The Lansdowne, L'Ortolan kick off the feasting season with flair

Over two decades in England, Thanksgiving, Black Friday and the Fourth of July are holidays that ... with the exception of one office-based emergency ... I've always taken off to celebrate the traditions of my homeland. This year, however, is my first as an independent contractor. And in my new world of you-don't-work-you-don't-get-paid, taking a four-day weekend seemed excessive. So I hit the office on Thursday, lined up a celebratory dinner, then took off Black Friday to start the Christmas decorating and indulged in a spectacular feast that night.

I have certainly squeezed in the appropriate American essentials of shopping, holiday decorating and eating yourself silly ... though that last bit was a good deal more elegant than your average family feast, and didn't quite hit the traditional buttons. Though the chef tried.

We had our Thanksgiving Dinner at the Landsdowne Club in London. Thanks to its American heritage (built by the prime minister that settled the American Revolution, later home to department-store magnate Selfridge), the club has always prided itself in hosting Thanksgiving dinner. As we were both up in London, we gave it a try.

It was delicious, though a bit off piste for what most Americans would recognise as traditional Thanksgiving. Posh plating (see turkey, left). No green been casserole. Bread sauce with turkey? Most Americans don't know what bread sauce is, and when you explain it to them they can't wrap their heads around the concept. Most amusing was American pancakes for dessert. Putting pancakes in the meal-finishing slot is a typical European mistake; wildly puzzling to Americans who see this dish solidly in the breakfast category. Meanwhile, there was no pecan pie. But the turkey was delicious, as was my smoked haddock and clam chowder that preceded it. They managed the best pumpkin pie I've had in Europe. Light, airy and a long gourmet mile from the Libby Pumpkin original ... but probably better. The revelation of the night was an Austrian Pinot Noir that was the wine discovery of the month.

This was just the warm up, however. Friday's dinner made your average Thanksgiving meal look like a humble snack.

We've been using L'Ortolan, the only Michelin-starred establishment in our neighbourhood, as our special occasion restaurant since we moved to our current house. A couple years ago I heard people raving about how incredible the chef's table was there, and it's been on my bucket list ever since. We finally took the plunge, booking about five months ago for this exclusive 4-seater table in the heart of the kitchen.

It's a measure of just how much food culture has changed in England that sitting in the kitchen, watching chefs work their magic and having the chance to chat with the staff throughout the evening has become the hottest option in any top restaurant.  It must be a delight for the restaurant owners, who are charging premium prices to squeeze people into unloved, undecorated nooks in their kitchens, then charge them for the most extravagant meal the place is able to deliver.   But if you're seriously into your food, it's worth it.

There is only one chef's table here, seating just four people a night, thus it must be booked many months in advance.

We've never had a bad meal at L'Ortolan, which always delivers the exceptional tastes, beautiful presentations and intriguing wine matches you expect from a Michelin star restaurant. The chef's table is more of the same. MUCH more. It's as if they want to show off everything they are capable of producing. Even though they're small plates, it can be a bit of a trial by the time you get to your fourth dessert.

Yes. FOURTH. That is excessive, even for me.

But before you get to those sweets, you'll start with canapés followed by four fish courses. Then a
foie gras course. Then, for some odd reason, another fish course. Then comes the venison. Then the cheese. And after the aforementioned desserts there are, of course, petit fours to go with the coffee.  Counting every plate with food that passes before you, that's fourteen courses. And eleven of them each come with their own carefully matched glass of wine.

It's four times more expensive than your average dinner out. But since you're eating and drinking four times as much, it's hard to quibble with the value for money.  Of course, you don't weigh up value in a place like this by quantity. It's about quality and ... for the kind of people who'll fork over the cash for a chef's table ... unique tastes and experiences combined with a highly individualised experience.

The dish of the night for me was, rather predictably, the foie gras. The new twist? Pan-fried fresh liver served atop a gingerbread puree (we'd discovered that flavour pairing in Gascony, but this refined preparation kicked things up) with blueberries. A novel combination for me, and magnificent. Even more unusual was pairing it with red wine. Logic and tradition says it shouldn't work, but the Barbera d'Alba actually balanced with the fruit and cut some of the fat with its acidity.

Nipping at that course's heels was an extraordinary venison, served on a white plate painted with a slash of chocolate, dotted with spheres of roasted beetroot, blackberries, deep-fried crispy kale and a quenelle of purple mashed potato. A few years ago, dark purples, blacks and browns were all the rage at the Chelsea Flower Show; this was that trend on a plate. And it tasted as good as it looked.

Other noteworthy entries in this parade were: salmon that was both cured and cooked in a sous vide, for delicate flavour and texture; a crab salad with watermelon and tempura; and a forest floor-inspired dessert with a mushroom carefully constructed out of dark and white chocolate ganaches. The wines were uniformly excellent, though relatively traditional with the exception of that foie gras match.

The most outstanding element, as you would expect, is being in the kitchen. L'Ortolan's chef's table is exactly across from the pass, where all the savoury courses are plated up and sent into the dining room.  The four of us sat along one side, theatre style, to watch the show. And what a show it was. If you're as big a fan of Masterchef as we are, you could sit there for three hours watching plates come together and never be bored. We saw the mood move from enthusiastic "game on" energy to diligent delivery up to high pressure as 9pm, a full dining room and two private parties crushed into a peak of demand. (The action came with equivalent language; this is not a place for the meek hearted.) And then we watched as service wound down, the team spirit reappeared and jollity took over as they cleaned the kitchen and prepared for the next day. Most of the team lives in adjacent staff accommodation, and the camaraderie reminds you of a tightly knit college fraternity.

Though everyone was polite and some section heads engaged more than others, I sense the head chef would have been more relieved if he hadn't had to deal with us that night.  It certainly wasn't the chatty, interactive experience we had at the chef's table at Niche in St. Louis, but L'Ortolan has at least twice the covers and a Michelin star to defend. So I'll forgive them for paying a bit less attention to us, and a bit more to running their business. Still, once they realised how interested we were, everyone did their best to answer questions and give us detail on dishes. In what's famously a male-dominated profession, I found it interesting that it was the women ... sous and pastry chefs ... who were the stars of the evening.

My night reached its zenith when the latter invited me onto her station to check out her sourdough starter and gave me tips for improving my own.  Sure enough, Sunday's loaf was much improved. If I could charge £20 a loaf, I might be on the path to paying for a return visit...

Forget the Vikings; For more remarkable Danish bling, go further back

I have seen a lot of magnificent cultural sights in previous trips to Copenhagen, but it was on this

third visit that I finally got around to what instantly became my favourite: The National Museum of Denmark's headquarters in Central Copenhagen. And it wasn't even for the reason I anticipated.

Most people instantly associate Denmark with Vikings. If you're off to the National Museum, you'd
be forgiven for anticipating a treasure hoard from that blockbuster age to delight your eyes. You'll get some. But it's what comes before that really bowls you over. This collection ... liberally studded with jaw-droppers, items inventively displayed, helpful guides in English as well as Danish ... demonstrates that life here was sophisticated, intriguing and at times remarkably beautiful for several thousand years before those famous marauders burst into our history books.

I wasn't entirely taken by surprise. Twice in recent years I've been to major exhibitions in London in which I found an object from pre-Viking Denmark to be amongst the most memorable. A 3,400-year-old sun chariot grabbed a lion's share of the attention at the Royal Academy's Bronze show in 2012 (I wrote about it here). A copy of the Gundestrup cauldron is one of the best bits of the British Museum's current Celts exhibit. (I owe you a blog entry on that one.) But they're both better here, set in a time frame, surrounded by companion objects and displayed in prominent, awe-inspiring isolation.

The cauldron (above) is beaten silver. It's so big you'd probably need another six inches on each side to wrap your arms around it, and deep enough that a three-year-old could easily use it for a bath. The exterior is dominated by enigmatic faces, the interior by action scenes with humans and animals. At the bottom, a three dimensional cow and several other animals recline, a bit like those comedy mugs that reveal frogs hiding at the bottom when you finish your tea. Having studied the copy at the British Museum just two weeks before, I was amazed at how much richer the detail on the original was. And rather than jockeying in a queue for a glimpse, I was alone to contemplate at my leisure. It's worth dropping by this museum (entry is free) if only to see this magnificent object. And it's unique ... the largest known example of Iron Age silver work.

But there's so much more.

You'll start back in the dawn of human history, and marvel at the decorations on the stone age axe heads. Three thousand years before the advent of anything we'd call "celtic", four thousand before the Vikings, five before anyone ever uttered the words "Scandinavian design", and here are the basic shapes and decorative forms. I can't remember ever seeing such a striking example of a culture's aesthetic principles stretching from foundations right through to the modern age.  Nearby there's an enormous display of amber turned up from Stone Age graves, displayed in a three-level glass cube to drive the abundance home.

On to the Danish equivalent of mummies: bodies inside their dugout canoe coffins, eerily well-preserved by the peat bogs in which they were laid to rest. In one room, cleverly, the museum has created an exact replica of the clothing on the girl now laid to rest here, down to the pleated mini-skirt. A hipster in modern Copenhagen could probably wear it today without comment.

The sun chariot dominates a room on Bronze Age religion, where you see that even though it's the most spectacular example, it's far from alone. Intricately worked gold sun discs in ceremonial settings were clearly a must-have item in 1400 bc. There are weapons and ornaments of spectacular beauty throughout the pre-historic ages, but things really start getting spectacular when you hit the Danes who were contemporaries of the Greeks and Romans ... an age that kicks off with that spectacular cauldron.

The Romans may have dismissed these people as barbarians, but it only takes a few galleries to convince you of their cultural sophistication. Another name is Celts, and their art has permeated our own age. Today, we associate the word with the Welsh, Irish or Scottish, but the term started as a generic description for Northern Europeans who were not part of the Roman empire. Amongst the treasures here, there's a reconstructed chariot, demonstrating how the original ornate metalwork would have adorned a vehicle of phenomenal bling. There's impressive golden jewellery, including distinctive torques and fierce warriors arm cuffs.  A floor-to-ceiling glass case encloses a collection of the spiralling horns called Lurs, suspended on clear wire at varying heights so that the installation itself becomes a work of art. The sinuously-curving, animal-infused designs throughout this section make it clear that we're on the brink of the Viking age.

A magnificent room filled with megalithic rune stones marks the divide. Then it's on to more galleries of treasures, from the domestic niceties of horse collars, storage chests and drinking horns to the darkly beautiful swords and axes that helped win the booty that bought all this lavish excess. The remnants of a small raiding ship sit in a dimly lit room.  across from an impressive collection of shields arranged in a defensive wall. They, like the lurs, hang on almost invisible wire, giving the impression that a ghost army has invaded the gallery in formation.

By the time Christianity appeared and put an end to the Viking era, I was exhausted. I'd just wandered through roughly 4,000 years of history, after all. The upper floor of the museum, picking up with the Middle Ages, will have to wait for another trip. Besides, I had shopping to do.

In addition to a fabulous collection, the National Museum has an excellent gift shop. At Christmas
time, it spills out into the building atrium with a seasonal emporium of festive items. I shopped my way through the city centre on Monday, specifically looking for holiday decorations, but nothing topped the assortment I found here. Good thing I decided to buy when I saw things, rather than waiting. I might not have come home with a sun chariot or a cauldron, but the straw goats, blown glass Viking drinking horns and paper cones for holding treats are going to add their own bit of Danish history to our mantlepiece. this Christmas.

Lingering lunch can offer foreigners a taste of Danish hygge

I think it takes five days of proper sightseeing, on average, to get really comfortable in a city. To navigate without a map, have an understanding of the most famous sites, establish some favourite places to relax and get some feel for the elements that make it unique. I hit that milestone with this, my third trip to Copenhagen.

Getting to really understand the people takes much longer. In some places, you never get more insight than the foreign visitor. Being related to locals, of course, puts you on the fast track. The paternal side of my husband's family is Danish, and it was his aunt's 75th birthday that formed the centrepiece of this trip.

We spent Sunday ensconced at Rødvig Kro, a waterfront restaurant and inn in the town closest to the Bencard farm where the current generation originated. The view of the bay (above), its cliffs and lighthouse glimmering gold in the twilight, was spectacular. The long hall-house was decorated in pale, elegant Scandinavian country style, fires blazing and candles bathing everyone in an attractive glow. And the company was spectacular. Four tables packed with my husband's aunts, uncles, cousins and their progeny. My sister-in-law and I were the only people in the room without Danish blood, and that was painfully obvious. (Even before our pitiful attempts to pronounce any of their baffling language.) Lots of tall people with piercing blue eyes, fair features, broad shoulders, a confident grace and a swaggeringly cheerful way with a toast. 

Generations past, all the alcohol might have prompted them toward the harbour to climb into their longboat and invade England. (Leaving Jane and I, no doubt, as the captured slaves cleaning up after the feast.) These days, they've given up the pillage and conquest and embraced the hygge.  Pronounced, more or less, like huu-guh.

There's no direct translation of this term into English. It's bigger than a single word. It's a concept and a feeling, embracing an ideal state of comfortable, homey conviviality. While you can achieve hygge at any time, it really comes into its own in the winter. I think it's something about snuggling in to your safe place with the people you love while the world outside is dark, cold and miserable. Candles are essential; the Danes use more of them per capita than any other nation. In my observation, alcohol and comfort food play a key role. (And if you find yourself in Rødvig, go to the Kro for their hot-smoked salmon and their wafer-thin slices of venison beef with a raspberry sauce.) But you can't achieve hygge alone. Good company is the essential ingredient in holding back the darkness, and the Bencards had that in abundance on Sunday.

If you don't have a Danish family to bunker down with, try a long, traditional lunch on a gloomy winter afternoon. Pick a long-established restaurant like Cafe Petersborg, candles flickering beneath the low wooden ceilings and tables filled with locals, and you've snatched a shortcut to hygge.

The name and founding myth is Russian, though the food is resolutely Danish. In the middle of the 18th century, this building was the Russian consulate. Just a stone's throw from the harbour, it dished out hospitality to visiting Russian sailors ... many from St. Petersburg. The Russians moved on, but the tradition of hospitality on the ground floor continued. The menu might have changed, but I suspect those first diners would find the interior familiar. It's a warren of 18th century rooms with small windows and low, beamed ceilings.  Most of the wooden tables are long, catering to large groups. The menu follows that style of eating, with many options served family style or in big sharing platters. If there aren't so many of you, or if you want to get specific items, there's a tick list to order individual small plates ... rather like a sushi bar.

The format here, if you go for the platters, is two courses: first fish, then meat and cheese. Bread ... both white and dark, seed-strewn rye ... is on hand and regularly refilled to accompany both. Fish in Denmark, of course, means pickled herring. Done properly, as it most certainly is here, it's neither fishy nor overwhelming. It's meaty, subtle, and finely balanced between sweet and savoury. Laid upon thin slices of rye bread spread with lard, topped with fine slices of red onion, it's a treat. While we often re-create this at home, spearing fish out of jars ordered from Danish Food Direct, Petersborg's herring made those attempts look like pale imitation.

The first course was generous and we could have easily stopped at that point, but that wouldn't be
tradition. And you're settled in for three or four hours, so you can spread your appetite by grazing. Round two brings specialities like grilled pork, warm liver pate, cooked beetroot and wedges of pungent Danish cheeses.

The classic accompaniment is beer rather than wine. This time of year that means Tuborg's Julebryg. It's darker and stronger than regular lager, with a satisfying creaminess. The annual release date is a big deal in Denmark, and given its pervasive availability, I'd guess everyone drinks a lot of it in the run up to Christmas. We certainly did. If you're drinking "properly", you'll also get a bottle of snaps for the table, glasses of which you raise in frequent toasts to others. This is the Danish take on aquavit, less sugary and far more sophisticated than the Germanic schnapps varieties most people know. There's wide variation in that simple description, though, running from throat-burning stuff sure to put hair on a Viking chest through to milder, slightly sweet varieties. You can try different types by the glass, or order a bottle for the table. If you do the latter, they'll charge you for what you drink.

Our discovery this meal: dill-flavoured snaps. The alcoholic kick is hidden beneath a smooth, slightly sweet palate with just a hint of the herb. Enough to remind you that dill is a cousin to the much stronger fennel, a liquorice flavour which works in both sweet and savoury dishes. This snaps went beautifully with all of the herring varieties, but continued happily with everything else. Unsurprisingly, two bottles came home with us.

Copenhagen is famous for its hip, modern restaurants. We've dined in a couple of them. But none are as soul satisfying as the Cafe Petersborg. And that's what hygge is all about.

If you want to learn more about hygge, and what makes the Danes tick overall, look up Helen Russell's The Year of Living Danishly. In it, an English journalist who accompanies her husband on assignment to Denmark spends a year trying to understand why the country regularly tops surveys of the happiest places on earth. It's funny, fact-filled and does a great job of capturing the subtleties that make this little country so special.

Too much of everything bar time and money: holiday season begins

Despite the unseasonably warm weather that still has autumnal blooms going in my garden, it is definitely that time of year. There are no unscheduled weekends between now and the big holiday, and the number of people with whom I'm having the "we really must get together before things shut down" is greater than our list of free evenings. We'll do our best.

Cards have been purchased, lists polished, my godson's annual themed box with related custom-written storybook (it's dinosaur year) is taking shape. I'm helping to organise the local holiday home decorating contest. I'm back at Weight Watchers and the gym less in hope of losing weight than in a defensive play to limit the damage of three to five meals out a week.  My husband is reviewing which fine wines are ready to drink, how much foie gras we still have in store and whether goose or duck would be better for dinner on the 25th.

God, I love Christmas.

Though each year, I worry a little more that the excess-fuelled run-up to those few restful, quiet days at the turn of the year is going to kill me. Let it try. I'm carpe-ing the diem.

The season gets off to its official start, at least in the Bencard family diary, with the Lansdowne Club's annual ball. As a newcomer to England I remember thumbing through the pages of Hello magazine, agog at how well Brits seemed to do themed parties and wishing I would be invited to one. Now that I've gone native ... and have a club membership ... I can attest that the parties are just as good as they look.

This year's theme: Arabian Nights. The same team that helped me plan my wedding turned our club's Georgian, two-story entry hall into a Bedouin tent, complete with flickering lanterns, piles of cushions and rugs and a wonderfully improbable topiary camel. The courtyard became a souk, while the staff looked like they'd knocked over a costume warehouse for a decade's worth of pantomime productions of Aladdin. Disguising the towering Georgian lines of the ballroom would have been a bit much, but the food and entertainment carried on the theme. The chef wove Turkish flavours through his usual haut European cuisine, and the sommelier wheeled out some worthy Lebanese wines. Of course, their were belly dancers. And far too much topping up of glasses to be either safe or healthy. Thank god I'd booked a room, so we only had to stumble to the lift and down a hall.

The next morning, after a constitutionally-settling fry up, it was off to meet the Northwestern Girls for the Spirit of Christmas fair at Olympia. How have we missed this in years past? This is, by a vast margin, the best Christmas shopping experience ever. In fact, with several hundred exhibitors, it's less a Christmas Fair and more a pop up mall filled with the kind of tasteful, unique boutiques that were kicked off the high street years ago by the big chains. Jewellery, custom-designed clothing, homewares, toys, indulgences for your pets, quirky shoe brands, custom-printed stationary, and loads more. Most of the upper balcony that runs around the exhibition hall is filled with luxury food and drink items.

Ironically, the thing you won't find much of is Christmas decorations. This is not some cutesy take on a German Christmas market. Rather, it's mostly craftspeople and designers who market themselves through an annual rota of fairs rather than shops. It's quite possible to do all of your shopping here, for everyone on your list. If you can keep your energy levels up. There are two champagne bars within the show to help with that. We've sworn that it's going to become an annual outing, and we'll be better prepared next year. (Less hung over, for example.)

Then the girls followed me to Hampshire for a mini-break. There was no way our diaries were going to allow a weekend away, so we opted for Saturday night at my house followed by Sunday at the spa. My husband, who'd gone directly home from the club when I went off to the fair, had offered to cook for us if we allowed him to dine with us. A good deal. Lisa and Hillary brought the wine, mostly liberated from stocks bought during our Burgundian wine tasting trip in 2008. (Start here and read the four entries that follow for coverage of that trip.) Then on to the first Christmas gift exchange of the year, since the likelihood of us all being together again in the next six weeks is slim.

A celebratory dinner needs to be rather extraordinary, of course, and my husband delivered the goods. First, we liberated some of the foie gras we made in Gascony earlier this year and matched it with spelt biscuits and dollops of quince jam. Served with the Chapel Down "Nectar" we discovered on our tour of the Kentish vineyard in August. Next, the husband's lobster, avocado and orange salad. It sounds odd, but he'd do well rolling this out as a signature dish at his Masterchef introduction. Was the 2004 Chablis Grand Cru worthy of the dish, or the dish worthy of the wine? Hard to tell. The man moved us on to roast haunch of venison with a chili chocolate sauce he'd been slaving over all afternoon, starting from the bag of venison bones ... cracked to release their marrow ... I'd picked up along with the meat from Newlyn's earlier in the week. Time and care make a difference; the sauce was extraordinary. As was the 2005 Pomerol that moved to centre stage. Possibly upstaged by the "mystery Burgundy", another bottle from that trip that had lost its label. We'll never know its precise details, but it was fabulous. Lemon souffle to wind down. Giving the man a break (he neither likes to eat, or cook, desserts) these were cheats from Iceland. Good enough to make me think I need to write an entry on my recent revelation that there are some amazing things to be unearthed at the so-called "discounters".

Having proved that we can do luxury almost as well at home as we can in a fine dining establishment (I hope), Sunday was all about recovery at Nirvana Spa. Much lap swimming, napping on heated loungers and a healthy vegetarian lunch.  Now back to work, the gym, and a few days back at the grindstone before we're off to Copenhagen next weekend for a family birthday.

Laissez les bon temps roulez.