Christmas in LA is all about the kids, but still manages to offer some grown up pleasures

I come from a small family, the maternal side of which has dwindled to just a pair of progeny: my cousin's 8- and 3-year-old boys. Given my mother's fragile health, a big family Christmas was at the top of the priority list.

This has never happened before. The family is closer than some, more distant than others, but for a variety of reasons Christmas has generally been a quiet holiday spent with just me and my mother in Florida, England or St. Louis. This year, however, it was LA. As I walked out of LAX into the brilliant sunshine, contemplated the rotten weather in London and succumbed to the temptation to upgrade to a convertible. I had to admit: this was nice.

Obviously, with two kids in the prime Santa zone, Christmas was all about them. We spent a festive Christmas Eve making gingerbread houses. (An art form at which I, clearly, do not excel. At least I had local colour; my house looked like an earthquake victim.) We then feasted on my mother's home made pizza, with dough, cheese and pepperoni all carried from specialty shops in St. Louis. Christmas day was about mounds of presents for the little guys and the admiration of my cousin's impressive Christmas displays. Boxing Day saw us at Disney on Ice, where I was perhaps more fascinated by marketing that could get parents to pay $12 for a snow cone (in a specialty cup, of course) than I was by show itself.

Fast forward to New Year's day and we found ourselves at the Rose Bowl parade. This, of course, was in theory for the kids ... but the adults lapped up every minute. Like most Americans, I have watched this annual event on television since early childhood, marveling at the amazing mobile displays covered entirely with flowers and organic materials. As it's broadcast nationally from the West Coast, this meant an early start: On a bus at 5:30 to travel to Pasadena, wind through the crowds and get settled before the 8am kick off. But it was worth it. Floats of beauty, complexity and humour glided by, separated by excellent marching bands and showy contingents of equestrians in themed costumes. Pirate ships, airplanes, stadium models, Chinese warriors and more drifted by. My favourite float, without doubt, was Natural Balance pet food's ski jumping bulldogs. Yes, real, live dogs, standing on snowboards, sliding down an artificial slope along the entirety of the parade route. Priceless. I didn't manage to get a great photo, but you can check out someone else's video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LeuAmYpCjoI.

My most guilty childish pleasure of the trip? My introduction to Balboa Bars. Balboa Island is a strip of shockingly expensive real estate lying off the coast of Orange County. You take a small, traditional car ferry over and are greeted with shopping and dining streets of great charm, almost New England-like, interspersed between streets of "beach cottages" that go for millions. And in the midst of this well heeled luxury you will find two humble ice cream stands battling for the coveted title of best Balboa Bar. And what is this delight? A rectangle of vanilla ice cream on a stick, dipped in hot molten chocolate that hardens just after it's dredged through the topping of your choice. My cousin favours Dad's Donuts rather than Sugar and Spice in this war, and though I didn't comparison taste, I find it hard to believe much of anything could be better than Dad's combo bar, encrusted with a mix of nuts, oreos, butter brickle and chocolate sprinkles. Thank God I live 5,000 miles away from this place, because this was too delicious for restraint.

We left the kids at home for a few grown up foodie pleasures, of course. On the more humble end, I indulged my Mexican cravings at El Burrito Junior, still my all-time favourite taco stand and better than the majority of "proper" Mexican restaurants anywhere. We made several visits to Captain Kidd's fresh seafood market, where they'll cook up anything they sell while you wait.

While we nibbled on sushi throughout the visit, Yamashiro served it up in the most spectacular setting. It's a Japanese palace, built in 1911 by some early Hollywood moguls to house their Asian art collection. In the '20s it became a social club for the greats of the early film industry. It fell into disrepair after WWII, when all things Japanese were shunned, and has been lovingly restored over the past 30 years. It is a magnificent building, with teak beams, gilt accents, sliding panels, tile roofs, an interior courtyard with Japanese gardens and more gardens surrounding the outside. The walls facing Hollywood, LA and the ocean are almost entirely glass, providing a magical view. And the sushi? Excellent, though you're without doubt paying a premium for the setting. As with most Californian sushi spots, they have an array of gorgeous, complex and ingredient-loaded rolls. My favourite was the Darth Vader: spicy tuna, cucumber, avocado, black rice and spicy mayo. Though the Californication (spicy tuna, california roll, soy roasted shishito pepper, eel sauce) and the wacky Hawaii Five-O (spicy yellowtail, mango, macadamia nuts, toasted coconut, soy paper) were in tight competition. I'd definitely come back here, preferably during the day so I could explore the gardens.

My favourite evening out, however, was New Year's Eve at Baleen at the Portofino Inn; an exquisite conjunction of setting, food, wine and beloved company. The dining room sits in a separate building on the King Harbor Marina, thus avoiding the institutional feel that some hotel restaurants have. You climb a flight of stairs to arrive in a waterfront pavilion, a surprisingly dark, luxurious and cosy interior despite the expanse of windows and the watery view. Even though it was a cool night, the windows to the Marina were thrown open, the chill kept at bay by a roaring fire. Clearly, best to go for a layered look when visiting at this time of year, however, because the room temperature varied considerably between fire (blazing) and window seat (a bit chilly).

A set menu was the only option for the holiday, but this wasn't a problem as the options looked fantastic and the price ($50 per person, $65 with wine) was fair. Though I would happily have paid a little more for the wine flight in order to get bigger glasses; it was truly just a taster.

I started with the pan friend foie gras with scallop, though I was mightily tempted by the lump crab wrapped in marinated cucumber with winter vegetables. The man gave me a bite of the latter, which was excellent ... but not as celebratory as my foie gras. The chef had paired this course with an Australian viognier that was crisp enough to complement the crab, yet had enough sweet notes to work well with the the liver. For the main, I went with the lobster tail while the man opted for the rib eye, which they did manage to get almost as rare as he likes it. Both dishes were both packed with flavour and beautifully presented. Oddly, however, the chef had decided on a blend of malbec, cabernet and syrah (Justin - Savant) to pair both dishes. Fantastic with the beef but it overpowered the delicate lobster terribly. I topped up the man's glass with mine, then ordered more of the previous course's viognier, which worked beautifully. Dessert was a trio of chocolate delicacies, beautifully served and melt-in-the-mouth tasty.

This was fine dining on a level I hadn't previously found in the laid back, casual world that is the South Bay of Los Angeles. On par with any fine restaurant in London, it gets my highest foodie recommendation for anyone visiting the area. And it was a fine way to celebrate the turn of the year.

There's nothing like an American Thanksgiving

I can't remember the last Thanksgiving I spent in the States. It was certainly at least five years ago, and as many as 10. Given the holiday's close proximity to Christmas, traveling back for it is usually impractical if you have big yuletide plans. But this year, given the "carpe diem" motivations of my mother's illness ... and the ability to do my job from St. Louis for a couple of weeks ... a proper American Thanksgiving made sense.

I indulged in all the critical elements of the holiday. Food. Shopping. Getting up the Christmas decorations. Starting the Christmas baking. Catching up with old friends and extended family. The weather being particularly fine, I was even drafted into raking leaves at my childhood home. I may have grown up and moved on, but those damned oak trees are still carpeting the place in a thick layer of brown which must be removed. It wasn't fun when I was 13; it's not much more entertaining now. But at least I can justify it as exercise needed to stay in all the new clothes in smaller sizes that I just bought.

The highlight of the trip was the Thanksgiving meal itself. This is not a given. I am an only child of divorced parents, without aunts, uncles or cousins in town. The biggest family meal I can put together is for three; rarely does that add up to the festive expectation set by movies. Thus it was a delight to be included as extensions of the Edgar family, where five children of my generation, all married with their own progeny, and random extensions like us pushed the guest total to near 30. The kitchen was a merry production line, laughing children ran laps around the house, wine flowed and there was enough food to feed an army. The patriarch of the family has this event down to a science, clearing out the sitting room and filling it with a huge, medieval-style, c-shaped banquet table.

I was reminded, as I watched the menu coming together, of just how laden with sugars and fats this traditional meal is. Sure, the roast turkey is healthy. But we put it with cranberries and sweet potatoes that could both be desserts, potatoes lashed with cream and butter, and a green bean casserole that masks the vegetables with cream of mushroom soup and deep fried onions. And that's before you tuck into the pecan pie or piled whipped cream on the pumpkin pie. It's a weight watchers nightmare. But damn, it was good.

All this food is, of course, traditionally followed by shopping. My dad played his usual role of wingman, carrying bags and catching up with me between shops. The malls were crowded but not excessively so. I found parking even at midday. The sales were good, but not jaw dropping. Still, I managed to find enough at Dillards, Macys and Coldwater Creek to do all the wardrobe replenishment I needed.

I augmented the holiday routine with one special night out. Kemoll's has been one of St. Louis' finest Italian restaurants since it opened in 1927. (Yes, Italian. Despite the name. In the '20s, people had difficulty with tricky names like "Camuglio", so the family anglicised it to Kemoll.) Their deep fried artichokes, toasted ravioli and variety of veal dishes have marked many a St. Louisan's special nights, including mine. Last year, Kemoll's moved into the 40th floor of the Met Life building, once of the city's highest, thus adding amazing views of the riverfront and arch to the great food.

I have to admit to some flashbacks with the appetizers ... in my high school days this was the American Bar Association, and the venue for my junior prom. It was not the most pleasant of evenings, as my badly-chosen date ignored me in the early hours, then ended up snogging a classmate in my car at the after-dance party. While I was not damaged for life, it was certainly traumatic, and hadn't left me with fond memories of that room. I'm delighted to report that a fine dinner with some excellent wine, in the company of my mother and the adopted sister who's been a best friend since we were three, banished all those nasty ghosts.

As did the idea of a perfectly-chosen date waiting for me back in England. When I introduce him to St. Louis, I'll be treating him to a romantic dinner here.

Proof of recession? I just had a cheap dinner in New York City.

There I was again in New York, the city that keeps trying to grow on me. I notice the treeless canyons less and the architecture more. My ever-growing circle of friends is so lovely, they overshadow the aggressive nastiness of the natives. And I'm never there long enough to be off London time so I ... never a morning person ... am up and taking my morning walk at 6am when the city, to my eyes, is at its best.

This was a mostly-manic business trip, with few moments available for personal time. Thanks to those early mornings, I managed to carve out a few fine rambles. This included a particularly lovely walk up Fifth Avenue (no time for shopping, but I could check out the windows) and a loop through the edge of Central Park. I grabbed breakfast with a dear Northwestern classmate in a classic, if unremarkable, little diner. Dinner on my first night, between arrival and crashing from jet lag, was with a sorority sister I hadn't seen for 18 years. No food could have bettered the joy of that reunion, but the Brazilian place on restaurant row did a mean tilapia fillet.

There was only one other night for dinner out, organised by the colleague I was catching up with. And what I fine choice she made.

Vong's. 200 East 54th Street. Sophisticated, French-influenced Asian food in elegant surroundings. Four course tasting menu for a remarkable $35. (My coffee and bagel in the hotel for breakfast didn't cost that much less.) Need I say more? Perhaps just a few words...

For that price in the Big Apple I was expecting un-remarkable, and mass produced. What came out of the kitchen was delicate, carefully prepared and of top quality. I started with the peekytoe crab spring rolls, which were definitely a step up from your usual Thai restaurant mass produced items. Next up, wild striped bass on top of some wok-fried cabbage. The sinus-draining spices here weren't for the faint of heart, but I was feeling both satisfied and quite virtuous by the last bite; a healthy dish I'd love to re-create at home. On to roasted lemon grass chicken, also on the spicy side, served over green beans. Then all the good health and virtue went out the window as the dessert arrived. The trio of individual sweets was the kind of thing I've paid top price for in other restaurants. Having it thrown in at the end of a reasonably priced tasting menu was truly amazing.

Here is a recession-friendly place. Accountants will have no problem signing off a relatively modest expense request, while diners will get tastes and experiences worth a bigger price tag. Next time I'm in New York ... especially if I'm there on my own money ... Vong's will be top of my return list.

St. Louis' Italian neighbourhood is hard to beat (and then you get to have lunch at a world-class Irish pub)

Like most American cities, St. Louis' early days were dominated by a handful of nationalities. In our case, it was predominantly German, Irish and Italian. (Interestingly, the French founders made a limited long-term impact.) You can find examples of each of those influences today in German wineries and bakeries, Irish pubs ... but only the Italians still have a whole neighbourhood. It's called "The Hill", and a vibrant district it is.

Many towns have a "Little Italy", of course. But in so many the Italian heritage is giving way to other nationalities. The children of the Italian immigrants go to college, become professionals, move to the 'burbs, and the immigrant neighbourhood turns over to the next set of new Americans. Somehow, miraculously, St. Louis' Hill has remained resolutely, defiantly Italian-American. Eighty percent of the district's small, quaint houses are filled with descendants of Italian immigrants; the place has enough of a mystique to appeal to those who could choose the suburbs. The shops and restaurants are still those of my childhood, and my mother's childhood: Amighetti's, Milo's, Cunetto's, Favazza's, Viviano's, DiGregario's. People who have moved away ... whether to the suburbs, New Jersey or London ... still come here to fill their larders when they're in town.

I grew up with this embarrassment of riches, never suspecting that people in other cities couldn't easily procure fine veal, home made mozzarella, hand cured olives, locally produced salami, fifty varieties of pasta, cannoli and pizza dough within a five-block area. My move to Texas gave me perspective. This place is special. In fact, it might even be better than Italy itself. In example after example, the infusion of American elements into traditional recipes produces products on The Hill that are as good as, if not better than, what I've had in the "old country".

The traditional Ferrara grocery excursion starts at the Missouri Baking Company, where generations of Gambaros, Arpianis and Lardos have miraculously transformed flour into pure decadence. As a small child I was always showered with free cookies when I arrived, the much coo-ed over granddaughter of Dr. Ferrara. (Reinforcing that dangerous link between food and love that every Italian waistline eventually battles.) This place smells amazing. From the moment you enter the door you're hit with sweet aromas of sugar, yeast, fruit, caramel, chocolate.

They're famous for their broad range of traditional Italian cookies but for me, one stands supreme. The cuccidati is a fig stuffed, white-iced delight, clearly what fig newton's try to emulate, but don't even approach. They do their own version of New York's famous black-and-white cookies, actually a fist-sized disk of iced white cake. Coffee cakes beckon with fruit, crumble and icing. Their pizza dough ... home made, delicate and risen to a height I have never achieved at home ... is the base for my mother's famous Sicilian style deep dish, and can also be deep fried and dipped in honey for a sinful breakfast treat. There's only one thing, however, that I can't leave the shop without: cannoli. Literally translated as "tubes", these are tubes of deep-fried pastry, piped full of sweetened ricotta cheese and dusted with powdered sugar. I thought all Italians ate these. It wasn't until I started visiting Italy regularly that I found out they're basically Sicilian peasant food, and rarely show up in restaurants or bakeries north of Naples. All those posh Tuscans bakers and London restaurant owners don't know what they're missing.

Once we've stocked up on everything we need to send our blood sugar levels to dangerous places, we wander up the street to Volpi's. Here, it's not flour but cows and pigs that get transformed for the plate. Volpi's makes pepperoni, prosciutto, coppa and a score of other specialty products that could break the resolve of the staunchest vegetarian. Here the aromas are of sharp spices, rich fat and cured meat. Volpi's has recently gone upscale with a range of wine-based sausages that can now be found in gourmet stores around America (and, a friend reports, in Italy). But the heart of the place is still all about the staff standing behind the big, spinning slicers, shaving piece after piece of translucently thin meats onto glittering white waxed paper, then folding it into a precise little parcel for you to take away.

Now it's time to get the rest of the groceries at Viviano's. If the smell of Mo Baking is sweetness, and Volpi's spice ... Viviano's is quite simply the smell of everything good and Italian. Oregano, fresh bread, tomato sauce, red wine, cheese ... it's all floating around the air here. This is the smell of my Grandmother's kitchen. Of Italian holidays. Of childhood. Of happiness.

At the centre of the store is a deli counter where guys who've been there for decades slice meats and cheese and dish up goodies marinating in colourful vats. Artichoke salads. Mixed olives. Tuna-stuffed peppers. Fresh buffalo mozzarella. In a nearby freezer you can get large bags of toasted ravioli to take home. (That's regular ravioli, breaded and deep fried, to be served dipped with marinara sauce. An artery-blocking treat unique to St. Louis. And mouth-wateringly tasty.) There's an entire row to the left of the store that's nothing but pasta in every shape or size available, and an entire row to the right that's all Italian wine. Appropriate brackets for every nuance of Italian culinary basic you need. There's even a dusty corner stocked with rare kitchen implements like cannoli forms and ravioli rollers. The turn-of-the-century wedding portrait of the original founders stares benignly over the crowds, and just recently has started to decorate jars of Viviano-brand pasta sauce. Absolutely, positively the best I've ever had out of a jar.

After all this hard graft and all these aromas, my stomach is usually rumbling by this point. If I want to stay Italian, I'll pop up the street to Amighetti's: another bakery, this one famous for enormous poor boy sandwiches featuring seemingly every meat produced on the hill, spicy peperoncini and provolone cheese on fresh-baked Italian bread. If I want to while away the afternoon drinking, I'd go to Milo's, a great bar with a leafy bocce court and garden in back. (In my college days you got a free tee-shirt if you "drank the wall" here, consuming one each of Milo's specialty drinks. Yes, a lot of bad habits formed on The Hill.)

But, ironically, it is usually at about this time that my mother and I decide we need O'Connell's. Perhaps it is some vital element in my DNA, reminding my stomach and brain that my Italian blood mixed with the Lees and Sullivans of County Longford a generation before it got to me.

O'Connell's is a PROPER Irish pub. Dark, cozy, unpretentious, filled with regulars. You could pick it up and drop it in Dublin without any trouble. No leprechauns, shamrocks and fake Irishness here. This is all about a well pulled pint (the house ale is excellent), creamy Guinness and wholesome food served on paper plates. O'Connell's regularly wins awards for the best burgers in town. Their roast beef sandwich is equally famous, piled high with thick slices of a proper roast, exactly to your desired level of done-ness. (But who would destroy such a treat by pushing beyond medium rare?) Add some onion rings and a pint, bring me a bottle of horseradish and another of mayo, and I'm in business. The lunch bill for two? $24.

Now that's a satisfying way to end a shopping trip. By the time we returned to the car, the groceries had been stewing together for an hour and it smelled like ... Viviano's. With any luck, hauling all those bags in from the garage will start to build up an appetite for dinner.

St. Louis delivers a double surprise: A benign August and a classy winery

Thanks to the magic of digital communications, I'm working from St. Louis for six weeks while helping my Mom with some health issues. No one with any knowledge of this city, and certainly no one who spent her formative years here, would choose to visit St. Louis in August unless compelled by circumstances beyond her control. It is usually a hellish steam bath of heat, high humidity, relentless sun and little breeze.

It lived up to expectations the first few days. Fully acclimatised to England, I struggled to walk the dogs around the block. The air seemed almost too thick to breathe, the temperature draining. I stayed beneath the shelter of the trees, seeking any shade I could find. The view of forest out the back of my childhood home remains lush and green, but it was too hot to sit on the deck. Sticky and uncomfortable, even at night, when the mosquitos and flies attacking your exposed skin and the crickets and locusts sending there unnerving chorus from the trees are the only things that seem to have enough energy to move.

And then, thank God, rain. Serious rain of the type I've only ever seen in the midwest. Continuous, unrelenting streams lashing down for hours with the pressure of a garden hose on full bore. Lightening flashing and thunder rumbling continuously, all night long. Nature in all her fury rolling through the great plains, rivers and valleys of the heartland, consolidating all that nasty humidity into nourishment for the cornfields below.

And then: magic. In a once-in-my-lifetime event, the humidity hasn't come back. It's sunny and pleasant. High 60s and low 70s at night, low to mid-80s during the day. Which means you can actually enjoy what a lovely place this is, rather than cowering in dark, air-conditioned rooms waiting for the heat to break in late September.

I've been taking advantage of this miracle by getting outside a lot once I finish my workday. (Which is quite an early day to get maximum cross-over with the UK.) I'm taking lots of long walks around the sprawling subdivision in which my parents became the seventh homeowners 35 years ago; now there are hundreds of homes all aging nicely along streets shaded by mature oaks. I have my quick, one-mile and three-mile routes down, none of which seems to have the slightest impact on the energy levels of my mother's new cavalier King Charles puppy, Datchet. (My own beloved Darcy has never had this kind of oomph.)

Pleasant evenings meant we could enjoy one of the areas many free outdoor concerts in municipal parks. We headed to our local option, Chesterfield's Faust Park, for a rousing evening with a band called "Cornet Chop Suey" whose full brass section delivered a toe-tapping range of old fashioned jazz and big band music rich with the traditions of New Orleans, Memphis and St. Louis. A perfect night, except for the accidental run-in between my blackberry and a leaking picnic hamper. The water won. But that's another story.

The weekend before, we'd taken advantage of the weather to head to the wine country. Wine country, you ask? Yes indeed. In the early 20th century, Missouri was the top wine producer in the United States. (And was dominating beer production as well, of course. A veritable wellspring of alcohol.) The Missouri river valley had been settled in the mid-1800s by Germans fleeing political conflict at home, attracted by descriptions that promised conditions much like their native ones. With the Moselle fresh in my mind I can only violently agree with that original observation. Missouri wines in the German tradition flourished, we developed our own grape varieties (Norton and Chardonel) and all was well with the world. Then some spoil sports in Washington tried to regulate the nation's morality with the failed experiment of prohibition, and killed off an entire industry as a consequence.

The Missouri wine industry was mostly dormant until the recent past when American tastes started turning back to wine and some agricultural entrepreneurs thought they'd try to revive old traditions. There is now a wide variety of vineyards along the Missouri, some of them producing respectable and award winning stuff. (Following their German heritage, the whites have always been pretty good, the reds more challenging to produce.) But the vineyard visiting experience has never been a particularly elegant one. More Grinzing, Austria, than Napa, California, Missouri Valley vineyards have typically been picturesque spots where residents of St. Louis and Kansas City decamp with large picnic hampers to get wasted on multiple bottles of cheap plonk while the poor designated driver appreciates the view. It's been about wine guzzling, not wine tasting.

Spotting a hole in the market, a group of local investors has entered with Chandler Hill. My first impression? I can't believe I'm in Missouri. The architecture, ethos and atmosphere is all pure Californian. Only the view (which is, I believe, much better) is pure Missouri. There's a substantial tasting bar which can probably accommodate up to 40 people at a time, staffed with people who clearly know what they're doing and could provide a good description of what you were getting.

(A note to Europeans: unlike our wineries, where tastings are free and you try a few things you like before buying at least one courtesy bottle if the stuff was decent, American tastings are more formal and charge. You pay a fee for a certain number of tastes, then your host takes you through a range. This does at least free you from the guilt of buying wines you don't much like out of a desire to be polite.)

The cathedral-like space of the tasting room has plenty of space for tables, and one end is dominated by a limestone fireplace and chimney, fronted by big couches, that should make for a cozy space in the winter or for private tastings. French doors lead out to a massive deck, elegantly furnished in all-weather wicker couches, coffee tables and tables, with plenty of umbrellas and a wide veranda to provide cover from the sun. The hillside of vines stretches away and down to a lake and the 19th-century house of Joseph Chandler, a freed slave who'd travelled North and settled here on land next to more famous neighbours: Daniel Boone's family. The longer view takes in the whole Missouri River valley, all the way to the white limestone bluffs on the far side, shining starkly out from the otherwise unremitting carpet of green.

Despite only being open for three weeks, the place was packed. The magnificent weather had to help. The target market seemed to be turning up; the crowd looked older, less rowdy and more affluent than the typical denizens of some of the more established wineries. The food also looked good, although we'd just had lunch so didn't sample. The one missing element at this point is the local wine.

The vineyards are too young to produce anything good enough to ferment. Although their are plans afoot to make balsamic vinegar and cooking sauces with this autumn's crop. The owners are going the wholesale route to produce a range of Missouri wines they can label their own. They're drinkable, but to my (admittedly jaded) European palette, nothing particularly special. Surprisingly for anything bearing a Missouri label, the reds were better than the whites. We bought a couple of bottles of their Old Bridge Chambourcin, which improved considerably when matched, once home, with barbequed pork steaks. My pick was their top of the price range Savage Norton Dry. Undeniably good, but at $24.99 a bottle you can get far tastier foreign options for a better price. Chandler Hill has some work to do here. But the obvious investments in infrastructure and staff give me confidence they'll eventually produce something as impressive as their business plan.

Meanwhile, time, sun and vines will just have to be left to do their work. Humans may have some issues with Missouri's summer weather, but the grapes love it.

Familiarity breeds a bit of affection as I return to New York City

Regular readers of this blog will know that I'm not crazy about New York City. But I have to admit, the more I visit, the more I enjoy it. While I'm still not going to place it on my Top 10 list, I will admit: New York and I are starting to get along.

This was a business trip with a sightseeing weekend tacked on the end, and Mom brought along for a treat. We indulged in all the New York tourism standards: theatre, Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, Fifth Avenue, mile-high sandwiches. Everything, really, except shopping. (I have a month stretching ahead in St. Louis. Why buy anything in pricey NYC?)

The highlight had to be the unexpected treat of getting into one of the hottest shows in town, South Pacific. (Deep thanks go to a colleague at my advertising agency with fine connections in the entertainment industry.) This revival has received rave reviews and is one of the toughest tickets in New York to get; they're sold out 'til October. It's also one of the few New York musicals not playing in London, and I wanted to see something I couldn't get at home.

Of course, it would be hard to do South Pacific badly. It has to be one of the finest musicals of all time, with a soundtrack that delivers one romatic standard after another. I would imagine most people (at least most with a decent range of songs from the classic age of American songwriting on their iPod) can sing along with the majority of the show without even thinking about it. Of course, don't try that here. The cast delivers a range of voices that deserve to be appreciated for every note. Great sets, sensitive direction, fantastic acting. I hope this one does come to London; it's a guaranteed hit on either side of the Atlantic.

We opted for a combined ticket with City Sights NY for our sightseeing transportation. $64 per person got us tickets good for 72 hours that included four different bus tours and the boat out to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis island. We didn't use half of the potential, but it was still a good deal. Live guides provide commentary, giving me lots of new insight into the city. I particularly enjoyed the uptown tour, which took you up and down the two sides of Central Park (pointing out where the rich and famous live) and zig-zagging through Harlem, which is a vibrant and rather genteel community not at all deserving of its rough reputation. The downtown tour took me past more familiar sights, and established a list in my head of places to which I'd like to return.

The pinnacle of the sightseeing, however, was the cruise out to Liberty and Ellis Islands. I'd been to Liberty Island and the Statue of Liberty as a kid. (Back when you could climb to the crown; a different age.) Mom had never been. So it was great fun to explore together. Lady Liberty is at her most impressive when you're standing directly beneath her. These days, in a harbour surrounded by skyscrapers, massive cruise ships and tankers, she doesn't seem that big from a distance. But get next to her and you realise what a monumental feat her construction is, and how beautiful she is as a work of art. We skipped going into the base, which contains a museum and requires advance reservations. But if you had more time, I'm sure it would be worth it.

More important to us was moving on to Ellis Island. If you don't have a personal connection to this place, it would just be mildly interesting. But for my mother and me, as for millions of Americans, it was an emotional journey back to the place where part of our family's American story started. My grandfather arrived here as a young boy in 1906. Was he frightened? Excited? Overwhelmed? Questions I wish I would have asked him when he was still around, but which the child-me never considered. The managers of the museum do a great job of trying to answer those questions for us, with exhibits that track the immigrants' experiences and their impact on America's growth. It's sobering to realise that this place had been abandoned, fallen into complete ruin and was almost torn down. What a tragedy that would have been for American history. As part of the fundraising to get the building restored, organisers built a wall featuring names of hundreds of thousands of immigrants who'd passed through the island and whose families later donated funds in their memory. We found my grandfather amongst a substantial list of Ferraras. All along the wall, visitors were stroking names. Some smiling, some laughing, some crying. All, no doubt, thinking about those brave adventurers who made our lives and our country such an impressive place.

Back on Manhattan, the visit was dominated by the quest for the perfect deli sandwich and slice of cheesecake, with a cold can of diet Dr. Brown's cream soda to wash it down.

Don't panic, Ferrara's View isn't sliding downmarket on you. Of course New York is filled with elegant dining opportunities to match those of any world capital. Out with colleagues, I enjoyed several magnificent and potent cocktails called "Parker"s in the sophisticated lounge of the Algonquin hotel before heading off to dinner at DB's Bistro Moderne. No, you cretins, it's not some "Sex in the City" libation named after Sarah Jessica Parker. This fine twist on the martini honours Dorothy Parker, the rapier-witted author who formed part of the circle of writers who hung out here and made the place famous in the early 20th century. No doubt they pack enough of a punch to deliver on one of Parker's more famous quotes: "after three, I'm under the table, after four, I'm under my host." But we moved on to dinner before there was any danger of that.

DB's is a more casual offering from famous New York chef Daniel Boulud, providing fine French food in a buzzy, modern setting in midtown. It is perhaps most famous as being the place that started the Manhattan gourmet burger wars, introducing what at the time was the world's most expensive hamburger. One of my colleagues tried this concoction: a ground mix of sirloin, fois gras and short ribs topped with truffles. I went for a more traditional grilled haddock option, preceeded by some beautifully prepared artichoke soup, which thrilled with its simple presentation of that vegetable's unique taste.

Both excellent culinary experiences. But, short of touching the ghosts of the Algonquin Round Table and hoping some of their literary magic rubs off on me, all things I can match quite easily in London. What I can't get ... anywhere outside of New York, really ... is a pastrami on rye with hot mustard and a giant pickle, piled 10 inches high and delivered by a big guy with an accent straight out of central casting.

We conducted a compare-and-contrast exercise at two famous delis: Katz and the Carnegie. Katz' is downtown on Houston and is the pick of most of the tour guides. The atmosphere is fantastic; a big, casual dining room gives everyone the chance to watch the production along the long deli counter. We opted for a classic Rueben here, and got that satisfying taste sensation of corned beef, Russian dressing, gooey cheese and sauerkraut. One of Katz's claim to fame is that their meats are hand cut. You get thick wedges of meat rather than the wafer-thin shavings of most other delis. I suppose it depends on your taste, but this did not seem an advantage to me. It made the sandwich almost impossible to eat, as the meat was too tough to sever with your teeth, and emphasised the fattiness of the corned beef.

Ergo, the prize must go to the Carnegie Deli. More expensive (inevitable due to its mid-town location near Carnegie Hall) and less atmospheric (you're wedged in at shared tables with other diners into a space that's cramped and rather dark), I thought both their sandwiches and their cheesecake had the edge on Katz. A warning to the uninitiated: at either place, it's best to split a sandwich or plan to take half home. My half of a $21 sandwich ... plus $3 sharing fee ... at Carnegie (turkey, corned beef and swiss on rye) was then split in half again, providing generous amounts for both lunch and a dinner snack on the plane home that night.

Plenty of places around America try to copy the experience, but there's nothing quite like the proper New York deli. Whether Katz', Carnegie, or places yet to be discovered ... long may they be dishing up the nosh.

Midwesterner gives New York grudging respect and tips a few fine places

An English friend is visiting New York later this year and, not unreasonably given my accent, has asked me for tips on what she should see. The reality is that most middle-class Londoners have probably spent far more time in the Big Apple, and appreciate it far more, than me.

As regular readers of this blog will know, I carry a classic Midwestern chip on my shoulder when it comes to the American coasts, and especially to New York City. Why must an entire country be lumped in with one big city, which neither reflects nor understands much of the world beyond its borders? And, as the famous New Yorker magazine cover suggests, doesn't really care?

The truth is, I don't much like New York. Nor, with the exception of a small handful with whom I share DNA or significant life experiences, do I like New Yorkers. I resent its dominance, find its people rude and avaricious and its canyons of high rises soulless. The magic simply passes me by.

Admittedly, ignorance plays a role here. I had only made one brief, childhood visit to NYC before my first business trip there in the late '90s. I have since returned three times, almost always on business. So my total time as a tourist in this magnet for Europeans is probably less than five days.

With all the vitriol out of the way, I'll admit that over the years I've gained a grudging respect for the city. While it will never be a favourite, I have found elements of the town that I like a great deal. I appreciate the polyglot mix of people, cuisines and traditions. I acknowledge that it is a worthy repository of high culture, and it's filled with good architecture.

So, for what it's worth, and in order to fulfill my friend's request, here are a slightly resentful and uninformed Missourian's picks for visiting New York:

The New York Public Library headquarters building is my single favourite sight in the city. On Fifth Avenue between 40th and 42nd street, it is an architectural beauty, a cultural landmark and a quiet place to take a pause from sightseeing or shopping. It was designed as a Renaissance palazzo; but larger and grander than anything Lorenzo di Medici would recognise. I love the fact that early 20th century New Yorkers chose a palace as the architectural idiom in which they stored their books. I have spent hours happily rambling around this remarkable building, checking out special exhibitions and marvelling at the procession of grand rooms. And you can also check your email here, if you're in need of a connection with the modern world.

New York is one of the finest places in the world to see a lot of art deco in one place. I like to just walk around midtown with my eyes open and raised high to take in the variety and detail. The Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building are deservedly famous from this era, but I like to point people to the Fred French Building, at Fifth and 45th. Art deco had a wonderful way of mixing old styles with modernism, and here you see the style drawing from the highly unusual source of ancient Persia. The building, both outside and in its lobby, is a colourful riot of Babylonian winged bulls, Persian warriors and decorative elements from palaces we're unlikely to see in person unless we do a stint in the army. Not only do I love the uniqueness, but these days I find it particularly heart warming to remind people that great cultures came out of the land around the Tigris and Euphrates long before modern political strife.

Continuing up Fifth Avenue you reach the point which, for me, serves as the emotional heart of the City: Rockefeller Center and Saks Fifth Avenue. The former is another art deco masterpiece, well worth a lengthy wander even without the famous skating rink and the upscale shops. But it's Saks across the street that's my NYC Mecca. Thanks to the grandmother after whom I'm named, I grew up associating Saks with classic, sophisticated elegance. (Which was everything a lady should be. My family didn't do trendy.) The mother store sets the tone for the whole empire; you half expect to bump into Audrey Hepburn shopping for a new little black dress. I simply love wandering and drinking in the atmosphere. Note, I haven't mentioned the word "shopping" yet. While I'll invest in special items at Saks, I'm more likely to do my major spending at Macy's flagship store. Though increasingly tattered and a far cry from elegance, the selections are broader and the sales usually excellent.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art is without question one of the finest museums in the world, and nobody should escape a first visit to New York without a pilgrimage here. There's a very showy Egyptian section, complete with a reconstructed temple in its own glass-roofed wing with Nile-evoking water feature. But my favourite bit is the traditional European art, and what it says about 19th and early 20th century New Yorkers. The Met is a spiritual sister to the British Museum: both are treasure troves of Empire, collections of goodies from around the world assembled thanks to the huge wealth of the imperial power and the relative hard times of those selling off their patrimony. At the British Museum, you see the treasures of Greece, Egypt, the Near East and Asia carted home by the rulers of the 18th century world. A century or so later, European empires were waning and American commercial power was buying art, sculpture and whole rooms from castles (whatever you do, don't miss Federigo da Montefeltro's study) and country houses to ship to the new world. It makes you wonder if, in another few centuries, there will be a fantastic museum in China exhibiting the best of America and other Western powers.

Despite the Met's wonders, my favourite museum is the much smaller Frick Collection, at Fifth and East 70th. A delightful collection of European decorative and visual arts, displayed within the grand townhouse of the wealthy industrialist who gathered and then donated this treasure trove. If you want to get a taste of the gilded age, this is it.

Moving beyond shopping and culture, I've never had a bad meal in New York. Nor have I been there enough to make firm recommendations. I will, however, point out a few culinary experiences any visitor should seek out. Ask the locals to recommend a good Jewish deli and indulge in a hot pastrami on rye, slathered with mustard and accompanied by the requisite dill pickle and slaw. New York pizza is justly famous and widely available, though you should look for places that have been around for a while and still have Italians in the kitchen. Staying with the Italian influence, no visit is complete for me without indulging in cannoli, a southern Italian dessert almost unknown in Europe north of Naples. (Though I've finally started seeing them on some trendy Italian menus in London.) The best outside of Italy are to be found here. Unique to New York, I believe, is the black and white cookie; actually a round disk of cake half iced with vanilla, and half with chocolate. And of course, the ultimate New York dessert is cheesecake. I've never had any in Europe that holds a candle to the real thing here.

I'll make an exception and mention one specific restaurant, as much for the experience as for the food. Carmine's unique angle is family style southern Italian. Everything comes out in giant platters to share. It is pointless to go here without at least four people, and things really get going with eight. This is as close as I've ever come in public to re-creating the feeling of an Italian family kitchen, the table groaning beneath abundance, jugs of wine emptying briskly, and the whole act of sharing food evoking love, fellowship and contentment. Eating is about so much more than sustenance. An awareness, of course, that every Italian-American family breeds into its children from their first strand of spaghetti. Carmine's does a great job of bringing this to the general public. There are two branches, one in the theater district and one on the Upper West Side. See www.carminesnyc.com for details.

If I had one day to myself in New York, these are the places you'd be most likely to find me. If I had two days, I might even wander more than a few blocks off Fifth Avenue. But that story is still to be written...

(For more on New York, check out the blog entry from my last visit in November '07)

The Magic Kingdom never loses its charm

I spent Sunday in a losing battle with a seven-year-old. My argument: Pirates of the Caribbean is the best ride at Disneyland. By late afternoon I had managed to talk him to my side, displacing Star Tours, his previous favourite. But then I made the mistake of introducing him to the Matterhorn. Can you recall your first roller coaster? The speed, the excitement, the thrill of doing something so grown up? I'm afraid the buccaneers were doomed to fall behind the Alpine bobsled.

If you must be beaten by a child, then there's no better or more enjoyable place to surrender than Disneyland.

I am a Disney girl. Not only were the animated classics the seminal tales of my childhood, but I was privileged enough to have a bunch of holidays at both Disneyland (California) and Disney World (Florida). And while I love the excessive sprawl and variety of the group of parks and resorts in Florida, there is something uniquely magical about Disneyland.

This may be, in part, because it was the first of the Disney parks I visited. But 30 years later (yes, I am old enough to remember when each ride needed a ticket, and "E tickets" were the best) I still find the California incarnation that slight bit more magical than its Eastern sister. This is primarily due to size. Disneyland is like Dr. Who's Tardis: Bigger on the inside than the outside.

Disneyland is surprisingly small in comparison to any modern amusement park. And yet, the designers managed to magically cram in six radically different areas and a bewildering number of rides in each. Part of this is simply artful design. Architecture, trees and hedges are used to screen and separate one area from another. The closest parallel in my experience are the gardens at Hidcote and Sissinghurst, which employ exactly the same tricks to create vastly differing garden rooms. The illusion of each land is perfect, created with an attention to detail and architectural craftsmanship on par with what Disney might have done in his own home. Yes, these might be stage sets, but they're crafted with the detail and quality of the real thing.

Thus, when you're in Adventureland, you ARE in Africa ... something I've appreciated all the more since being to the "dark continent". Disney managed to distill and purify down to the essence of a place. Duck down a narrow passage, and you emerge into the old west. Just as perfectly evocative. And New Orleans Square is a perfected, exquisite representation of the French Quarter. Everyone should travel to see the world for themselves, of course. But I'm quite certain that Disney's distillation of the planet's best was part of what drove me to see more of the real thing.

One of the greatest miracles here is the way the engineers pieced the rides together. Several, like Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted House, have deceptively small footprints in relation to the expansive rides inside. This is because the ride itself has been sunk underground, reached through some clever entry point of waterfalls or hidden elevators. Or there's that argument-winning Matterhorn, the twists and turns of which have been built into a surprisingly tight circle, making it a skyscraper of roller coasters.

So, assuming I've convinced you of the "magic" in "Magic Kingdom", here are a few tips from an old hand.

• If possible, make the most of early and late hours. The first hour upon park opening, and the last before it closes, are always the best time to get on the premium rides.


• Take advantage of the Fast Pass system. This allows you to pre-book riding time on the best rides. The most efficient way to manage the queues is to alternate Fast Passes with waiting, enabling you to walk straight on to every other ride.


• Use the most crowded part of the day to eat, browse through the shops or watch the entertainers. Or explore Tom Sawyer's Island, which is never quite as crowded as the rest of the park.


• If you have time for a fine dining experience, try the Blue Bayou restaurant. This remains one of the better cajun restaurants I've experienced, with the benefit of a spectacular setting. You appear to be in a lantern-lit courtyard at the back of an ante-bellum mansion. Stars twinkle above in an inky night sky, crickets chirp, Spanish moss hangs from the trees and boats (actually part of Pirates of the Carribbean) glide through the bayou beyond. It's a particularly great illusion when it's a hot and sunny day outside.


• Buy yourself a pair of mouse ears with your name stiched across them at the Mad Hatter in Fantasyland. For some inexplicable reason, this is the only place on either coasts that you can get the old-fashioned, personalised mouse ear treatment.


• Finally, take along a seven-year-old. While Disney easily stands on its own for adults, and I've enjoyed numerous holidays in both parks without a kid for company, there is something particularly special about re-discovering the magic with the next generation. Even if he can't yet appreciate the world-beating primacy of the pirates.

LA is at its most palatable in March

It is ironic that, so soon after my last column complaining about the unfair dominance of the American coasts, I write today from Los Angeles. Even more so as, while taking a walk along the beach this morning, admiring the pounding surf to one side, cascading banks of spring flowers to the other, the green abundance of the Palos Verdes peninsula before me, sunshine and blue skies above, I had to admit ... This is fabulous.

So I suppose I have to go on record agreeing with most of the planet that Southern California is a nice place. To visit. But I still wouldn't want to live here.

I am here at perhaps the best time of year to visit. In March, the land is still flush with winter moisture and cool temperatures, bringing every bit of greenery to its vivid best. Everything is in bloom; particularly dominant now are azaleas, birds of paradise and a wide variety of spring wildflowers.I am also staying, in my opinion, in one of the very nicest bits of the Los Angeles area. The air is wonderfully clear, with sharp views across the valley and none of the hanging smog that disfigures much of the rest of the year.

Redondo Beach nestles at the southern corner of the broad bay of Los Angeles, tucked beneath the looming, leafy hills and seaside cliffs of Palos Verdes. One of my biggest issues with LA in general is cement. Head to the centre of the valley and you are surrounded by mile after mile of strip mall, boulevard and building. Nature has been banished to pots, and green spaces are limited to strips of grass and palm trees along the roads. Not so in Redondo where, thanks to that thickly-planted hill, you can look up from anywhere to appreciate the hanging gardens that are Palos Verdes. As always since I visited South Africa, I am struck by how much this area resembles the magnificent landscapes south of Cape Town.And, let's face it, this place is nice because it's outrageously affluent. Entry level for even a tiny house is $1 million, an average rent is $2,400 a month. It's one of the few places in America that makes London house prices look sane. The streets are crowded with new, high-end vehicles (mostly 4 wheel drives), and everyone, including the dogs, is phenomenally well dressed. As is true the world over, the home turf of the wealthy is always easy on the eye.

So, a few quick tips.

We are staying at the Best Western on Pacific Coast Highway in Redondo Beach. Great value for money. Simple, and admittedly on the lower end of the American hotel chain world, but it provides all you need. The rooms are big, well decorated, in good repair, and come with a galley kitchen. It's nice to be able to stretch your dollars by eating breakfast or lunch in. There's a small pool, gym and hot tub. Free computer access in the lobby, a poolside cafe open for breakfast and lunch and a bar with a wide screen TV, mostly populated by the airline crews who seem to make up half the residency. There's ample free parking. Best of all, it's a short 10-minute walk to the beach and you're within strolling distance of scores of boutiques, cafes and restaurants. For Europeans who are always irritated by the inability to get anywhere in America without a car, this place is a lovely break from the norm.

About 3 miles north, where Redondo Beach changes to Hermosa Beach, you'll find a big complex of restaurants, shops and fishing piers. Lots of recommended restaurants here. My top pick this trip is Captain Kidd's, a fish market with some tables out back. The market has one of the finest and largest selections of fresh fish I've seen anywhere. If you want to eat in, you simply choose from anything in the case, decide on fried, sauteed or char grilled, pick your side dishes and wait. A few minutes later you'll be ensconced at a long wooden table in the glass-walled lean to out back, tucking into a styrofoam plate piled with the wonderfully fresh, perfectly cooked bounty of the seas.Just north along this coastal strip of restaurants are two other places of note.

For similar food in a finer setting, there's the Bluewater Grill. They offer a large variety of seafood; some of it prepared more elaborately, but most on the same "best quality, simply prepared" ethos of Captain Kidd's. Except here, for 25% more money, you get proper china, cheerful table service great views and a cathedral-ceilinged hall decorated with historic photos of fishermen and their catches.

One more step up the dining scale is the Chart House. A bit more formal, with a darker atmosphere, lower ceilings and even better harbor views. The menu here is a bit fussier; your fish is more likely to be doused with sophisticated sauces or rolled in macadamia nuts. There's a good salad bar and a tempting chocolate lava cake on the menu. My one complaint about the Chart House is the noise level. The low ceilings really make the sound reverberate, a circumstance at odds with the elegance of the restaurant.

Both the Chart House and the Bluewater Grill have excellent wine lists with a good array of Californian wines by the glass. Average dinner prices at the three restaurants range from $30 at Captain Kidd's to $60 at the Chart House, with Bluewater somewhere in between.

New York leaves me feeling middle aged

Last week, off to New York City ... before I'd even had time to unpack my bags properly from Tunisia. I'm not used to this much travel any more. Having taken three trips in, and been on the road for, most of the past 8 weeks, it's perhaps not surprising that I came back from New York with a miserable cold and am just getting back to normal, almost a week later.

New York has never been one of my favourite cities. It's probably the midwesterner in me. Growing up, St. Louisans always seemed to regard New York with a mix of admiration, longing, fear and hatred. I'm past my juvenile prejudices, and having spent more than half my working life in London I am now comfortable with big cities. But there's still something about New York that leaves me a bit cold. I suspect it's the combination of the relentless pace, the endless canyons of concrete, the noise and the lack of trees.

Those feelings were exacerbated this trip by the location of our hotel: The W on Times Square. If, like me, you like quiet green spaces and old world elegance, this place is not for you. It's basically like staying in a nightclub. The ground floor lobby is a stark, grey cube filled with club music and funky light features. Head up to the lobby on 7 and you step into the middle of a funky lounge/bar with artistic lighting and seating, where beautiful 20-somethings are knocking back martinis and the music has been turned up a few more notches. You have to work hard to find the reception desk, tucked discretely to one side. If I were on holiday with friends, and the intent of the trip had been fun, fashion and alcohol, this might have been fun. Arriving at 1:30 in the morning, on a business trip, after a 5 hour flight delay and with the prospect of a 9am meeting ahead, it all just made me grumpy.

The rooms continue the nightclub theme. Everything is sparse, minimal, black or grey. The lighting is so low as to be a bit ludicrous. Achingly cool light cubes under the side tables give the room a dramatic glow, but there are no overhead lights to get the room lighting past anything beyond dim. My colleagues joked that they ought to give anyone over 40 a flashlight when checking in.

On the positive side, the location is spectacular. Easy walking distance to many important locations, particularly (a) the office and (b) Rockefeller Centre and Saks.

The trendy theme continued on Halloween night, when our corporate outing was to a nightclub in the meat packing district called Lotus. All this hip stuff is courtesy of my vice president, who is one of the most fashionable and "in style" people I know. There's a clubbing 25-year old lurking not too far beneath the senior executive surface.

Rated a top 5 New York hot spot by Zagat, Lotus is the kind of place I felt I'd visited many times before ... mostly when watching episodes of Alias. The music mix was great. The decor was minimal and black, draped with swathes on red cloth and hanging skeletons for the holiday. The bar served up a fine mix of cocktails; I quickly settled into apple martinis of a calibre and icy temperature you don't often encounter in London. The food is Thai ... good if unremarkable ... and came to our group of 14 on large platters for sharing across the night.

"Halloween has become quite an adult holiday in America: in multiple senses of
the word."

As we were finishing our dinner the regulars started coming in, and I realised how much Halloween has changed since I left the States. Clearly, it's a seriously adult holiday. And, at least in New York, I'd use the word "adult" with all its nuances. Women were dressed as pirates, angels, devils, maids or Alice in Wonderland, all unified by their exceptionally short skirts, plunging necklines, push-up bras and spiky heels. I think the men in our party were enjoying themselves greatly. The fact that we all had to be at the office at 8 the next morning, and the sad reality that we were increasingly out of place as the club filled up with these costumed deities of sex, were a double reality check that sent most of us heading for the ride back to the hotel around 11.

The night before I'd dined in a different world: quiet modern elegance a stone's throw from Rockefeller Centre. I met my friend Lisa, with whom I'd just gone to Tunisia, at The Modern, the bar associated with the Museum of Modern Art. Another stage set of sparse, modern design, solid colours, draped fabrics, low lighting ... this time mostly in white and with a crowd that had a decade or more on the denizens of Lotus. On from there to Anthos, a restaurant at the heart of what is evidently a Greek revival in NYC. I was a bit surprised when Lisa suggested Greek ... pastitio, moussaka, roditis and baklava make good comfort food, but hardly seemed appropriate for fashionable mid-town Manhattan.

There's a reason they call this "New Aegean". The "Greek" is only a faint influence, present mostly in the platter of mezze that comes courtesy of the chef whilst you're perusing the menu. It was certainly the most elegantly served mezze I'd ever seen, with tiny cubes of fried holoumi artfully arranged on skewers next to a small pot of fish roe dip with pinkie-sized bread sticks custom made for dipping. The menu was heavy on fish, as you would expect. I saw some beautiful smoked Octopus go by but settled on a rich seafood risotto. We shared a trio of sorbets to honour our memories of Tunisia. The arrival of the bill reminded me that New York is probably just as expensive as London, and perhaps would be more so if not for the strong pound. Two courses and a bottle of wine for $80 a person is certainly no bargain.

Of course, bargains are not the point of New York. Fashion, 24-hour activity and making money are. And I seemed to get a taste of all of those this time. Not bad for a business trip. Even if you are feeling a bit too middle aged to fit in fully.