Barbecoa brings proper American BBQ to London

I've read that smell is actually the most powerful sense when it comes to triggering memories. It was a claim I could well believe last night, as I walked into the new restaurant Barbacoa and was plunged instantly back to my middle American roots. The unusually warm Thanksgiving when we smoked the turkey in the Weber kettle on the back deck; flipping hundreds of burgers with Craig Jackson at the alumni center BBQ the night before graduation; the first time I tasted Mike Bruneel's ribs; the team building dinner at Southfork Ranch soon after I moved to Texas. All that and more, triggered by that distinctive, blended aroma of meat, smoke and tomato-based sauce with hints of sugar and spice.

That intoxicating perfume is a rare one in Europe and, honestly, even in America once you get to the coasts. It's certainly a scent I've never picked up in London until now.

Barbecoa is a joint venture between British celebrity chef Jamie Oliver and American BBQ guru Adam Perry Lang. The latter, much celebrated for bringing proper BBQ to New York City, has now gone trans-Atlantic and I'd guess the menu is mostly his. Pulled pork, baby back ribs, jalapeno cornbread, rubs, marinades, sauces, baked cheesecake. You could be anywhere in a meandering line from Texas through Memphis, St. Louis, Kansas City and Chicago. Look up from the menu though, and you're nowhere but London. And quite a posh bit of town at that. Barbecoa occupies a corner of the recently completed One New Change complex; its double-height glass walls looking straight onto the back of the newly cleaned St. Paul's cathedral. It's a stunning view and the designers have wisely decided not to compete with it, keeping the interiors modern, clean and understated.

The most interesting thing to look at here, once you get past the gorgeous view outside, is the massive kitchen around which the restaurant wraps. Food magazine-worthy displays of huge cuts of meat are almost as fascinating as the grills themselves ... vast tables of glowing coals with grills that can be raised or lowered by big metal wheels to get just the right temperature. (Should I ever win the lottery, I'm buying one of those.)

My meal mostly lived up to expectation. I started with the baby back ribs, which were just slightly overcooked and a bit too over-spiced, but certainly the best I've had in London. But the pulled pork was the stuff of final meal fantasies. Tender meat falling to shreds, slathered with a well balanced sauce, served in an American-sized mound beside the best jalapeno cornbread I've had since leaving Texas. Add some excellent slaw with the right combination of crunch, sweetness and tartness, and a pot of slow baked beans that had clearly been doctored, as is right and proper, with brown sugar and a few spices, and, frankly, I was transported back to the fourth of July. My only culinary complaint was a small and overly-fussy beer selection. I wanted a Bud ... yes, not great beer, but it's fantastic with BBQ ... and would have been delighted with a Sam Adams. But the selection was boutique, British and unknown to me. I stuck with the Malbec.

My companions didn't have quite the same experience, but then they didn't have smells and tastes triggering a lifetime of happy memories. The rib eye for two across the table was an exquisitely displayed fan of medium rare slices around a massive bone filled with rich marrow, which later gave our spaniel some intense hours of joy. Piers was probably least impressed, finding his pork belly to be just average in taste and rather small compared to the other main courses.

Had the service been better, Barbacoa would have vaulted instantly onto my Top 10 list. But here, sadly, the place leaves a lot to be desired. We had a table booked for 8:30. We arrived at 7:40 and settled into the bar, not expecting to be seated early but certainly thinking we'd get a decent table, on time. Instead, we finally sat down half an hour late in what's arguably one of the worst tables in the place, well away from both nice views (St. Paul's and the kitchen) and near the door. It then took a further 20 minutes to order. Starving, when told that starters would take 15 to 20 minutes, we opted for some bread. At £1 a slice this is a pricey extra, but it's served beautifully and features four distinctly different types. We would have enjoyed it more if it hadn't come at almost the same time as the starters, leaving us feeling that we'd wasted our money. Mains followed promptly, but then there was another long delay before being asked if we wanted dessert or coffee, taking orders (we only opted for the caffeine) and finally getting the bill. We didn't emerge until 11:30, meaning we didn't get home until 1am. Far too late for a school night, and well past expectations for an 8:30 table.

I have no doubt that I'll be back to Barbecoa. In fact, given that its front door is less than 200 yards from my London office, it will be hard to keep me away. But I'll be booking well in advance, for a table at 7:00.

The cook-on-demand birthday brings experimentation and very fine wine home

Back in my agency days, when I had a small team who all worked in the same place, I instituted a bake-on-demand policy for birthdays. You give me any cake recipe or flavour combo you want, I'll produce it for lunchtime celebrations. It was great for team morale, and it gave me the excuse to try interesting recipes.

My days of baking as management strategy have long gone, but I adapted the concept yesterday for my fiance's birthday. One of his presents: Hand me your dream menu and I'll produce it.

This ran the risk of my being hoisted on my own culinary petard, as the boy loves French cuisine, I rarely cook it and a multiple-course extravaganza could have featured items that kept me in the kitchen for days. Fortunately, he opted for simpler fare, combining both Danish and English classics. As with the cakes, the process gave me a chance to experiment and, in this case, to firm up some options for our regular dinner party rotation.

We started with two types of canapes: potato pancakes and crawfish tails. The first is a recipe from Trina Hahnemann's Nordic cookbook, my tutorial for delivering the flavours of my partner's youth. I think I have this dish almost perfected now: Neat circles of shredded potato mixed with onion, nutmeg, egg and oatmeal, topped with roasted beetroot salad, creme fraiche with chives and a generous dollop of lumpfish caviar. My only criticism is portion control. Even when attempting to work small, these ended up starter- rather than canape-sized, opening a meal where I cooked ... and we ate ... far too much. Guess I was taking an Italian approach to a Northern European menu. Beside the pancakes were little spoons of crawfish tails in a bisque made by boiling down the discarded shells and bodies in beer, then adding butter and cream. I had only intended the bisque as a sauce so made just a tiny bit of it, but think it probably deserves to be a soup on its own, with the tails used as garnish.

From one set of circles to the next. His first course request was scallops with black pudding, probably one of the most common early round Masterchef dishes but one neither of us had ever tried. I was happy with the ease, look and taste of the recipe. Rings of granny smith apples cooked in butter and a bit of sugar until they start to soften on the bottom, then disks of black pudding quickly fried in the sweet apple juices, then the scallops fried in the thickening glaze in the pan. I didn't get the proportions right here, either, and went overboard on the black pudding, which should have been about a quarter rather than half an inch thick. I'd also have to work on the presentation before it gets on the dinner party rota. But onto that list it will go, if only because you can't buy just two inches of black pudding. I am left with a whole coil of the stuff; a magnificently rich and flavourful version from the queen's farm shop at Windsor, but a weight watching sin of enormous proportions. I wonder, does anyone know if it freezes well?

After two terribly elegant introductory courses, the man went for upscale comfort food: salmon burgers. Not complete child's play, as they rested upon home-made rye focaccia, but not particularly complicated either. Mince up salmon, add chopped spring onions and capers, bread crumbs, lemon juice, egg and some herbs. Shape into burgers. I elaborated on the recipe here (another from Hahnemann) by pressing the burgers in clingfilm, wrapping them tightly and putting them in the fridge for an hour, which I think helped keep the fairly delicate patties together. Those get fried for four minutes on each side, then placed on that rye base with a generous spread of dressing made from creme fraiche, mayo, lemon juice and chives, a pile of salad leaves and a tomatoes. (The last ingredient not for the birthday boy, of course, who's allergic to them.)

On the side I did what's evidently a classic Scandinavian slaw: thin strips of pointed cabbage, freshly-shelled peas and lots of dill, all raw, tossed with a honey lemon dressing. I've never cooked much with dill and am not a particular fan of the flavour, but it's a Danish staple and one of Piers' favourites, so I'm experimenting. This salad, I must concede, is a winner. I'm a firm believer that all burgers need chips (fries), however, so I left Trina's cookbook for an Epicurious take on an oven-baked sweet potato version. These need refinement. I overdid it on the herbs (you shake the potatoes in oil and herbs before dumping them into a roasting pan) and left them in the oven a bit too long, but they were tasty all the same.

We returned to England for his requested dessert: Summer pudding. Although a classic, and very easy, I'd never actually made it. I opted for Epicurious again ... probably my most-used recipe web site, archiving years of recipes from Gourmet and Bon Apetit ... and a raspberry and blueberry version of the dish. The bread shell didn't get quite as gooey and juice-soaked as I wanted, which taught me a lesson about putting some of the liquid in before the fruit filling, but I had reserved a jug of the juices and could amend this with an additional bath once I'd unmoulded the pudding.

On the wine front, we started with a bargain. Jean de Praisac's brut champagne is produced by industry giant Heidsieck for the Thresher chain. It usually retails for just under £15 but has the biscuity, round flavours of something far more expensive. In fact, having dug it out of the champagne rack without any memory of where it came from, we thought we'd popped something pricey; it was only my post-meal web search that revealed the bargain. The real expenditure came with the wine for the rest of the meal, though this, too, could be put in the bargain category.

One of the benefits of doing really fine meals at home is that you can splash out for wines you could never afford in a restaurant. By conservative estimate, last night's Meursault ... Patrick Javillier's "Les Tillets" 2008 ... would be about £100 on any London wine list. We picked it up in Berry's summer sale, at 25% off its regular retail price. Yes, still £29 a bottle, so not something you want to glug down without thinking. Nor is it something I can imagine paying £20 a glass for when dining out. But here, it was both an appropriate and magnificent splash. Robert Parker gives it a lofty 92 on his scale and says "the wine’s lush texture together with ample juicy freshness and intriguing finishing mineral nuances makes for immediate delight." I can tell you that it also makes for a wine with the lightness to complement fish, but the body to stand up against the strong secondary flavours of the black pudding and the sweet potato fries.

I am seriously contemplating heading up to the Berry's outlet at lunch to buy a case while it's still on sale to put back for special occasions. Although I am hoping that the next big celebration is not on a Sunday. With that much food and wine on a school night, this Monday morning I am not as bright as I might be. Bring on more coffee, please.

Potter and dancing dragons sweep me away to other worlds, and argue for the series novel

It is fashionable amongst culturally literate types to bemoan the rise of the sequel and the series in popular entertainment. There's nothing original coming out of Hollywood any more, they moan, it's all about franchises with a number after the name.

It's a valid argument you can support with plenty of dire examples. But I'd counter that for every derivative, shortcut-taking series, there's an artfully crafted set where each new episode builds and improves upon the last. Indeed, our household library is dominated by series. From the classics of our childhood .... The Chronicles of Narnia for me, The Lord of the Rings for him ... through to the sequential adventures of Richard Sharpe, Didius Falco, Aubrey and Maturin, King Kelson or Brother Cadfael, there's something wonderfully compelling about set of characters and a fictional world that draws you in over multiple installments.

For lovers of those sorts of series, this was perhaps the biggest week in memory.

Fantasy writer (and fellow Medill School of Journalism graduate) George R.R. Martin has left his fans waiting six long years for the latest installment of his epic Song of Ice and Fire series. Often called "the American Tolkien", Martin developed a fascination for the English Wars of the Roses into a fantasy world with feudal families squabbling over a throne, augmented by a hefty dose of magic and mystery. Fans of the series ... and I'm a big one ... adore his complex plots, intense character development, Machiavellian political sensibilities and unabashed sexuality. In fact, I'd compare him to Russian writers more than Tolkien, as his vast numbers of characters and intricate, inter-related story lines remind me of the notes and family trees I sketched out in university to keep the details of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina and Sholokhov's Don series straight.

After multiple promised publication dates that didn't come to pass, Martin's fans were starting to think he'd never deliver the three books needed to finish the series. Then HBO turned the first novel, A Game of Thrones, into a mini-series that got rave reviews and brought even more fans to the franchise. Surely, Martin had to deliver now? Last Tuesday, he did. Thanks to the magic of technology I didn't even have to leave the house; I downloaded A Dance with Dragons onto my kindle a few hours after it officially came on the market. And I wasn't the only one: Random House reports selling 298,000 copies (including both print and digital) in the first publication day alone.

At more than 1,000 pages, and with a mid-week release, I couldn't give in to my usual instinct to read the latest installment of a beloved series from cover to cover immediately. So I'm pacing myself. (My Kindle informs me I'm 16% of the way through.) My initial impressions? Generally excellent. Plots are racing along with exciting twists and turns, old friends are returning with new nuances, mysteries continue to develop. I may have two early complaints. First: enough with the complexity, George. This is the time in a series to start bringing all those disparate plot lines together and start creeping towards a conclusion, not to introduce even more new things. At this point I'm willing to trust him that everything is for an ultimate purpose. Second: we're getting perilously dark. There's always been a streak of violence and realism in these books, but certain descriptions of violence in Dance make me wince as I read. Again, I trust they're for a purpose, but I hope the grit doesn't overwhelm the sweeping grandeur of the piece.

Despite those discomforts, this latest installment does everything I want a series book to do, namely bring me back into a familiar and fascinating world, and hang onto me so tightly that it's a trial to turn my attention back to reality.

Turn my attention to something else I did do this weekend, but it certainly wasn't reality. Because Martin's latest episode sat cheek by jowl with the release of the concluding Harry Potter film. I like A Song of Ice and Fire enormously, but I adore the Potter series. Like Narnia in my childhood, there's something that connects right to my soul. I'm not just reading a rippingly good plot, I am completely engaged in the characters. I honestly care about these people and what happens to them. (Which is why I suspect Martin will never have me in great, gasping sobs the way Rowling did as we peered into Severus Snape's dying memories.)

It seems like yesterday that I stood in the first-day-of-publication queue for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, took it home and read for a solid 18 hours ... broken by one short night's sleep ... until I reached a shuddering, massively satisfying conclusion. In fact, it was just over four years ago, as my blog entry of 22.7.07 shows. It hardly seems much further back when I was pouring over still shots from the soon to be released first film, marveling at how perfectly the design team seemed to have brought the world in my head to life on screen. That, amazingly, was a decade ago. And now, it's all over.

I'm delighted to report that this franchise goes out with a bang. The only complaint I could possibly make is that it's just not long enough. A lot of plot detail ends up on the cutting room floor but, let's face it, the majority of people watching the film know those things anyway. What you get as a consequence is a roller coaster ride of constant action that puts you on the edge of your seat and could easily entice you to sit through the whole thing again immediately. The actors all deliver in perfect character and those familiar sets become even more magnificent as they come under attack in the climactic final battle. And all the emotion is there, made all the more poignant by the fact that, with both books and films done, you really are saying goodbye this time. I didn't sob quite as traumatically at Snape's death, but sob I did.

My fiance is one of those rare beings left untouched by the Potter phenomenon, having seen just the first film and read none of the books. He indulgently accompanied me, and even from his distant perspective he admitted it was an entertaining two hours.

To any fan who's invested more than a decade in this world, however, it will be far more than entertainment. It's an emotional journey that brings you joy, fear, tears, breathless anxiety, wonder and, ultimately, deep contentment. Emotions that are all the more intense precisely because of that multiple-episode commitment. That, when they're done well, is the magic of a series. They work their way into your soul in a way that few single works, no matter how great, ever can.

Zuma is undisputed winner in London's Japanese restaurant stakes

I have not been a good Weight Watcher this year. Stress, travel, eating away from home a lot ... all are enemies of the low fat, portion-controlled diet and regular exercise required for good health. This kind of balance is far easier to strike if you don't go out much. But let's face it, that's not me. (And it were, this would be a mighty boring blog.)

In fact, going out is on the rise now that Piers works up in London and, on days when we're both in town, staying up for dinner seems so much more logical than joining the commuting throng and rolling through the front door starving with a meal still to cook at 8pm. How to dine out a lot and stay Weight Watchers friendly? My latest attempt has been to refine my restaurant choices to Japanese. Low on saturated fats, heavy on fish, great on portion control; it's hard to do an unhealthy binge at a Japanese restaurant. (Although, as you will read below, it turns out it is possible.) Thus over the past three weeks I've been to Shogun, Itsu, Hiroba and Zuma. The last stood out as the finest restaurant of the four, but all had their own advantages.

Shogun has the best atmosphere of the four, especially if you're looking for someplace quiet and intimate. It's in an arched stone basement just off Grosvenor Square, and has fewer than 20 tables in the long, cozy space. There's a small sushi bar with five or six seats at it. A full suit of Japanese armor stands at the end of the room, and areas of the restaurant are divided off by screens of arrows; both a nod to the restaurant's martial name. About half the diners were Japanese, and the staff entirely so. Always a good sign. Sushi, sashimi and tempura were all delicious, though the menu was limited and resolutely traditional. I was disappointed in the lack of combination menus, as we were out for a splurge to celebrate new jobs and would happily have gone for some sort of chef's tasting menu. Though there are a few combos, they're pretty basic and not along gourmet lines, leaving us with a la carte choices.

Splurge we did, though not intentionally. Shogun was the most expensive of everything reviewed here, and it certainly didn't provide better value than anything else. We may try it again, however, as Piers swears that bagging one of the few seats at the sushi bar transforms the experience. (This was one of his regular haunts in the late '80s.) For value for money, however, I have to direct you to Hiroba.

This is, admittedly, one of my regular haunts, located as it is directly across the street from my PR agency and on the flight path between London office and Waterloo station. I go so often that it's long lost any sense of being special, which is why poor Hiroba has never made the blog before. I apologise. I should have mentioned it. Because it's a brilliant option in this part of town and the winner in the value for money stakes in the higher end sushi market.

Like Shogun, Hiroba is staffed and frequented by citizens of the Orient. But there's a less traditional slant here. There are two other Hirobas ... one in LA, and another in Seoul ... and I suspect that explains the profusion of more exotic, multiple-ingredient rolls you'll find on the conveyor belt. That belt snakes through the place and at least half the seats are at it, with three tables right next to it and about 10 tables along the walls. Unless you know exactly what you want, avoid the tables and go for the bar, where a profusion of choices will tempt you to build up a little mountain of plates. Though mostly sushi and sashimi, there are some main course options (mostly tempura and crispy beef) which waiters will heat up for you. The average plate is £3.50, which means you can have a very reasonable light dinner and even if you eat yourself silly you're probably not over the £50 mark (excluding alcohol). The only danger here, of course, is that I always enter intending to do the light, inexpensive dinner and walk out having consumed a feast.

It was the chain Yo! Sushi that introduced the conveyor belt concept to London and it dominates this style of Japanese, with Hiroba being a pleasant exception. Another is Itsu on Draycott Avenue in Chelsea. Yes, Itsu is a chain like Yo! and these days you can't swing a tuna in The City without hitting one. They're know for their quick, pre-packaged, high quality sushi boxes, and the St. Paul's branch provides my lunch most days I work from town. I love the place, but was rather surprised when friends suggested it for dinner. Turns out the branch in Chelsea, like its sister in Notting Hill, is a proper restaurant rather than a fast food place. Like Hiroba, the belt snakes through the restaurant, but here it's been cleverly designed so that it flows by far more tables for four. And thus Itsu Chelsea gets my nod for best sushi place to meet up with friends. It's a festive atmosphere, the sushi's good and the staff is quick to both to bring anything ordered off the menu, and to top up your drinks. A bit more expensive than Hiroba to pay for that Chelsea rent, but generally in the same ball park.

If I'm going to splurge, however, the chef's menu at Zuma is the clear winner. I loved this place when I went almost three years ago (see 26.9.08) but hadn't been back since, mostly because it's over by Harrods and I'm not actually in that part of town too often. After my second outing it's worth reminding myself that this is worth a special trip.

The tasting menu is £60 ... about what we spent at Shogun and a bit more than the other two ... for a five course extravaganza that balances exquisite flavors with beautiful presentation and a few show stopping dishes. You start with a nicely-balanced tuna tartare served in shot glasses on a mound of ice, decorated with fans of fried lotus root that provide a crisp accompaniment to the soft fish. Beside that is a plate of wafer thin sea bass sashimi, kicked up a notch with the addition of truffle oil. Taste buds suitably amused, out comes the "proper" sushi course, with three different plates showing off the skill of the guys behind the bar. Course three brings the cooked seafood, with some of the most succulent black cod I've ever tasted glistening under a sweet and sour marinade. That's served with langoustine tempura, a dish that makes the usual prawn version pale in comparison. The main courses climax with wagyu beef and miso soup. The beef is just one perfectly cooked thin steak, marinated, sliced thin and served on a hoba leaf (a type of magnolia, used to wrap steamed foods in Japan) for two people to split. As with the rest of the procession of food, there's enough here to be generous, but not so much to stuff you.

And then comes dessert. Generally not something associated with Japanese restaurants, but here Zuma breaks the mould. Out comes an impressive platter with three kinds of ice cream, two traditional cakes and a pile of exotic fruit. One of the cakes is a chocolate fondant and, much to my surprise, it was absolutely the best one I've ever had. I've tried fondants on their French home turf, and in many a top European establishment, but it's in this trendy Japanese place that I found the perfect balance of cakey outside, gooey interior and dark chocolate bite. This, of course, entirely defeated the Weight Watchers objective of eating at a Japanese restaurant, but locked my determination to get back to Zuma again soon. Not only is in the best Japanese I've had in London, but my second visit has firmly placed it in my top five restaurants across all cuisines in the capital.

Why Apple will rule the world (And I'm just fine with that)

Linked by my malfunctioning iPhone, but poles apart in customer service, are the divergent tales of Tesco and Apple.

Last week I wrote of the woeful treatment I received at the hands of pile-em-high-sell-em-cheap retail giant Tesco. Perhaps no more than I deserved for buying from a brand with their reputation. My experience worsened through the weekend as my letter to their CEO first took several days for a reply, then got a holding note from a flunky before finally a confirmation another "customer service" hack that they couldn't do anything for me.

Time to throw myself on the mercy of Apple. I made an appointment at the genius bar of the new Covent Garden store. (The largest in the world. Amazing.) I showed up promptly. Explained that I'd been an Apple customer since my first 512k Mac in 1986. That this was the first time I had ever NOT purchased an Apple product direct from the store. Related my Tesco experience. And hoped.

The lovely genius did not disappoint. A quick check of the serial number confirmed that the phone was indeed just 37 days out of warranty. Not a problem. We'll fix you up with a new one. That shouldn't have happened. We value your continuing business and want you to be happy. Fifteen minutes and a friendly chat later, I had my new kit in hand and was not only a happy, but a delighted, customer. I immediately treated myself to a new case for the phone and resolved that it's time to loosen the purse strings and buy an iPad. That one cheerful piece of customer service, requiring them to take a slight loss by giving me what's now one of their oldest pieces of kit, will trigger more than £600 in additional sales and the good PR of me boring friends and readers with tales of Apple-inspired delight. A shame Tesco couldn't learn from this. (Nope, not even an offer of a free month of service ... a princely £45 ... to get me back on side!)

Of course, it's not just a quick replacement of faulty equipment that makes Apple special. It's the whole ethos of the company. A few days later I was lucky enough to be invited, thanks to our advertising agency Ogilvy, to an innovation forum for a select group of marketing bosses at Apple's London HQ. There we met with a parade of senior execs. All casual, approachable and brilliant; human representations of all that makes their technology special.

They specifically asked us not to blog or otherwise communicate widely on the details of what we learned. Apple keeps its cards close to its chest, a marketing strategy that's worked wonders for them. So, without divulging any confidences, what did I see that convinced me of Apple's world dominance?

1. They know what they do best, and stick to it. Did you realise that they only have 14 products? They build what they believe in ... usually stuff that's revolutionary ... and put everything behind it. Amazingly, they do very little market research and don't rely on focus groups. And yet they instinctively "get" the customer in a way I haven't seen in any other technology company. They are confident that they can anticipate what we need, before we need it, and give it to us.

2. They're not a technology company, they're a mobile lifestyle company. Apple has always gotten the fact that it's not about the technology, it's about what you do with it. And we all are on the move these days. Whether it's the iPhone or the iPad, it's all about connecting you to the whole world, from wherever you are, with minimum effort. How did we ever live without it?

3. They are in the right place at the right time. Between iPods, Phones and Pads, a frightening chunk of the world has an iTunes account. Which means Apple has your contact and credit details, plus access to all the apps and media you download. You think "you are what you eat"? You are what you consume all right, but it's all about the media that goes through your brain. Think about it. With a credit rating, an address and a view of what someone reads, listens to and watches, you can climb into their soul without ever meeting them. All of which means that Apple is positioned to be the greatest channel of targeted advertising that has ever existed. A lot of people have talked about this, but Apple has all the tools to do it. And the discretion to do it well.

I could go on. As I did, to anyone who would listen, after my mind expanding session on Hanover Street. And the best part? I got to tell my Tesco story to Apple's EMEA CEO, as part of a discussion about their channel strategy and the dangers of tainting the Apple brand with companies like Tesco that can't deliver the same combination of wisdom and service. Turns out working with Tesco was indeed a concern, and that Apple's still watching the relationship closely. I like to think Tesco will someday regret treating me so badly. Just as Apple will be glad they treated me so well. I have another genius bar appointment next Tuesday, after which the new iPad is on the shopping list.

Longborough opera returns with a luxury picnic and an odd but enjoyable "Cosi"

By the time I left university, I believed I had mastered the art of the tailgate picnic. The coordinated line up of cars mustered early enough to pick a prime spot. The careful division of culinary responsibilities. The bright flags to help guests find you in the crowd and the decorations to make you look classy. I now realise, of course, that I was a rank amateur.

For the ultimate sports tailgate I must give a nod to my cousin, who sets up a pavilion before every USC game with his best mate (who actually kitted out a four-wheel drive specifically for the purpose) so elaborate it's been featured on the Food Channel. But for the elegance award, I have to hand it to the Brits.

It's country house opera season again, and the black tie picnic is at least as much a part of the event as the opera itself.

After our deep enjoyment of the Longborough Festival last year (see 27.710) we decided to become members, and are now counting on at least two weekends each summer spent ensconced in luxurious B&B at the Windy Ridge Estate while taking in opera next door. This year's first outing: Cosi Fan Tutti. Piers' brother and sister-in-law joined us. We did the food, while they brought wine and setting. Together, we arrived properly on the opera tailgating map.

We drove their four-wheel drive over in the late afternoon, parking it in a prime spot at the top of the field next to the croquet lawn, with a lovely view of the manor house, the opera house and the valley stretching beyond. Up went the tented pavilion, large enough to encompass the tailgate of the car within one side, and beneath it a table and four chairs. In the back of the car, a mini fridge was cooling down the white wine. Having claimed our spot, we abandoned it temporarily, strolling back through the arboretum to the manor house to change into formal wear.

An hour and a half later the boys were in dinner jackets, pulling corks and filling glasses while we girls lounged in our gowns and checked out the tented city of silks, velvet and bow ties that had grown around us. Our pre-opera starter menu centred around arancini di riso, a southern Italian classic. Balls of risotto, wrapped around a piece of mozzarella, then lightly rolled in bread crumbs and deep fried to a golden brown. Piers has recently discovered a delicious recipe for roasted red pepper relish, which works magnificently with a bit of cream cheese in a croustade cup. Add some caramelised onion houmous and a pot of taramasalata with a pile of fresh pitta bread, and we had the Mediterranean on our table. (Sadly, the cool, overcast, breezy afternoon was solidly English. English April.)

Half way through the opera comes a 90-minute dinner interval, during which the Bencard pavilion served cold roast beef, string beans with roasted tomatoes and a horseradish potato salad, all accompanied by a lovely French red wine. As the evening gathered in we did realise that we were lacking in lanterns, torches or some other suitably romantic form of illumination. We'll have to work on that. The American in me came to the fore at dessert, with brownies and cookies laced with dark and white chocolate and macadamia nuts. After that, it's perhaps no surprise that the platter of French cheeses never made it to the table. Had we emerged from the opera into a balmy evening, we might have lingered beneath our pavilion watching the stars blink over Gloucestershire while we nibbled. But the firm chill in the air dictated a quick strike of the picnic camp and a return to Windy Ridge's sitting room for a warming port.

And the opera? I have seen Cosi Fan Tutti before, in the magnificent spectacle of a box in a tiny baroque opera house in Prague (see 12.5.08), but with the surtitles in Czech I will admit to only grasping the basics of the plot. This time the English text provided details which I'm not sure actually helped my enjoyment. Cosi is neither Mozart's most engaging story, nor his best operatic score. The preposterous and rather depressing tale has an old cynic convincing two young men that all women are fickle, then setting out to entrap their lovers (a pair of sisters) into cheating on them by putting the boys in costume, sending them after the girl who is not their love and wooing persistently. Each sister eventually falls in love with the other's fiance, before all is revealed and they go back to their original pairings with an acknowledgement that such knocks are inevitable in relationships.

While Cosi doesn't have any of the instantly recognisable arias of Mozart's other operas, the repeated seduction attempts of the plot mean that it's pretty much two hours of achingly romantic songs of longing. Nothing to complain about there. We found the whole Longborough experience just as wonderful as last year, with spectacular singers and a stirring orchestra performing in an intimate space. (We were in a box hanging directly over the harpsichordist, a spectacle that provided an extra bit of entertainment.)

My only complaint is the director's odd decision to transpose the action to the 1950s. I don't mind seeing the classics staged in other time periods. It's a time-honoured way of demonstrating that the great works are eternal, and sometimes they work even better. Certainly the 1995 film version of Richard III set in a fascist 1930s England is the finest interpretation of that play I've ever seen. But I need a reason for my transpositions, and I didn't see one here. Was there anything particular about the '50s that made the tale of infidelity resonate? I didn't see it. Meanwhile, the short hair and conservative dress of the 50s made the "disguises" of our returning lovers difficult to swallow. If forced into the modern era, why not set things in the late '60s, with Vietnam as the military backdrop and hippies providing a convincing disguise for clean-cut soldiers?

Still, no harm done. The set design was pleasant if uninspiring, and the womens' costumes were attractive. I can't help thinking I liked the staging in Prague better, but knowing what was going on made for a superior overall opera experience. As, of course, did the luxury picnic. Next up is a return to Wagner in late July. Back to just the two of us, so the set up will no doubt be less grand. I'm still hoping, however, for that balmy evening under the Gloucestershire stars.

DON'T SHOP AT TESCO! A tale of poor customer service and lessons learned about heartless discounters

A vocal minority of Brits see grocery and superstore owner Tesco as the anti-Christ of retail, a heartless leviathan who advocates animal abuse, ruins the income of farmers and destroys the local high street. I must admit I never thought too much about these things. Tesco was convenient. Cheap chicken and milk had their merits and the local shops in my village were so overpriced and limited in their offerings they deserved to go out of business.

My mind has changed. Tesco is, indeed, an evil enemy to customer service. I respect their pile-em-high, sell-em-cheap business strategy, but now realise the consequences. The new truth in marketing laws really should have them investigating replacing their tagline "every little helps" with "caveat emptor".

The source of my awakening is my 13-month old iPhone. Last May, after a lifetime of employer-provided mobile telephony, I decided it was time to get my own kit. Having never paid for a mobile before, I wanted no hassle. Thus I purchased the premium deal: biggest, most sophisticated phone matched with an unlimited use contract for two years. It was, the love of my life now informs me, a rotten deal, but I didn't care at the time. It was fast, spur-of-the-moment and easy. A small diversion from the weekly grocery shop and a big item knocked off my to do list.

Forward 13 months, during which time I have dutifully paid my £45 a month and forked over extra cash when traveling for outrageous roaming fees. Again, not bothered. The glory of the internet in my pocket, the complete connectivity to the whole planet at every moment of my day, made the cost inconsequential. Then, on Wednesday morning, I woke up to an iPhone with a black screen. Held under a bright light, the images are still there; the mechanism to light them up has busted. The device is still working, you just can't see much. Which makes it pretty useless. (I have temporarily switched to my work Blackberry for survival, which, for anything other than work email, is painfully awkward.)

Following instinct and 26 years of Apple ownership, my first stop was to the Apple store, where a charming, sincere and very helpful man couldn't give me an immediate appointment with a genius (Apple's customer support people), but took a look, told me what had probably gone wrong and discussed options with me. First step, clearly, was to go back to Tesco Mobile to see what they could do for me. If I was stuck, come back to Apple and go from there.

Well, I shall certainly be returning to Apple, because the Tesco Mobile people were poster children for poor customer service. (And in this country, that's saying a lot.) First, there was the spotty youth who greeted me with the information that he was new, didn't know anything and probably couldn't help me. Then there was the slightly less spotty youth, who ignored my explanation that I'd tried all rebooting, brightness checks, etc. and had even visited the Apple store. He did all of this anyway, telling me as he did that since it was a month past one year it was my problem. Although they might be able to send it away to be fixed for me. I'd have to pay, of course, and it would be several weeks without a phone. Maybe a manager could do something.

This is where I usually expect things to get fixed. Skip the teenagers, get to the mature people who are making a career out of their chosen businesses. People who usually are given some discretion by their corporate overlords to do what's necessary to please, and keep, a good customer. As in, customers for whom convenience and service is more important than cost. (Yes, I know, anyone who's shopped in a Tesco will see the flaw in my argument right here. "You're not in WAITROSE, Ferrara. You think they give a damn about you as a customer?)

So on to the department manager, a pinched, pale 30-something who I suspect looked at least five years older than she was. Clearly, working for Tesco does you no favours. (Nor does the manly, ill-fitting blue polyester suit she was forced to wear.) Her position was pretty much the same as the spotted youths. I was a month past warranty. I might have heard a "sorry", but it was the same kind of "sorry" delivered by train engineers when you're running late. They say it because the marketing department told them to. They don't really mean it. The pinched and pale manager offered no suggestions and gave no help. Not even an offer to try to send it away for repair. Nor an attempt to upsell me to a new phone at a slight discount. (Which, had they read me right and been nice to me, I might have done.)

I have learned my lesson. And, oddly, it's not "you get what you pay for", because I paid the premium rate and still suffered. It's "you get WHO you pay for". No matter what you buy and how much you spend, if you buy it from a bare bones discounter who's all about profits, and figures cheap prices eliminate the need for customer service, you will be treated badly. If you buy from a premium retailer, even if you got something at a whacking great discount, they'll take care of you; because their brand depends on that service. So, dear readers, please learn from my pain. DON'T SHOP AT TESCO.

And, dear John Lewis partnership, don't you think there's a market niche for Waitrose mobile?