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.