Once is not enough for otherworldly Nasrid Palace

I once knew a man who was a firm believer in reincarnation, and was convinced that the passions of your current life reflected what you wanted most … but had been deprived of … in your last. I can't comment on my cosmic rebirth, but I do know there’s nothing like denial to sharpen my appetite, be it for high-fat foods or high culture.

Which is pretty much how we ended up touring the Alhambra's famous interiors twice in 36 hours.

Keen readers of this blog will remember that, last year, my long-anticipated pilgrimage to Granada's masterpiece of Moorish style was thwarted by my ignorance of its popularity. Attempting to source tickets three weeks in advance was laughable; three months is wise. I satisfied myself with some gorgeous secondary sites but the Nasrid Palace … what everyone wants to see … hovered tantalisingly beyond my reach.

The need to complete that sight-seeing mission plagued me, and no doubt drove my suggestion that our 18th annual Northwestern Girls’ Trip head for Granada. Fortunately, the other three travelers were enthusiastic, too. Thus, a year after my first attempt, I finally made my way into this fairy tale of arabesques and arches, shadow and light, water and air.

It deserves every accolade it's collected over the centuries. The building is encrusted with decorative detail. Tiles gleam. Arabic script dances. Vines and flowers twine. Plaster stalactites drip from the ceiling. Scallops edge arches. It should be a train wreck of conflicting pattern, and yet all this lavish detail comes together in such harmony that the whole building feels like a series of soothing, meditative spaces. That's surprising, given the crowds that surge through. And ironic, given the back-stabbing, internecine scheming that characterised the Nasrid rulers. But the Spanish have, thankfully, avoided greed and limited crowd numbers to a level that gives you a chance to find quiet moments and, if you pace your visit between bus tours, the occasional people-free photo. 

The palace is technically three complexes, built successively by a father, son and grandson in the 14th century. Each is anchored by an open courtyard with adjacent reception rooms, all very much built for outdoor living and filled with the sound of running water from the fountains in each courtyard. Even 500 years after their move to Spain, the Moors couldn't put aside their origins as a desert people and their extreme veneration for water.

You enter through the oldest bit, and while there are beautiful spaces here, it's no more than an amuse bouche for what's to come. The central complex spreads out from the stately Courtyard of the Myrtles, where a long, elegant reflecting pool bordered by austere clipped hedges and plain walls is a rare bit of austerity. This forms an effective counterpoint to the ornate ante-rooms through which you pass in to a throne room of epic proportions.

The Hall of the Ambassadors' 12 metre-square footprint isn't particularly large by palatial standards, but the height is extraordinary. Walls dense with complex pattern extend up through the full 23 metre height of the tower above. (Interestingly, this is not only beautiful but practical. In the blazing summers, the tower functions as a giant extractor fan, sucking hot air up through the windows placed around its top.)  The ceiling is an intricate patchwork multi-coloured wooden parquetry intended to represent the journey through Islam's seven heavens. What the average tourist is most likely to notice ... beyond its rare beauty ... is that there's a long historic precedent for all those inlaid wooden trinkets in the gift shops here.

But even the Hall of the Ambassadors fades in comparison the glory of the Courtyard of the Lions and its adjacent halls. If you've ever seen a picture of the Nasrid Palace, it was probably this: a courtyard of pristine white marble; a circle of 12 near life-sized white lions spouting water from their mouths and holding a huge bowl fountain on their backs, channels of water running away from them to the centre of each side of the courtyard, a cloister of delicate columns and arches dripping with decoration around and pavilions behind with pointed roofs to mimic desert tents. On a hot, sunny day you step from the dark, narrow, winding passageway between palaces into this, and you are almost blinded by the glare of vivid white. (Those small, zig-zagging halls separate each palace, and you'd be forgiven for thinking they're a design trick to boost your awe when you get to the "reveal" of the next grand space. In part, yes. But they're also defensive. Nasrid history rivals Game of Thrones and the Wars of the Roses for familial brutality.)

The rooms on every side of the Courtyard are exquisite, but it's the ceilings in the Halls of the Abencerrajes and the Two Sisters that will have you forgetting to breathe. These are the famous stalactite domes, densely encrusted with pinnacles that hang down into the void below. It's hard to believe they are man made; it seems more likely you've stumbled onto some planet where giant wasps or bees have expanded their architectural repertoire. They are some of the most beautiful, and completely unique, structures I've ever seen.

There's more to the Nasrid Palaces, including the baths and some lovely courtyard gardens, but once you've seen these highlights and their densely-packed decorative schemes your brain probably won't be able to cope with much more. It's one of the reasons I thought a second, nighttime visit would make sense. Such complexity demands repeated attention. What I hadn't appreciated is that the change of light creates an entirely new and different palace.

It may seem a lot to ask of your average tourist, but you simply haven't seen the Alhambra unless you've visited it both in the daylight and in dark.

This isn't just a scheme to extend opening hours. The curators have clearly thought through the experience, changing the route and carefully placing lights in places that pump up the drama and highlight particular features. Designers use the dark as well as the light, creating a mysterious journey though the blackness into puddles of illumination.

During the day, the stunning vista of river valley, old town and distant mountains draws your eye out the windows. At night all of your attention is constrained within the walls.  Illumination pulls the patterns in the walls into high relief and reveals just how much of the colour is intact. The day before, I would have told you that most of the interiors were white. How wrong I was! These walls blaze with colour. I found myself spending far more time in individual rooms at night than I had during the day, drinking in details that were now distinct and appreciating vast variety.

Once again, the most dramatic space is the Courtyard of the Lions and its side pavilions. The lions now stand in an isolated pool of light, the rest of the courtyard plunged into total darkness. Figures walking the cloisters recede to ghostly shadows. In the pavilions, walls and ceilings glow with jewel tones.

You have entered a fairy tale. It would be no surprise for Scheherazade to turn up and start spinning tales, or an old man to slide out of an alcove and offer you a strange lamp. At night, this is one of the most atmospheric and magical tourist attractions I've ever visited. Do your best to see it both ways but if you only have time for one ... embrace the darkness.

Thrilling Yamato drummers inject ancient art with modern flare

Drums reach far back into human history. They were probably our first attempt at using a tool to make music. They've served as warning, marched us to war, connected us to the spiritual and gotten us on our feet. They can still touch something primal in our souls, demanding movement and ... at their most potent ... almost taking over our bodies.

Don't believe me? Check out Japan's Yamato drummers.

Sadly, you'll no longer be able to catch them in London, since we saw them at the very end of their stint with Sadler's Wells at the Peacock Theatre. But if you ever see them coming to your town, make booking tickets a priority. They are the best thing I've seen on stage since Hamilton.

My husband and I had seen and enjoyed Taiko drummers before. The high-energy style, rooted in Japanese folklore and religious tradition, is always dramatic and offers a feast for the eyes with its beautifully crafted (and often enormous) drums, exotic costumes and energetic movements. Even a short introduction makes it clear that it takes an enormous amount of physical effort to play these ancient instruments. But Yamoto was in a different league from the small troupes we'd seen at local Japanese festivals.

This is one of the premier groups of Japan, founded 26 years ago and typically spending more than half their time touring the world as cultural ambassadors. Much of their magic comes from their modern adaptation of Japanese art. In one number, their female members take centre stage with shamisen, the stringed instruments you're likely to think of geishas placidly plucking. Instead, as the drumming tempo behind them increases they swing into a playing style closer to heavy metal and remind you of nothing so much as the girls in Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love video. With a lot more energy.

Some pieces are deeply traditional, using lanterns, moody lighting and flutes to transport you half way around the world. Others are boldly modern in their humour, charisma and sex appeal. The second half starts with a swirling routine of drum hoisting and throwing that will remind you of the Stomp show, then sends the energy into overdrive. Five of the male drummers strip to the waist ... their muscle definition making the level of fitness required for their art instantly obvious ... then wedge themselves under enormous drums. Their backs were to us, legs straddling the instrument, bottoms on the edge of plinths and backs and arms unsupported. Just imagining the effort it took to sit like that made my stomach muscles hurt. The physical discipline required to play drums from that position for the next three minutes is almost unimaginable.

Of course they were showing off. The whole evening featured jaw-dropping moments of physical bravado and visual awe. But this might have misfired if the fundamentals ... the sounds of the drums ... weren't equally spectacular. They were. These drums have an impressive range, from sharp and metallic to almost hypnotically sonorous. They are properly musical, delivering compositions you could happily listen to without the visual stimulation. Most astonishing is the way they work with the bodies of the audience. At their dramatic peak, it was as if the drums were regulating the rhythm of our hearts. Compelling us to breathe. Literally making our bodies pound to the orders they were delivering. I've never had a musical experience quite like it.

We sought out Yamato as part of our year of Japanese cultural immersion. We're watching, reading, eating and drinking things Japanese in preparation for a big trip in the autumn. What started out as a bit of fun just added an item to the priority list for our trip. We're hoping to catch this extraordinary troupe on their home ground.

Aquavit delights in a week of disappointed expectations

It’s been one of those weeks in which reality has clashed regularly with expectations and, usually, come out the loser.

After investing a fortune in an upcoming trip to Japan, I’ve been forced to admit that it’s never going to deliver what I consider to be value for the money. Closer to home, a masterclass with a favourite Michelin-starred chef that I expected to be the highlight of my week was decidedly average. Most certainly not what I expected for its premium price tag. Happily, an impromptu meal at a restaurant that had received wary reviews delivered the best meal we’ve had thus far this year.

It all started with rugby. It’s been a year since we purchased our places with RFU Travel for this autumn’s World Cup in Japan. Excluding airfare, on a per-day basis, it’s the most expensive trip I’ve ever taken after our honeymoon and my 50th birthday extravaganza. So I had high expectations. In the long run-up to travel, I thought we’d be getting lots of informative communications and hints at the customisations that would make the trip special. Instead, the only communications we’d received were payment requests and a “save the date” for an event in early April that was never followed by an invitation. When a staffer told me we weren’t on the list because we’d never RSVPd, I decided to torment myself to see what their package would cost if I priced and bought it now, as an independent traveler. The results suggested a 130% markup, minus two rugby-themed events. It was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. I defaulted to American bluntness in my communications with the RFU Travel staff.

Much to their credit, the marketing director of RFU Travel was on the phone to me within 24 hours. There had been problems on their side ... a stream of communications from them had gone missing ... but the biggest issue was that I was nowhere near target market for this trip and was unlikely to ever think their “added value” was worth the cash. RFU travellers were overwhelmingly male and not interested in anything but rugby. It was often groups of friends who just wanted to get away on a lads’ trip to watch sport and drink. They were paying a premium for the privilege of being part of the rugby fellowship, and going to a few events with access to rugby luminaries.

OK. I admit that after more than a decade in marketing for big corporations that sponsor rugby, I’m not typical on the luminaries front. I’ve been leadership coached by Sir Clive Woodward. Sean Fitzpatrick (above) taught me how to do the haka. And there’s one golden evening in Cannes, dining, drinking (a lot) and sharing stories of Italian food and Catholic school with Lawrence Dallaglio that’s probably the reason I became a rugby fan in the first place. Would I have paid a premium for these experiences? Probably. Would something similar be worth the 130%. For me, doubtful.

And then I started to think about the typical male executive I work with. The kind of busy, affluent fan who’s the traditional customer of RFU Travel. They may run multi-million pound organisations, but the majority are hopeless when it comes to the simple logistics of travel and social planning. If it’s a trip with the boys, they would be unwise to ask wives or employees (who usually bail them out on logistics) to support them. So they’re willing to pay a premium for basic arrangements that most women would never pay for. That’s my theory, anyway. I’ve scaled back my own expectations and am doing my best to forget about the price tag.

I was target market for the week’s culinary disappointment, which made it all the more galling.

My husband and I both admire Angela Hartnett enormously, have enjoyed glorious meals in her flagship Murano and, after a temporary disappointment at the soft launch of the Covent Garden Murano Cafe, have found it to be a dependable “go to” for a moderately priced meal in central London. (Think of it as the Italian cousin of Brasserie Blanc.) So when the mailing list of the former offered us a place at a pasta-making masterclass with Angela we jumped, despite the hefty £80 per person price tag.

The invitation implied an intimate evening in a quirky venue (the new SMEG flagship store on lower Regent Street) with enough tastes of food and drink to stand in for dinner. Reality was a bit more prosaic. There were about 100 guests, so it was very much watching Angela cook rather than interacting much; though the organisers were generous with fielding Q&A.

We started on the main shop floor with Prosecco and mushroom arancini. (Yes, husband. Point taken. Mine are too large.) Despite its horrible name, Smeg is from Italy’s culinary heartland of Emilia-Romagna and takes that heritage very seriously. They even have their own dairy herd at the headquarters and produce a premium Parmesan used only at their marketing events. Tasting it across three ages was a highlight, as was getting nose-to-nose with their Dolce & Gabbana-designed Sicilian appliances range. If I’d been in the mood to spend triple the price of a top quality appliance to get a unique look, I would have been going home with that toaster. (£500). But it’s the refrigerators that deserve your attention.

They’re only making 100 of them. Sourced from different artists under D&G’s overall design direction. Each different, but all vividly coloured and illustrated with scenes from Sicilian folk tradition. Price on application. You could probably buy a whole estate in the Sicilian village my grandfather came from for the price of that fridge. Still, if I ever win some silly-money lottery, it will look great in my Mediterranean-themed pool pavilion. Right next to the wood-fired pizza oven.

Smeg obviously kitted out the Regent Street store with marketing in mind, as the basement is an impressive show kitchen and theatre. It was here Angela held court, and I have no complaints with her presentation. Assisted by two senior chefs from her growing empire, she took us through pasta basics with useful tips and demonstrated step-by-step techniques for agnolotti, tortellini and farfalle. The first was the revelation of the night. Similar to ravioli but square, folded like an envelope and with room for far more stuffing, we were inspired to make our own (successfully) on Saturday and there’s an agnolotti press in the post from Amazon. I may never make ravioli again.

The presentation, sadly, sped by. We got to sample one tortellino each. (Another revelation here: I’m way too subtle with my sage.) We could have waited in a queue to have a photo snapped with Angela or bought one of her cookbooks and had her sign it, but the clock had just passed 8 and two glasses of Prosecco, two bite-sized arancini and one piece of filled pasta did not a dinner make. Hungry and feeling a bit hoodwinked that we’d spent the equivalent of a very nice dinner on an experience much the same as we’d had before at food and wine shows, we decided to head out for a proper meal.

I thought briefly of trying to cut our losses at the nearby 5 Guys Burgers, but Aquavit was literally next door.

We’ve been wanting to try this Scandinavian place since it opened last year. Though initial reviews were lukewarm, it’s earned a Michelin Star since opening and is one of the few restaurants in London where my husband can indulge in the food of his Danish childhood. This is Scandi by way of an original in New York, however, and the triple-height ceilings, cherry wood panelling, dynamic brass light fixtures and modern art say “Manhattan” more than “hygge”. And it’s hard to carry an ethnic theme in the global melting pot of London. Front of house was Afro-Caribbean, our waitress was Polish and our bartender Italian. Still, the expansive aquavit (spirit) menu was a hit with the man who has at least three varieties in the garage freezer at all times, and the range of Scandi classics on the menu warmed his heart. Even if, he shuddered, they were defaulting to Swedish names for things.

We kicked off with two exceptional starters paired with aquavit. (Not only culturally appropriate, but cheaper than wine.)

My husband's crab salad sat on a remarkable cake comprised of spiralised threads of potato fried to a solid but light mass. Growing up with mostly Italian influences, I've never seen the point of potatoes when pasta is available instead. Here, mere minutes after tasting a Michelin-starred chef's pasta, I experienced spuds that won that competition. Packed with intense potato flavour, sharp with crunch, comforting with just enough frying fat, it was remarkable on its own and a wonder with the generous pile of sauced crab above.

I went for smoked eel, in a delicate broth, with grilled baby gem lettuce spiked with tomatoes and lovage. Eel is rare these days outside of sushi bars, and this dish demonstrated what a shame that is. Firm but still delicate, pungent but not overwhelmed with smoke. The broth was all the flavours of the dish distilled to liquid; I would have picked up my bowl and drunk out of it had the waitress not offered a spoon. As with the crab, this could have been a memorable main. We moved on to a classic instead.

There are plenty of tempting offers on the menu, but we thought we'd test them on a Scandinavian comfort food classic. Meatballs. The relatively bargain price (£19) also helped assuage angst over the spiralling costs of the evening. I'm fairly sure that, like my family recipe, these are made from a mix of pork and veal, but I'm guessing they've been ground two or three times to create a consistency that's almost mousse-like. Texture comes from a light crisp of frying before they're slicked with an unctuous sauce. They sit on another testament to the potential of the potato: a silky, flavour-concentrated mash. This might all be too rich if it weren't balanced by the sweet and sharp pickles and the sweet and tart ligonberries. Aquavit, you've convinced me. Meatballs without tomato sauce aren't a compromise. They can be a triumph in their own right.

We were far too stuffed to contemplate pudding, even though there's an impressive menu here. It's a reason to come back. As is the range of open sandwiches. The place is screaming posh Sunday lunch.

So expectations by the end of the week suggest a return to Aquavit, and to Angela Hartnett restaurants. But not to pricey masterclasses. Watching Saturday Kitchen is free, and chef-studded food shows a bargain. As for rugby and Japan: my expectations have been managed downwards. I'll trust our investment to deliver rugby fellowship, and depend on my own travel planning skills to uncover exquisite opportunities in the Land of the Rising sun.

Quilon takes Indian food to a magical, exotic extreme

Indian is the UK's go-to casual comfort food, whether consumed as take-away, at the local curry house, as one of the inevitable options on the classic pub menu or knocked up with a jar of mass-produced sauce at home. It's usually humble, crowd pleasing and relatively cheap. But different types of  Indian chefs have been on the march for the past decade, working to show that food from the sub-continent can be sophisticated, elegant and complex. They've been rewarded: 10 of London's 70 Michelin-starred restaurants now come from an Indian tradition.

My first taste of Michelin-starred Indian ... woefully belated, I confess ... explained why critics have been so excited about this trend. Quilon, tucked into the Taj Hotel in the heart of Westminster, may share some menu items with your local curry house but it's unlikely that you'll recognise the presentation. Or the delicacy and layering of the spices. Most interestingly, Quilon focuses on a single region. In a world where "Indian" has come to mean a highly generic set of dishes, many of which were developed in England for English tastes, there's a specific focus here on Southwest coastal Indian cuisine. Quilon is exotic in a way that regular British Indian restaurants have ceased to be.

Given the regional focus, the logical choice would have been the seafood tasting menu. But we were keen to try as broad a range of flavours as possible so opted for both meat and fish. The fact that this choice is labelled the "non-vegetarian tasting menu" reminds you that this cuisine is culturally vegetarian to start out with. If you want to treat a friend who doesn't eat meat, the options here are vast.

The realisation that you're on a different culinary planet comes early on, with the papadums. (Photo above.) No pile of plate-sized crisps with the ubiquitous spinning server of condiments in silver bowls here. Instead there's a dish of bite-sized papadums of dazzling uniformity. An array of accompaniments goes from a brain-melting bowl of pickled chilis to a comfortingly mild coconut paste. The server arranges everything in spice order, so you can work from mild to hot or stay wherever you like on the journey.

Next came an artful rectangular plate adorned with three little cakes, each with an accompanying swoosh of bright sauce beneath. In the centre, a pale orange crab cake. To one side, vibrant green broccoli. On the other, ruby-rich beetroot. Each flavour was distinct and, like a fine wine, each taste started out as one thing and finished as another. The obvious hit of the crab or the vegetables came first, followed by waves of spice. Warming, but not hot.

The fish course brought one triumph and, surprisingly, the only disappointment of the night.

The lemon sole marinated with Goan spices and herbs was a bit overcooked and lacked any prominent taste. A single jumbo prawn masala carried enough flavour for both, perfectly cooked and dancing an energetic duet with a mix of tomato, onion and mustard. We must have been rolling our eyes with joy, because the server somehow knew to slip us another one on the side of our next course.

But first, a steaming glass of spiced tomato consume. I'm not sure you can call something that highly-flavoured a palate cleanser, but it was a fine set up for what was to come.

The main course was closest, both in presentation and taste, to curry as I already knew it. As many Masterchef contestants have learned to their frustration, it's tough to make stews elegant.

 Here, a dome of lamb biryani sat on an oversized white rectangle of a plate, with three square dishes arranged at the top. A Mondrian canvas of curry. The dishes held mangalorean chicken (a spicy curry to balance the milder lamb); a memorable melange of coconut, snow peas and asparagus shavings; and a thick yogurt dotted with pomegranate seeds and candied fruit (possibly pineapple?) to allow you to balance the heat to your preference. The most mind-blowing part of this course was malabar paratha. It was a flatbread, but as far from the standard curry house nan as your mass-produced white slice is from an artisan croissant. The croissant reference is intentional: paratha dough is beaten to a thin sheet and folded to form layered bread, then cooked on a skillet with pure ghee. The end result is light, both pillowy and flaky, and pulls apart in a spiral. Decadent.

Though Indian friends have assured me that their culinary heritage is obsessed by sweets, the curry houses of England would have you think kulfi and lassi are the only options. Quilon happily sets out to correct this idea.

The chef shifted our taste buds from savoury to sweet with a pre-desert mouthful of a warm jaggery fudge with a tart fruit sauce. You wouldn't want more than a taste of this overwhelming sweetness, but it was a pleasantly bold announcement of the dish to come.

Which was a celebration of all things pistachio.

Presented out of context, I would have called this plate Sicilian. I was delighted. Pistachio cake. Pistachio ice cream. Pistachio praline. Pistachio crumb. With a few small puddles of black sesame fondant to add an umami complement to the gentle green sweetness. I was in heaven. The place from where my Sicilian grandfather, who first taught me the joy of that nut, was no doubt smiling in benediction.

We were stuffed, but couldn't resist a nibble at the chocolate wafers that came out to end the meal. White chocolate infused with cardamom and dark with rose encapsulated the whole experience: familiar tastes elevated with delicate and surprising lashings of flavour.

If this is how they eat on the Southwest coast of India, then Karala just jumped onto my bucket list. By the end of the evening, the food had transported me to a holiday destination of warm breezes and swaying palms, foreign herbs and alluring spices. I almost expected to walk out the door to find the Arabian Sea lapping at a beach of powdery sand. Sadly, the spell was broken as I hit the cold drizzle of early March in London. But it was great while it lasted.

At just over £100 per person for the tasting menu with half a bottle of wine, service included, there's no denying this is a pricey meal. But for a magical evening that transports you body and soul into a luxurious and exotic beach holiday, it's not bad value for money.