Richmond's Bingham bags its star

Congratulations to the Bingham Hotel Restaurant (reviewed 1.9.09) and Chef Shay Cooper for capturing that Michelin star I reported they were chasing last summer. This year's honours list granted them the accolade, even as it took one away from the much feted Gordon Ramsay.

The Bingham is offering recipients of their customer newsletter free champagne throughout February to toast their success, which is a lovely piece of customer care. I'm also delighted to see that prices have not, as yet, skyrocketed as predicted. At the moment they're offering a four course rugby lunch for £48. Not bad at all; may need to go back.

Madsen's gives bright and elegant intro to Danish food

My boyfriend is half Danish and, as such, has naturally been taking an interest in introducing me to Danish culture. There was not much to build on, I'm afraid, as the sum total of my awareness was derived from Hans Christian Andersen, Hamlet, pastries and comedienne Sandi Tostvig.

In-depth lesson No. 1: Food. Location: Madsen Restaurant.

This was entirely new territory. I've never been to (or even contemplated) a Danish restaurant, and had only the sketchiest understanding of Scandinavian food. I knew pickled fish was involved. And had been further educated that schnapps, beer and highly decorative sandwiches were key. I wasn't sure how you got a whole cuisine out of this, much less a restaurant, but I was willing to give it a try.

First impressions were good. Madsen is just across the broad intersection from South Kensington tube station, a small, bright place decorated with pale wood, and sleek lines and bright flowers. It was a refreshing change from the heavy, grey winter outside. The staff were all willowy Nordic beauties in black cotton uniforms who looked more like spa attendants than waitresses. The menu was broad and, it turns out, more familiar than you'd think. Meatballs, smoked salmon and cream cheese, waffles.

We started with a platter of three types of herring ... pickled in onion, madeira and mustard marinades ... served with dark rye bread, sour cream and a condiment similar to the beaten yolks of deviled eggs. This was my first foray into pickled fish, and I have to admit I found sweet fish to be too odd to love on first encounter; they were sugary enough to approach dessert. The side of schnapps certainly helped. Though it too, was sweet, the alcohol had a clarity that cut through the sugar of the food. Although odd, the tastes were pleasant, especially the medeira version, and the rye bread was fantastic. I thought that with enough experimenting to get the additional toppings right, I could find something I really liked.

Thus it was sensible for me to have the experts combine the elements for just the right balance of tastes on the next course. Although Madsen's menu listed plenty of hot entrees, everyone (including us) was indulging in the Danish Smørrebrød, open sandwiches on thin, dark rye bread with a variety of toppings. And though the menu calls these small sandwiches, they're almost better described as canapes, as they are exquisitely designed and constructed light bites. We had four each: thinly-sliced beef with remoulade, topped with crispy onions, pickled cucumbers and mayonnaise on more of that delicious rye bread; Greenland prawns and hard boiled eggs on sourdough with mayonnaise; smoked pork loin with tomato, potato and mayo; potato and crispy onion on more rye with mayo. Each was exquisite on the eye, laid out in delicate pinwheels or carefully designed towers. Evidently, chefs get extensive training to create such artistry, much along the lines of a Japanese sushi chef. (Perhaps that was what was in the Madsen menu writer's mind when he decided to call their small bites "smushi".)

A culture that likes its fish starters sweet is likely to do desserts well, and I wasn't disappointed to be presented with a chocolate sandwich. More rye bread, covered with a slab of what was essentially chocolate fudge, topped with a preserved fig. Simple and inelegant in description, it looked just as delicate as its predecessors and tasted absolutely fantastic.

As an introduction to Danish and broader Scandinavian cuisine, Madsen was a success. I've been educated, impressed, and my curiousity is piqued for further exploration. Although I'm not sure I'd put the place on my regular restaurant rotation. Much like tapas bars and conveyor belt sushi places, all these exquisite little plates add up quickly. If you start hungry, you'll potentially spend more here to get satisfied than you would for a regular three-course meal. For a break in the normal round of restaurants, however, and especially for a light and healthy lunch break from the nearby South Kensington museums, Madsen's deserves a try.

South London's Borough Market is even sweeter after nearly a fortnight snowed in

The winter of 1985 found me in Muskegon, Michigan, working as a general assignment reporter on The Chronicle as part of my University degree. It was a town that knew how to do winter.

It snowed a little most nights. Each morning before work, business and home owners would fire up their snow blowers to clear walks, drives and parking. Snow plows kept the streets fairly clear, but there always seemed to be snow packed below. Not a problem, as everyone had heavy duty snow tires or chains. It was bitterly cold, and by late January the accumulated snow was at least waist deep. This didn't keep the Michiganders inside: ice fishing, snow shoeing, cross country skiing and a lot of drinking at Muskegon Lumberjack ice hockey games were all promoted to me as ideal uses of recreational time.

I've been thinking about that winter a lot, given the comparison of this one. London in January 2010 is experiencing a winter everyone is heralding as the worst in living memory; it's been below freezing for the better part of a month, and we've been hit by multiple snowfalls. This, however, is a town that has no idea how to manage.

I suppose I was quite lucky to get home from Heathrow, given the fact that none of the side roads had been ploughed and sheets of black ice lay everywhere. In the following two weeks I barely left the house. One of the advantages of flexible working is that I don't need to, of course, but it was getting pretty lonely after a week. There was a limit, however, to how long I could survive out of cupboards and freezer. But the news was keeping me indoors, with stories of motorists stranded for hours, impassible roads and halted public transport.

The first time I ventured out in a car I almost got stuck in a slushy verge, while the only time I had to go into London the announcement on the train platform told me that I traveled at my own risk, with no guarantee they could get me home. By 4pm, 80 per cent of the trains out of Waterloo were cancelled and I felt quite fortunate to stumble through my door with an extra hour of travel time.

All this from a couple of snowfalls, none of which topped three inches, and temperatures that never got much below 30F/-1C. In Michigan, the idea of these conditions causing trouble would be laughable. But in a country that has no equipment, nor any idea of how to deal snow, it's been a mess.

Thus it felt like a holiday yesterday when it was not only clear enough to get into town easily, but to go out to a friend's dinner party in Chiswick that night with assurance that we'd make it home. Being in London on a Friday gave me a chance to swing by Borough Market. London's premier specialty food and produce market, in the shadow of Southwark Cathedral, really only swings into action on Fridays and Saturdays. This is a foodie paradise. Specialist bakeries offer bewildering ranges of breads and sweet treats. Produce stands display the best of the best, arranged in displays like piles of glittering jewels. Ethnic booths offer food from Spain, Italy, France, the Middle East and Asia. Here an olive vendor, there a specialist pork butcher, there a booth with nothing but boutique ales and beers. Free samples abound, and if you're feeling more peckish, there's street food on sale throughout the market and restaurants ringing it.

For me, however, the real edge of this market is its cheeses. Most of the rest of these delights you can find in suburbia, but getting this cheese range anywhere else is rare. Knowing I'd be able to stop by the market, I'd volunteered to assemble the cheese board for the evening's party. I think I got pretty close to perfection.

First, Pouligny St. Pierre, a bready, delicate, almost floral goat cheese from the French Alps. It is my favourite cheese in the world, rare in France much less beyond, so getting my hands on one of the little pyramids with its lopped top was a find. Next came a pungent ewe's milk cheese, also from France. I neglected to save the name of that one, and it was something I'd never heard of, but the guys at the French cheese stall guided and sampled me to an excellent selection. Then it was time to jump the Channel. On to the Bournes Cheese stand, purveyors of a variety of aged cheddars made to what they claim is the oldest cheese recipe on record in England. I also picked up one of their Bries to fill the mild end of the board. Finally, the sumptuous Stichelton. This is essentially Stilton, but unpasteurised and made to the original recipe, as opposed to all modern Stiltons that must go through modern pasteurisation processes. The result has all the pungent tang of the blue we know, but accompanied by much creamier, richer back notes.

Two weeks confined to the house, unable to do my usual walking because of the iced roads. Followed by a cheese board direct from heaven. Is it any wonder I didn't perform well at Weight Watchers this morning? The thaw, and the diet, are coming.

borough market, the perfect cheese board

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.

Still recession-stunted, London Christmas season leaves time for culture, close friends

Last year I bemoaned the advent of the grim Christmas season. (see 20.12.08) This year, well into recession, everyone knew what was coming. There were no big media parties, a few quiet lunches with agencies and a handful of special events that mixed business with pleasure. (Pure pleasure, this year, was bad form in the workplace.) Nobody moaned, we expected it. And we made plans accordingly. Meaning that I fit in more culture, and more non-work social stuff, than I'd seen in many a December.

On the cultural front, I spent time with Mexican rulers at the British Museum and Indian ones at the V&A. Moctezuma (a more authentic pronunciation, evidently, than our standard Montezuma) at the BM dove deep into a ruler most of us know only as the guy who was on the losing end to Cortez. Indeed, by the end of a very enjoyable wander, I had come to believe that the man was a sophisticated leader cursed with a lot of bad luck. Certainly the impressive range of artifacts, including sacrificial altars, inlaid masks and intricate gold work showed that he ruled over a cosmopolitan, if violent, society.

For really impressive gold ... and jewels, and bling in general, however, you had to go across town to the V&A's Maharaja exhibit. There were lessons to be learned here about the political history of India but, frankly, the main draw was gasping at expanses of solid gold, precious gems the size of eggs and furniture made of ivory and precious materials. These guys made the crowned heads of Europe look frugal and drab. An extraordinary show, sparking great fantasies of what might be possible with a few spare billion.

I satisfied the urge for luxury a bit later with a delightful night at the Threadneedles Hotel. (www.theetoncollection.com) This former bank turned into a luxury pied a terre is in the heart of The City. One assumes it's packed by wealthy bankers during the week, but on weekends this stretch of town is empty. Meaning that they offer their extraordinarily expensive rooms at deep discount packages. Prices still put this in "special treat" category, but had at least they dropped into my value-for-money range. We attended a Christmas Ball nearby, so stayed here on a Saturday night. Our package included a welcoming platter of Christmas treats and mulled wine, and a generous breakfast in their elegant restaurant the next morning. The room was huge and filled with every amenity, from giant TV to iPod dock to California king bed to a table on wheels in the bathroom stacked with design and luxury lifestyle magazines. I spent a very happy Saturday afternoon soaking in the giant marble tub trying out the whole range of bath salts provided. Perfect in every detail ... including the quiet and efficient service ... this is one of the best hotel experiences I've had.

After that expenditure, I could breathe a sigh of relief that others were footing the bill for Christmas meals. The PR agency celebrated at Levant, last reviewed 30.05.08. I found their set Christmas meal disappointing; certainly not the expansive feast of my last visit. But still a tasty outing into culinary novelty, in exotic decor, with belly dancers for entertainment. A more sophisticated outing, perhaps, was our case study agency's choice of Fino, a tapas bar and Spanish restaurant at 33 Charlotte Street. I'm a big tapas fan, and all the other places I've been to in London have that down home Spanish holiday feel, with painted tiles and hams hanging from the ceiling. Fino is bright, modern and elegant, with a menu that takes tapas into fine dining. (There are Spanish main courses as well; we had some of the requisite suckling pig.) I was particularly delighted with their octopus. A hard dish to get right, done perfectly here. Our internal team lunch at the end of the month was at an unusually quiet Yo! Sushi just across from St. Pauls. Dependable and fun, with the conveyor belt zipping options by you.

Meanwhile, One Aldwych demonstrated that hotels can manage fine dining while serving large groups. I attended a fascinating lunch hosted by the publishers of Time/Life/Fortune during which we talked about the state of the media market and where electronic "readers" like Amazon's kindle were taking us. They gave us a preview of an electronic version of Sports Illustrated made for this technology, a beautiful and exciting format that will have me signing up for many of my favourite magazines online when it comes into standard usage. Meanwhile the fillet steak was succulent and the discovery of Argentinian Familia Zuccardi's Malbec was the highlight of my day. I could have drunk a great deal of this rich wine with its explosive fruit notes, but I was carrying on conversations with both the editor in chief of Time and the US editor of Fortune and knew I needed to stay a sober, gracious, intelligent representative of my employer. A shame. It was great stuff.

My finest holiday season dining experience, however, was neither in central London nor footed by a business account. A group of friends met up just before the holiday break at the Princess Victoria in Shepherd's Bush. This place gets cited a lot as one of London's best gastropubs, and is frequently mentioned by famous foodies as a hangout. (Actor Dominic West recently named it as his favourite pub, though we didn't see anyone famous on our visit.) The massive old Victorian interior has recently been subjected to a big restoration, making it bright, clean and functional while maintaining period features. The wine list is as big as the architecture, impressing all of the oenophiles at our table. And the menu, specialising in British traditional and locally sourced, has a wide range of options. Luckily the diners were both close friends and fans of sharing, so everyone was getting little tastes of everything. Delicate seafood, weighty fillets served as rare as requested, the sticky toffee pudding of fantasy ... everything was great. My only complaint would be the noise levels. Those big rooms get a lot of people crammed into them, and those high ceilings only served to ricochet the sound. I'd like to make a return visit on a weeknight, when a more peaceful atmosphere prevails.

But that won't be for a while because now, holiday in the USA beckons.

Trio of restaurant discoveries is Paris' Christmas gift

One of the greatest delights of London life is the fact that places that, from America, are “trips of a lifetime”, become quick and familiar weekend getaways.

Paris comes with an enormous cultural legacy. If you haven’t been here before, or are not sure of repeat visits, it’s almost impossible to relax under the burden of required trips to museums like the Louvre, the Gare du Nord or Musee de Cluny and visits to architectural blockbusters like the Eiffel Tower, Versailles and the Place de la Concorde. But when Paris is easily accessible … the equivalent of a trip to Memphis or Chicago from St. Louis … you can cross a threshold where you’ve done the major sites and no longer feel compelled to pursue the tourist round. It’s then that you can simply wander, window shop and dine, free from cultural guilt.

Which is exactly how the Northwestern Girls spent their recent pre-Christmas weekend. We were concentrating on food, wine and whatever holiday shopping made sense given the punishing strength of the Euro. It was a blissful and relaxed weekend, though the exchange rate made it frightfully expensive.

Our base was the Hotel St. Louis – Marais, long my favourite landing spot in the city. I love this part of town, with its gracious 16^th century architecture, classy boutiques and quiet back lanes. Though adjacent to the Seine and within walking distance of most major sites, it seems quieter and less overrun with tourists than other parts of town. The Hotel St. Louis is an old townhouse with less than 20 rooms. It’s gracious, charming and has a bit of historic flair. Think B&B rather than amenity-rich hotel, however. We shared a junior suite on the very top floor. (There’s no lift here, so be sure you have the energy for long flights of stairs before booking.) The exposed timbers, cathedral ceiling and lofted gallery gave the room great interest, while the three beds (one main, one in the loft, one tucked under the sloping eaves) and modern bathroom made it wonderfully convenient. At 160 euro a night for the room, not bargain basement prices, but certainly fine value for money when split between three.

It was a great weekend for wandering. We stumbled onto an outdoor market in the Marais, filled with local producers who'd brought cheese, preserved fruits, foie gras, wines, etc. in from the countryside. Foie gras, in fact, was to be a theme of the weekend. Not only did we indulge in restaurants, but we kept stumbling into specialty shops offering samples and holiday deals. In fact, the French grasp the idea of free samples in a way still alien to the English; by lunch on Saturday we'd been offered five types of foie gras, chocolate truffles and a wide variety of wines, all gratis. How civilised. Our rambles over the weekend took us around the Place des Voges, through the M

arais, around the Saint Germain des Pres and down the main street of the Isle St. Louis. Good window shopping, as there seem to be more independent boutiques left in Paris than in London these days. But there were few bargains, so we bought little. It was only at the very end of the weekend that we made it over to the "Grands Magasin", the huge department stores with the famous Christmas decorations. Impressive lights, and window displays far better than anything in London, but still not a patch on Marshall Fields' State Street extravaganzas.

Shopping was nice, but it was eating and drinking (and the accompanying conversations) that made the weekend. Find No. 1 was Roger la Grenouille (28,Rue des Grands Augustins), a classic neighbourhood bistro in the heart of Saint Germain des Pres. If you remember enough French to know that grenouille means frog, you won't be surprised to learn that the place specialises in frogs' legs, with one normal menu and one of froggy delights. Hillary was the adventurous one, starting with a pile of legs cooked with small tomatoes, pine nuts and olive oil. Very tasty and, yes, pretty much just like chicken. I, however, was compelled to go for the trio of foie gras, featuring one slice duck, one goose, and some foie gras creme brulee. Our main course orders encompassed prawns, scallops and beef, all cooked to perfection. I can't imagine returning to Paris without coming back here.

Tied for second place were our restaurants for Saturday dinner and Sunday lunch. Saturday found us at Vins des Pyranees (25 rue Beautreillis), a bistro just around the corner from our hotel in what was once a wine importer ... ergo the name. The place came highly recommended and the menu was classic hearty cuisine; French comfort food. Yes, the French can elevate steak and chips to an entirely different meal than the equivalent in most other countries. Embrace the simplicity and enjoy. My one criticism would be the crowd. There were enough people packed cheek-by-jowl in here for me to wonder about fire regulations. Probably due to it being a pre-holiday Saturday night, but not a place to do if you're looking for a quiet, romantic meal.

For Sunday lunch, after discovering that two of our choices were closed, we literally stumbled onto Le Grand Colbert. ("Look, that place is open. It looks nice. Hey, it's in the guidebook. Hey ... it's famous.") Turns out Colbert (2 Rue Vivienne) is one of the city's classic bistros, patronised by many famous people over the years and listed as an architectural landmark. Its interiors are worth the trip alone: tall ceilings, Pompeiian wall paintings, gleaming brass fittings, impressive lamps with globes of frosted glass. You could almost forgive an average meal. Fortunately, the food doesn't disappoint either. We ate off the set menu, making this one of our more reasonable outings. The offerings are simple, majoring on grilled meats and fish, and very nice oysters, but the preparation and serving is done with flair.

French food has a lofty reputation, but it's easy to get bad meals in Paris. I know. I've had them. This time, I got lucky, and now have a short list for all future trips. Who knows. I may even get back inside a museum next time.

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.