geology of the Maldives has a lot to do with it.  If you're lucky enough to need a sea plane to get to your resort ... something I highly recommend for the full experience ... you'll see that this place is very different.  Imagine thousands of tiny islands poking their heads above swathes of coral reef, made obvious from the air because of the variations of lighter blues that differentiate them from the indigo of the deep sea.  When seen from above, you realise the reefs and islands usually comprise circles, and these smaller circles form the line of much larger ones.

Together, these make up the atolls, of which there are 26 spread over 80,000 square kilometers.  The theory has it that this is what's left of an impossibly ancient chain of volcanoes.  The peaks themselves wore down long ago, but the coral reefs that surrounded them ... which, after all, are living things ... still survive.

An aquatic metropolis

Besides making for spectacularly beautiful views, this geology has tremendous advantages for the tourist.  All these reefs break and calm the waves, so at sea level you have the illusion of being in the middle of the ocean, but it's still calm and placid as a lake.  The shallows around the islands are expansive.  From our villa you could walk out for almost one hundred yards at high tide on nothing but powdery sand, the water never much past your waist.  The sand is white, the water turquoise, and the sun above gives the surface an undulating violet sheen.  Elsewhere off these islands, however, you can put on your fins, start swimming, and be over reefs and fish in 15 strong kicks.  And, of course, all these coral reefs are a source of food and housing for a dazzling variety of fish.  For humans, this might be the middle of nowhere, but it's a piscine New York City.

Snorkel and fins came with our hotel package and, I suspect, do at most resorts.  This means that once you're here ... admittedly, an expensive proposition ... activity is free.  You can float and observe for hours without ever getting bored.

My favourites were the obscenely coloured parrot fish, usually violet with teal accents and touches of red, yellow and green.  Though I saw turquoise and burgundy varieties as well.  These odd fish, about the size of a small lapdog, have industrial-strength gnashers they use to actually take bites out of the reef.  When they're swimming as a school, you can hear them chewing before you see them.  Their digestive systems filter out the nutrients, break down what's left and excrete it as sand.  Yes, those lovely beaches are ... parrot fish poop.

But they're just the showiest guys in the neighbourhood.  You'll spot every shade of neon in stripes,
swirls and dots.  Hover over a round coral, its filaments dancing in the current like hair, and watch 200 tiny, electric blue tadpoles dart in and out.  Laugh at schools of yellow and black striped fish that look like escaping convicts.  Inspect the horn on the odd unicorn fish, who can get away with being boring black because that thing coming out of his head is so distinctive.  Gawp when the giant clams occasionally open and close their garish orange and blue lips.  After day two, you won't even pay attention to the small black-finned sharks or the rays hovering in the shallows, so common are they.  It is often hard to believe this is real, rather than some animatronic set concocted by Disney for its "Finding Nemo" ride.

Of course, if you want to spend money, there are special excursions to be had.  Dolphin watching aboard one of the native dhoni boats, its prow curved like an Egyptian pharaoh's barge, is the most typical.  There are enough of our aquatic cousins gambolling in these waters to almost guarantee you'll end up gliding along next to a pod, watching them arch, dive and ... it you're lucky ... pirouette in flashy leaps.

The dive shop at Moofushi did an intro to scuba experience for $130 a person.  The entry barriers to this activity can be daunting: expensive and time-consuming qualifications, equipment, etc.  Here, we had half an hour of instruction on the basics (main take out: never hold your breath or your lungs might explode), got kitted out and headed for the water.  The two of us had our own dive instructor, Massimo, who stayed close and ensured everything went smoothly.  After making sure we had the basics of breathing down in the shallows next to the main dock, we headed for the adjoining reef and he pushed us down to two or three meters.  Quite literally "pushed"; he was above the two of us, hands on our backs, controlling our depth and ready to pull us to the surface at the slightest hint of trouble.

As an introduction, it was magnificent.  And great to do something totally new for a new decade (we did it the morning of my birthday).  Overall, I am yet to be convinced that it is worth the vast cost differential from the essentially free snorkelling.  Other than a menacing eel and getting closer to some of the more interesting coral, we didn't see much more from under the water than we did from on top.  But I'm open to further experimentation.  After all, I wasn't crazy about my first spa experience ... and now I'm an addict.

A whale of a time
Our biggest excursion investment, however, was a full-day whale shark adventure.  At $250 per person we thought about that one quite a bit before signing up, but agreed it was worth every penny.  It was the highlight of the whole Moofushi stay.

Whale sharks are the largest fish on the planet ... remember, whales themselves are mammals rather than fish ... and The Maldives hosts one of the world's largest colonies.  There are about 200 males and six females now living off these reefs.  They are gentle giants, on average about 9 metres long, who feed on plankton.  They rise from the depths at meal time and hang in the current a couple of meters below the surface, their massive mouths opened to filter the water bringing their food.  It's this habit that makes them easy to swim with, if you can spot them.  They're content to let you hover and swim with them, as long as you give them a fair buffer.  Get too close, you'll spook them and they'll return to the depths.

We quickly realised our premium pricing went for a fine boat, limited numbers and professional spotters.  One was even a fully-qualified marine biologist.  Our speedboat spent 45 minutes zipping us past reefs, other resorts and tiny uninhabited islands before we got to the long chain that formed the southern edge of our atoll.  Then the spotters went to work.  One on the prow, two on the roof, spotting for the telltale shadow in the water as we trolled up and down their usual hunting grounds.  For more than an hour we saw no sharks … just an entertaining pod of dolphins and several other boats doing the same as us.  These, however, were slow-moving dhonis, mostly filled with Chinese tourists.

We were beginning to give up hope when our crew told us to get ready and sped us to the bit of water they'd spotted.  Over the side we went, and there she was.  No more than four meters away, sometimes much closer.  So close, in fact, that I watched as Piers hit the water and, unsure where she was, almost collided with her snout as he got his bearings.

The fish are majestic and awe inspiring in their size.  Roughly the length of a city bus, with a mouth as wide as a young teenager.  Even though you know they only eat plankton, when you're in front of one, letting it swim toward you, you can't help but be terrified of that gaping maw.  Fortunately, our girl wasn't bothered by our presence at all, and we were able to swim along with her for 10 minutes.  Enough time to inspect her from every angle.  Hanging above her middle, seeing the way the white spot and lines on her grey skin formed the perfect "dazzle" camouflage in the sun-dappled shallows.  Swimming respectfully behind her, imagining just how lethal that swinging tail could be if you got in the way.  (Our biologist guide had been very clear about keeping well clear.)

And then the Chinese arrived.  I wouldn't want to make any generalisations about a whole nationality, I'll only say that these groups paid little attention to the instructions not to get close, and flailed around in the water as if they were all new to swimming.  The result?  Our shark dove to avoid the ruckus.  We swam back to our speedboat.  Three more times our spotters got us to a shark in front of the hoards.  And that, we realised, was what we were paying for.  The edge over the bigger, slower groups.

Having tired ourselves out with the sharks, we headed off to a desert island for a spot of lunch.  Then a bit of snorkelling on a reef full of sea turtles, including my special friend.  What a day.  What a place.