Africa's "New World" wines have three centuries of heritage

Contrary to usual habit, there's no big holiday scheduled this October. Thus I continue with my retrospective reportage of my best trip taken in pre-blog times. Here's what we got up to on this day in South Africa, three years ago. Wine tasting. Hmmm. Not that dissimilar to last October. Or the October before....

Even more than yesterday, today delivered a sense of the huge contrasts in this country.

As we drove out of Cape Town we went past mile after mile of shanty towns. The population in Cape Town is estimated to be 4 million, and 1.5 live in these settlements. They cover 30 square miles. The average "house" looked to be about the size of a large garden shed and was pieced together from random bits of corrugated metal, wood and plastic sheeting. These sit on grids of straight streets with central areas provided by the government for water and toilets. They spread in places as far as the eye can see and present a strange, squalid contrast to the verdant fields and dramatic mountains around them. Our guide told us these are mostly country people who have come to town for better opportunities. One can only imagine how awful their lives must have been if the shanty towns are better.

One positive observation. Despite the ramshakle appearance, I could see no garbage. Whether it's that these people are still very proud, or weather they are too poor to even have anything to throw away, they don't seem to live surrounded by the drifts of trash that characterise poor areas in the UK or US.

But then we crossed into the Stellenbosch Valley and, hey presto, you could be in Northern California with some strange, Dutch inspired architecture and a lot of African craft stores. The mountains are a bit more extreme than other wine regions I've been to (thrusting, stony peaks) but the gentle, vine covered slopes on the foothills could be France, California or Italy.

We went to two wineries and tasted a variety of wines at each. The first was a small place, built to look like a Tuscan villa. The second was much larger, and built around much older buildings in the Dutch style. The wine was good, but ironically I didn't think much of it was as good as what we have been served at meals thus far.

The first winery, Waterford, was built on an Italian model and the buildings and plantings screamed Tuscany. The winemaker, Kevin Arnold, hosted the tasting himself. (Photo above.) I do love that; wine is so much more interesting when the guy who made it is taking you through what he was trying to achieve. I was interested to learn that the South African wine industry is 300+ years old. After Europe they are the most established and hardly deserve the label "New World", but they are still suffering from decades of embargo.

The second place, Morgenhof, was one of the oldest farms in the valley and had a variety of 17th century cape Dutch buildings. (These are lovely, large, single story buildings with Dutch gables and thatched roofs.) The ethos of the winery, though, was all French. One of the Cointreau heirs bought it about a decade ago and has been dedicated to creating a grand French vineyard in the New World.

The experience was a bit commercial, but still fun.

Afterwards, we spent an hour wandering around the town of Stellenbosch itself. Amazingly cute, clean, tree-lined and prosperous. The only clue we were in Africa were the art galleries and tourist items on sale.

So, home from the wine day just long enough for a quick dip in the hotel pool. Then off to our nicest dinner of the trip.

Grute Schur is the official residence of the president of South Africa. Don't think White House. It's much more like a medium sized National Trust property in some nice parkland. The house is many hundreds of years old but what you see now is late 19th c thanks to its most famous resident, Cecil Rhodes.

We did formal group shots on the front steps, then adjourned to the gardens where a traditional African choral group performed over cocktails. Then we moved to the back of the house, where a traditional courtyard garden had been covered by a modern tent. We had a formal presentation, followed by some wonderful entertainment by an operatic trio along "three tenors" lines".

This was a night for celebration, as each of us were lauded for what we'd contributed to the company over the past year. Fortunately, the "work" side of things ended with that recitation of our hard graft. After that, it was just a bunch of fun people having a wonderful time in surroundings that were almost embarrassingly lush. I sucked enjoyment out of every moment, knowing that while I may return to South Africa, it's unlikely I'll be having dinner in the president's garden again any time soon.

Natural beauty makes Cape peninsula one of the world's lushest sites

In a travel-light month, I'm continuing on with a retrospective look at one of my most amazing pre-blog holidays. Here's what we got up to in Cape Town three years ago today.

Our days start at quite a civilised 9.30, so there's time to go swimming or to the gym before breakfast. The leisure facilities are on the top (19th) floor of this very modern hotel, so they make the most of the stunning views.

The pool is particularly nice. It's not very big (a wide lap pool, really) but very dramatic. One edge has a rimless "infinity pool" effect, with the water appearing to run right up to the windows. The view is of the harbour, mountains and Robben Island; you literally feel that you're floating over the city. The water is warm, the air is imbued with heavy perfumes from the spa and they even pump the new age spa music under water. Great for relaxation, I could have floated there all day. But we're trying to pack a robust African experience into just a week, so no time to dawdle.

Today's transportation was yet another clever touch that demonstrated how the trip organisers are making this event very special. We all turned up in the lobby expecting a tour bus. Instead, we were greeted by a line of vintage cars, their pristine paint jobs gleaming in the sun and their fins, curves and running boards forming a delightful contrast to the backdrop of the very modern hotel. Hillary and I started with two others in a 1950s Ford Zephyr, which was fun. But then we got lucky and the organisers asked us if two of us wanted to switch to one of the extra cars. (We've traveled together enough to know that being the sparky single girls who make friends with the staff often delivers dividends.) We took the chance ... all the cars were different, some showier than others ... and ended up in a 1939 Chevy for most of the day. A real gangster style car; it was a blast.

We particularly liked our driver, Alex Stuart, who told us all sorts of things about what we were seeing and was up for answering our questions about life here.

Our driving tour started by going up to the top of Signal Hill, which is one of three peaks looming directly over the city. On the way they looped us through Cape Town to see the main sights: the castle, the town hall, the colourful Cape Malay district. This was a clever way to do it, I thought, as it gave everyone the highlights but kept us from wandering on our own. Clearly the safest option as, despite appearances, we were warned that you still must be very careful here. The weather continued clear and we could see for miles. The hillsides were covered with wild flowers. Perfect for a bit of a walk at the top of the hill and lots of photos.

Unfortunately, we had to cancel the next part, the cable car up Table Mountain, because it was too windy. This meant we spent more time and did more photo stops with Alex. We drove down the coast south of Cape Town and saw some beautiful beaches and some very expensive neighbourhoods. The view is better than the swimming, though. We're so far south that the water on the Atlantic side never gets to a comfortable temperature. We then turned east and in a very short time were on the other side of the continent, so far south are we. It's the Indian Ocean on this side, which looks exactly the same but is much warmer (good for swimming) and has enormous sharks (bad).

At this point Alex had some car trouble and we ended up back in a foursome, in the car Alex's wife was driving. Also a '39 Chevy. I think we had the best experience, switching around and meeting so many other programme winners.

We drove by a couple of mansions of stupendous size. There is definitely great wealth here, and great poverty, and probably not enough in the middle. There are many social efforts to build a black middle class, and I sense this is the key to the future of the country. It's essential that they have a native population with an interest in maintaining stable government and a business community. Otherwise it's us v. them and revolution. But can they do it fast enough?

Alex commented that there simply weren't enough Mandelas. (An aside: we could see the bleakness of Robben Island from Signal Hill. It's amazing that after 27 years there he didn't seek revenge, but worked to build a unified country. My respect for him now is so much more sincere.) All it takes are some leaders who give in to mob rule, and masses taking land and businesses away from the more prosperous without the skills to manage them, and, hey presto, it's just like Zimbabwe and all those other failed African states. So it feels like the whole place is on a knife edge. It could continue on as the great African success story. It could slide into anarchy. I'm glad I saw it so that if the second option happens, I was here once. Nice place to visit but I sure as hell wouldn't want to live here. The people trying to push forward with this transformation are very brave. (Delighted to note that three years on, the positive side of this scenario seems to be winning, and the country's getting ready for the World Cup. Long may it last.)

Anyway, on to our next stop.

Kirstenbosch Gardens are, rightly, some of the most famous in the world. They were built to preserve South Africa's indigenous plants and were the first botanical gardens in the world dedicated to this purpose, as opposed to just showing off variety. As such, they give a great idea of how amazing the experience must have been for Europeans seeing this stuff for the first time, because everything is strange and different. Some flowers, like birds of paradise or calla lillies, we now know from florists and nurseries, but here they are growing wild in huge clumps.

The gardens are nestled up against some looming, steep mountain slopes and in the distance you can see the ocean (Indian) and more mountains. The setting reminded me quite a bit of Delphi in Greece.

We had an all-too-brief wander here and a lovely lunch. After years of being an independent traveler it's strange to be on a bus tour again where every stop seems like a short taster and leaves you wanting more. One advantage to the budget: No time for shopping at all.

We had a couple of hours at leisure at the hotel (naps) then it was off for the evening activity. First we got on a vintage (1930s) train and rode for about an hour up to the winelands. Then we arrived at the Spier winery where Hillary and I, unsurprisingly, were taking the tasting more seriously than most others. We had a lovely talk with the guys running the tastings and were one of the last in to the dinner.

Dinner, in the winery, was a big Cape Malay buffet. That is, mostly food with an Indian curry influence. More of the delicious kingclip on the menu. Later in the evening a local band came in to play for us and one of the band members pulled me up for a spotlight dance. Great fun.

We stopped for one drink in the bar when we arrived home but the pillow called, so sleep looms ahead. Another aggressive day of tourism lies ahead, and for this one, our palates need to be well rested.

Can it be three years since Cape Town? The memories are still bright as the African sun

Regular readers of this blog will think, now that it's October, reports from the annual Northwestern Girls' holiday must be on the horizon. Sadly, it's not to be in 2009. Between recessions, unemployment and family illness, there's no room for the trio's exotic romp through food, wine and historic sites this autumn. (Although, as a small substitute, we will be bringing you the NU girls' shopping weekend in Paris in early December.) Instead, my nose will be on a boring but rather intense work grindstone all month.

Without much to report on in the present, I thought I'd slip backwards. It was three years ago today ... before the inception of this blog ... that I stepped off a plane into the sharp spring sunlight of Cape Town, South Africa, about to embark on what is certainly still the most lavish trip of my life. Throughout the preceding year, my UK PR chief's post had been characterised by stunning creativity, fabulous results and shockingly long hours. The reward: Being named "marketer of the year" and sent on the company's annual sales incentive trip. Travel doesn't get much better than this.

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It was a long flight and we were back in coach. It would have been nice to fly business class on an event like this but, as the tour organisers explained, they decided to put the money into the programme instead.

We landed to absolutely gorgeous weather. Clear skies; a crisp, sharp light that throws everything into high definition; sunny and warm but not hot. As expected, the physical setting is terribly dramatic, with the mountains rearing up in close proximity to to water. In both this and the light, it actually reminds me of the area around Marseilles.

We arrived at the hotel to the first of those little extras that kept us out of business class. A full children's choir was on hand to meet the bus, performing intricate dance routines and delivering that wonderful a capella African harmony we've all learned to appreciate since Ladysmith Black Mambazo first hit the scene.

Cape Town has been a surprise. Everything looks robustly prosperous and is extremely clean. It's a city of 3 million with a downtown area of a few modern high rises and lots of mid-height offices from the '50s through '70s, divided by straight, wide and not particularly crowded boulevards. Reminds me of St. Louis or any other Midwestern city.

On the way in from the airport we drove past both shantytowns and the old segregated township areas. These, too, looked surprisingly clean and well-kept, despite poverty. I'll have to keep my eyes open to see if this initial impression holds true, but one gets the sense that poverty here is not accompanied by the abandonment of pride you see so often in the US and the UK.

We spent most of the day at the Victoria + Alfred waterfront area. This is a revitalisation of the old docks areas, a mix of Victorian architecture and very modern malls. It all feels very American. Lots of interesting little shops with native crafts and bars and restaurants with every cuisine you could imagine.

As this is a corporate event, a bit of team building bonding was in order. We organised into teams of six for a scavenger hunt through the area. I provided the chuckle of the afternoon when my friend Hillary and I struck up a conversation with some guys on the waterfront who turned out to be a Travel Channel film crew. We ended up getting miked up and doing interviews. Much mirth about the PR chief not being able to resist cameras. So anyway, later this year I might be on a Travel Channel show called "1000 places to see before you die." (I never did hear that anyone spotted me on this show, so I must assume I ended up on the cutting room floor.)

We did a very brief harbour cruise before dinner. The wind was extreme and the temperatures quite chilly, so it was only a half hour circle around the bay and back. A good chance to see the effects of the fading sun on table mountain, and a sea lion, but we didn't get far enough out to see the whales who are supposedly cavorting off shore.

The highlight of dinner was a local fish called a kingclip. Very firm flesh, like monkfish, and very tasty. We had a fun table of people; there are about 100 people here with winners, executives and a guest with each, and all are clearly ready to party. It's going to be a fine week.

The hotel is particularly lavish. I wasn't expecting much when I saw we were staying in the Sheraton (since re-branded the Westin Grand), but this place delivers on five star quality and is far beyond your standard corporate hotel. The lobby space is cool, functional and modern, with plenty of running water, open fires and clean lines. The room is gorgeous. Sleek and functional, elegant in its simplicity yet with creature comforts like heaters in the bathroom mirrors that keep them from defogging, a gorgeous lounger that's both comfortable and a work of art and lights inside the closets. The hotel designer's master stroke, however, was clearly making one entire wall a clear window overlooking the harbour. On the penultimate floor, and with no frames to the windows, it's as if you're floating over the edge of the city from any point within the room. The views are so stunning we could hardly bring ourselves to pull the drapes for the night.

Going to bed fairly early now, however, since we're promising ourselves a workout before breakfast.

A hunk of burning love with a side of prawn dhansak: It's Asian Elvis night at Spices

When a friend invited me to our local curry house for "Asian Elvis night", I accepted for two reasons. First, Spices in Datchet is one of the best Indian restaurants in the Southeast, and I've had precious little of this delicious but diet-dangerous cuisine since taking Weight Watchers seriously. Second, it had to be good for a laugh.

I've never been a huge Elvis fan, and my impression of impersonators had them solidly in the trashy but entertaining ranks of American tackiness. Somewhere above "See Rock City" snow globes and Pez dispensers and below a dinner of Kraft macaroni and cheese followed by Marshmallow Fluff. I was expecting a few interludes of really bad karaoke and crazy costumes slipped in between the courses of a fabulous meal.

How wrong I was. The guy was good. Really good.

Sal Bashir (www.sallikeelvis.co.uk) has a fine, mellow voice with the same deep timbre that helped Presley send a shiver down millions of female spines. I'm sure an expert could tell the difference, but to my unrefined ears, if I weren't watching Sal do his thing I would not have been able to differentiate between him and a recording of the real thing.

Of course, you need more than the voice to get this Elvis thing right. Sal has the moves, the costumes, the personality and some fine sound equipment. His show splits in two, a first half dedicated to the early years neatly wedged between starters and mains, the second half moving on to the later '60s and '70s after dinner. Obviously a huge Elvis fan, Sal's musical selection takes in both the classics and a range of songs that an Elvis amateur like me had never heard, but enjoyed. The magic of digital recording means that he has a wealth of top quality backing tracks behind him, leaving him to get on with the singing or, occasionally, with his own guitar. His costumes were evocative of The King but didn't descend into that paunchy, fringe-encrusted Vegas look that's often used to send Elvis into farce territory.

This was all about the music. (Proven by the fact that I walked away with a list of Elvis tunes I really must get onto my iPod to accompany the only two tracks there at the moment. "Viva Las Vegas" entered the collection when I was compiling background music for a charity casino night, while "A little less conversation, a little more action" is one of my favourite anthems on the playlist I use to gird myself for a tough day at the office.) And that music was wonderfully augmented by performance.

I can't emphasise how surprising this was, merely from a logistics point of view. Spices is the typical small English restaurant, long and narrow with six or seven tables on each side and a strip of open space down the middle. I would never have called it a performance venue. Yet Sal managed to work that little strip of floor like it was a proper stage, somehow slipping in expansive dance moves without ever looking constrained by his boundaries. He worked the crowd like a proper, old fashioned "entertainer", serenading ladies and getting couples up to dance.

Should you ever spot a promotion for Sal in your local curry house, book a table quick. Forget about the comedy value; you're on for a proper concert.

London Open House weekend reveals hidden treasures

Open House London is an architectural festival that, for one weekend in September, opens doors to properties normally off limits to the general public. I've meant to take part for years, but always seemed to be out of town. This year, at last, the diary was free. With almost 700 possibilities, what to see?

After a bit of planning online, my No. 1 choice became obvious: Marlborough House. This was the magnificent townhouse of the Dukes of Marlborough, a project driven by the indomitable Sarah Churchill at the same time she was creating the family's country palace at Blenheim. She worked with Vanbrugh in the country, Christopher Wren in town, and the era's best artists and craftsmen at both houses. When the Churchill family gave up the London lease, the house returned to Royal ownership and became home to all sorts of minor royals and monarchs in waiting. It's now headquarters for the Commonwealth.

The blockbuster sight here is the main hall and the adjoining formal staircases. Classical paneling, tapestries, magnificent murals by Louis Laguerre, iron work by Tijou. All it's missing is a bit of Grinling Gibbons woodwork to make you think you were at Hampton Court or Chatsworth. Of course, it's the subject matter of the art that gives the creator away. Just as at Blenheim, all the wall decorations are bringing John Churchill's military victories to life. And I do mean glorious life. These interiors have clearly been recently restored and are well looked after. The magnificent ceiling started life at the Queen's House, Greenwich, and was moved here in a later re-decoration. I particularly enjoyed the allegory of rhetoric honing her sword on grammar's sharpening steel. Exactly the scene I'd give prominence to in my palace, if I had one.

You get to see a handful of other rooms, all gracious and spacious Georgian with nice plasterwork and big windows looking over expansive lawns. It's hard to believe you're in central London. The second most interesting room is clearly the commonwealth meeting room, in which a huge table features the chairs and flags of each member. It's quite a test of geographic knowledge, and certainly sparks some hunger for adventure travel. Tonga, anyone?

Next up was Horse Guards. Unlike Marlborough House, this turned out to be more impressive on the outside than in, but the guided tour by a succession of army officers was interesting. Perhaps it's because my first job was in the defence industry, but I've always had a soft spot for military people. In England, I note that they're some of the few who still find it acceptable to be proud of their glorious history. So, perhaps predictably, I thought the Irish Guard who explained the origin of his bearskin hat and let me stroke it, and the tremendously fit officer in camouflage who spun tales of the Duke of Wellington, just as impressive as the architecture. You actually only get to see two rooms here, the star sight being the office that once belonged to Wellington, still holds his desk and is the current office of the head of the army. Intriguing, but probably not worth the 40 minutes we waited.

The day's final visit turned out to be the most impressive. The Foreign Office headquarters building dates from the mid 19th century and was designed by George Gilbert Scott in the Italianate style. It is a bombastic, over-the-top building that beautifully expresses the confidence of empire. This, after all, was a temple built for the ruling of overseas possessions, and though its bones are of a Tuscan palazzo, its decor reminds you of nothing so much as an Austrian palace. Even the long corridors of offices are impressive, with their vaulted ceilings and mahogany doors.

But it's the vast public spaces, designed to impress, that still do. There's an internal courtyard, roofed over with glass, overlooked by loggias and encrusted with statues of imperial heroes. The board room off one of those loggia is a neo-Georgian gem from where they once made decisions about ruling India. The heroes of the original colonisation look down from noble portraits. (One of them of Lord Cornwallis. I only ever learned about him as the guy who lost the Revolutionary War and had to surrender to the Americans. Turned out he went on to become a successful governor of India and is commemorated all over this building.) There are the Locarno rooms, named after the treaty signed here, a suite of highly decorated painted interiors in the neo-Gothic style. You end with the most impressive, the towering State Staircase with its snowy expanses of marble and its gold gilt coffered ceiling. Around the tops are huge murals depicting allegories of Britannia. Here's Britannia Bellatrix, girding her boys for the wars they must fight to keep her safe. Followed by Britannia Pacifitrix, enjoying the rich harvests and leisure time of peace. And on from there.

It's no wonder that this place was falling to pieces by the '80s, with much of its glory shut behind plasterboard walls and dropped ceilings. Most Brits seem to be very squeamish about the imperial past and find patriotism to be tasteless and embarrassing; this building is the architectural embodiment of all that would make people with those sensitivities cringe. As an American, of course, I have no issue with either flag waving or with government buildings that glorify the nation.

I don't think either American or British history is blameless, nor do I believe their governments to be perfect. But I believe pride, patriotism and celebratory architecture can exist besides an ackowledgement of the darker sides of history. Fortunately, someone in the British government in the '80s felt this way, too, and kicked off a £100 million restoration process. I'm proud to think that at least a little of my early tax money went into this place. It's worth every penny.

So that's three down, 697 options still remaining. Plenty, I'd say, to get me excited about next year's Open House weekend.

Carpe diem and bring on the foie gras: It's my birthday

The most significant anniversary in my life is not my birthday, but the annual marking of the elimination of cancer from my body. That milestone is actually sometime in early July. After several years of sliding scheduling, however, I'd managed to let my regular mammogram and ultrasound slip into September. And, once there, what better date on which to schedule them than my birthday? First, because it's the one date each year I'm not going to forget. Second, because ... assuming those tests come out clear ... what better gift could I give myself than the affirmation of life after once coming close to losing it?

Thanks to the magic of digital technology, the results are instantaneous. Thus the highlight of my afternoon was the doctor telling me that all looked good. Three years in the clear. Two more to go and my risk profile returns to that of a normal woman. "Normal" is till a grim 10 per cent risk of breast cancer, but better than now. Each year, better. So ... time to celebrate.

The chosen destination: La Trompette in Chiswick. The chosen company: Two of my oldest friends in the UK, one of whom I met on the very first day of the very first long-term assignment that would eventually see me move here. It was a night for celebrating not just health and life, but the comfortable delights of friendship that deepens over the years.

I've been dining out a lot recently, at many fine spots. They pale in comparison to La Trompette, however, a place that reminds me what a Michelin star really means. Perfection. A staff that never sets a foot wrong. Exquisitely presented food, where every element on the plate is there for a purpose and delivers memorable tastes. A great wine list accompanied by recommendations that get you the perfect match to your meal. The residents of Chiswick (American readers ... this is a close-in suburb of London. Think of St. Louis' Kirkwood or Chicago's Lincoln Park.) are truly blessed to have a place of this quality sitting on a little side lane off their high street. And we're all blessed that they're offering weeknight special pricing of three courses for £37.50.

It was a grim day, weather-wise. A steady downpour had forced me to buy yet another umbrella, and the walk from the tube station was a blustery, moist, uncomfortable battle. I was half an hour ahead of schedule, but had no desire to wander anywhere else in the downpour. The staff didn't mind at all that I was early, settling me into the table and immediately bringing water and a range of flavoured breads to assist my drying off.

Next it was time for a little chat with the restaurant manager over champagnes. (I knew my friends wouldn't mind if I got started before them.) La Trompette prides itself on avoiding any of the established, easily available brands. Champagne is, after all, filled with small producers without the marketing budgets or size of harvest to become household names. Yet, arguably, these guys produce much better wine than the big houses. The trick? Finding them. La Trompette has assembled a fine non vintage list, with 15 different options ranging from £45 to £77. (The complete sparkling wine list, with vintage and options from outside the champagne region, numbers 34.) The manager diagnosed my preferences and steered me toward Serge Mathieu's Cuvee Tradition Blanc de Noirs, brut. Dry with just a hint of sweet fruit, sparkling without too much effervescence, biscuity with a touch of honey, and near the bottom of the price range. Beautiful. I had to pace myself not to drink an unfair amount before my friends arrived.

A few sips into my second glass, the long waxed jacket and Australian hat that came dripping in from the rain was whisked away to reveal a nattily-suited Nicholas. A half-glass later Christine had finally battled through the traffic. Time for the party to really begin. Weight Watchers in abeyance for the festivities, that meant foie gras. Specifically, the foie gras and chicken liver parfait with toasted brioche. The texture was firm yet easily spreadable. The feel like fatty silk in the mouth. The taste distinct yet not overpowering. The brioche perfectly toasted. And, quite remarkably, the waiter was on hand at just the right moment to offer another piece. I didn't need one, but this was a nice (and unusual) touch. Christine's single, large ravioli of Cornish crab and salad got rave reviews, as did Nicholas' onion and cheddar tart.

By this point we'd finished the champagne and moved on. To ... a schioppetino. This is only the fourth time in the eight years since discovering this wine in Venice that I've seen it on a wine list. (Regular readers might remember my glee and amazement finding it aboard a Caribbean cruise ship. See 20.1.09.). I'll borrow the wikipedia description: "aromatic, medium bodied wines with Rhone-like qualities of deep dark coloring with violet, raspberry and pepper notes."

It was a graceful complement to the succulently medium rare roast rib of beef that both Nicholas and Christine had opted for. Not, perhaps, so logical with my bream. But I'm going to drink schioppetino wherever I find it, whatever I'm eating. Turns out my fish had such hearty accompanying flavours, and the wine is light enough, that it worked OK. I'd opted for the bream because of its companion potato gnocchi (another favourite) and jerusalem artichoke puree with Iberian ham and truffle veal jus. You'll sometimes find me complaining in these pages of over-complicated dishes, in which you just can't figure out why ingredients are there, or you can't taste them. This dish demonstrated how it should be done. The bream served the role of a fine canvas, distinct enough to assert its own qualities but flexible enough accept and transform the notes laid atop it. The gnocchi were perfectly al dente, moist, firm and dense with starchy comfort, kicked into a taste sensation by the puree. I can't even guess how many of those humble tubers gave up their essence for that little zig-zag across my plate; the concentrated flavours tasted like a dozen. Ditto the jus, with pulled off the trick of being light while also retaining all those complex flavours.

The impressive cheese board tempted me, but it being my birthday, chocolate was really a requirement. Bring on the Valrhona chocolate marquise topped with macadamia praline, accompanied by vanilla ice cream, chicory creme and caramel. As with the main course, every taste was on this plate was there for a reason. The praline offered texture to the softness of the rest of the dish, while the vanilla and chicory tempered the power of the darkest of dark chocolates. And then, just to make life perfect, Nicholas shared his cheese.

Another year of life. Fine food. Love. Laughter. Why stress over the little things when you have these? Carpe diem, my friends. Carpe diem.

Exotic Archipelago is London restaurant discovery of the year

When you're confronted with ostrich, alligator, kangaroo and scorpion on the same menu, you're likely to react strongly. The squeamish amongst you might say "no way". The culinary adventurers are more likely to observe: "Nice gimmick, but will the food be any good?"

Happily, in the case of Archipelago, the answer is "absolutely". In fact, this is my most delightful London discovery in years, and I have no doubt I'll be making it a priority to get back here. It's a small place, not more than 15 tables, boldly dedicated to the exotic. If I had to nail down the cuisine, I'd say it's South East Asian/African fusion.

You know you're in for something good from the moment you arrive, ducking from mundane Whitfield Street (humble Georgian mixed with brutalist cement) into an Aladdin's cave kitted out by a pack rat who has been seems to have been smuggling stuff out of the back attics at the British Museum. Swing a cat in here and you're likely to hit a Thai Buddha, an African tribal figure, a Moroccan rosewater dispenser, a few camel blankets, lanterns from Indian backstreets and a whole zoo of carved, glass-blown and sculpted animals spotted in the game reserve. The jumble is clearly put together with much thought, however. All of the cutlery and glassware on each table is purposely mismatched, actually making things look more lavish. Menus are treasure maps, rolled and placed in a wooden chest on the table, secured with a silk flower.

Frankly, you're in such an Indiana Jones mood by the time you settle in to peruse the menu that ordering fish or chicken seems like a waste. Though there's plenty of "normal" stuff on the menu. Sadly they were out of the crocodile starter. (I've had alligator, a tasty combo of chicken and lobster, thus was very disappointed not to get to try its cousin.) I opted instead for the ostrich. Rich and flavourful, with a depth of tastes so various it seemed more like sausage than lean meat. I could easily have asked for a triple portion and made that my main meal. But the delights of the curried kangaroo were ahead.

I can't say that the cute little marsupial tasted much different from slightly tough but tasty beef. However, the guy making the curries in the kitchen was clearly a master. The dish was all about the explosion of pungent, distinct spices in your mouth; the type of meat was incidental. It came with a stir fried pak choi and, to calm things down, a yogurt sauce resembling Greek tzatziki.

For dessert I went with a trio of chocolate. Sounds like standard fare, but the dark chocolate mousse was infused with lemon grass (a brilliant innovation I've never come across before) and the milk chocolate was, I think, prepared with basil. I'm not sure what enhanced the white chocolate, I can only tell you that it was the only one of which ... despite trying to stay within Weight Watchers allowances ... I couldn't bear to leave a bite behind.

So many other items on the menu tempted me. Tom yum soup with gold covered quail's eggs. Carmelised duck breast with pomegranate and pistachio nut salad. Blackened tilapia with sweet and sour beetroot salad. Rabbit, lentil and bean curry. Frozen berries with warm coconut-vanilla sauce served around a pyramid of ground nuts. A selection of cheeses with white peach, raspberry and chili chutneys.

And the best thing about this place? Three courses for £25. Amazing. We booked the deal through toptable.co.uk, which is loaded with recession-busting deals at the moment. (Blog entry on that to come.) Archipelago was fabulous value for money, delicious food and huge fun.

My only complaint is slow service. They clearly don't have many staff, with just two people covering the whole place when we dined there. They were attentive, knowledgeable and cheerful, it's just that it took quite a while between courses for the food to emerge from the downstairs kitchen. As long as you're not in a hurry and you're with good company, then the food and atmosphere is well worth the wait.

Post Script: Archipelago must surely be the first restaurant covered on the blog that drew me back within two weeks. I dined there again on the 20th, this time opting for green curry seafood to start and a roast zebra for my main that tasted remarkably like veal. Another excellent meal. The only difference being the lack of three course deal on a weekend; add another £20 to the base bill.