NPG's "Lost Prince" brings Jacobean superstar to life

When a national portrait gallery is really doing its job, it revives those long dead, and explains their impact on the world.  That's exactly what London's gallery is doing now with the little known prince Henry Stuart.

Who, you ask?

Unless you're a history buff with an interest in the 17th century, you probably don't know about poor Henry.  Once a glittering superstar and the hope of his generation, a paragon of noble virtues regarded with esteem by all the crowns of Europe ... but dead a few weeks short of his 19th birthday.  Thus did his far less prepared, but now far more famous brother come to the throne.  And start down a path that led to civil war, regicide and protectorate.

Charles I hardly gets a mention here, however, though the broader show goes a long way to explaining why he might have had such a massive chip on his narrow shoulders.  Henry was a hard act to follow.

The NPG mixes the expected portraits with bits and pieces from Henry's life to explore who he was, why he developed as he did and what his loss meant to the country.  His school notebooks are here, showing the depth and rigour of his classical education in his exquisite handwriting.  There are designs for the gardens he was planning at Richmond Palace.  Exquisite Inigo Jones drawings of the sets and costumes of the lavish court masques he appeared in.  Suits of armour displayed next to testimonials of his military prowess.  Bronzes, paintings and books from the art collection he'd started to assemble.

Finally, and tragically, items from his funeral.  There's a drawing of the lavish and detailed monument carried to the ceremony, complete with lifelike waxwork atop, positioned across the room from the headless, woodworm-riddled figure that's all that remains.  Over the sound system, the music written specifically for the funeral plays.  It's suitably depressing.

So who was Henry?  These four rooms present a remarkable young man.  He was clearly both a scholar and an athlete who excelled in the martial arts.  He was praised for his diplomatic skills, and seems to have been good at mixing and mingling at big state events.  He was bred from infancy to be serious, and do an adult's job, and it seems he never rebelled.  Like all worthy Renaissance princes, he was deeply interested in the arts and was already collecting with the eye and ardour of someone twice his age.  In fact, the overall impression is of someone who skipped childhood altogether, and was emerging into manhood as a fully-matured 40-something male.  He was, it seemed, all you'd want from someone born to leadership.  Although you had the feeling the poor kid never had much fun.

Certainly, the course of British history might have run very differently had he lived.  Imagine the consequences of no civil war.  Consider the impact Henry IX could have had on architecture and the arts.  How much greater might Great Britain have been if those middle years of the 17th century had been spent as a player on the world stage, rather than internally focused?  Proper historians hate the "what if" game, but here I think they missed a trick.  Indulging in a little guided exploration of those issues at the end of the show would have given that much more significance to his death.

That's a small quibble, however, for a show that does a great job of illuminating a dim bit of history with beautiful things to look at, given fine context.  There's just a week left to see it, so drop in if you get a chance.

Farewell 2012, the year of clinging to the cup half full

When my husband pokes loving fun at my national roots, he often lambasts cheerful optimism.  Bloody Americans, with all their "have a nice days", Disney outlooks and need for happy endings.  Harrumph.

Thank God, I say.  If it weren't for that outlook, 2012 would have been a miserable year, and this blog might have been deeply gloomy.

I focused on the positives.  And there were plenty.  The Jubilee and the Olympics, of course, made England the finest place in the world to live this year.  We had a great holiday in Virginia, Washington and Maryland in the spring. We moved into our dream home in August.  We took in a delightful round of cooking classes, operas and fine restaurants.  And best of all, there is that delightful pronoun ... we.  My first full year going through life with another half to complete me and make it all worth while.

Behind all of that, however, was the year of bad health.  And, as I've always understood but never experienced, if you don't have your health, everything else is problematic.  You can work around financial challenges, job issues, family stresses and the host of other irritations that plague everyday life, but if your body isn't working, it subverts every moment of your existence.

I haven't dwelled upon it in these pages, but make no mistake:  chemotherapy is a bitch.  It turns you into an old woman before your time and ... the thing I didn't expect ... recovery takes as long as, if not longer than, the treatment.  Let's not forget mine was complicated by a serious bout of pneumonia.  That lingers beyond expectations, too.  Eight months after the last chemo dose I am just starting to feel capable of the movement and energy levels necessary for real recovery.

So good riddance, 2012.  Bring on the new year.  Regular exercise, a serious return to Weight Watchers, much fruit and veg, cutting down on that alcohol.  Sure, everyone makes the health and fitness resolution today.  But I, with the spectre of its loss just behind me, have the will to take it more seriously than most.

The sun is out, and we're off for a long walk.  Here's to 2013.

French simplicity adds a new twist to London's restaurant scene

Traditionally, French cuisine in London goes hand-in-hand with formality.  White table cloths, stiff waiters, stiffer prices.  Even brasserie-inspired spots like Mon Plaisir in Covent Garden or La Brasserie on Brompton road have a showy style and a serious approach that says "you are eating the finest cuisine in the world, approach with respect."

In my experience, only one spot avoided this trap:  La Bouchee on Old Brompton Road.  (Near the Lycee Francais, long a favourite of the French expat community.)  A new trend in gastropub-style French spots is following La Bouchee, offering short menus of traditional classics, well-prepared and pleasantly plated, on scrubbed wooden tables in casual, simple rooms.

Proof point No. 1:  Antidote.  It's a bare-bones wine bar down a quiet lane just off Carnaby Street.  Fully staffed by French expats and introduced to me by the new French account executive at one of my agencies, it has an authenticity that reminds me of cozy spots we discovered on holiday in Burgundy.

The menu is seasonal and heavy on imported, regional French ingredients.  I started with scallops with chestnuts and confit chicken wing; the nuts were a surprising but excellent match with the shellfish.  On to Gascony black pork with apricots and soft polenta.  The pork was a bit fatty for my taste ... I suspect it should have been slow cooked longer to render it out ... but the combo of sharp, sweet fruit with smooth, buttery starch was well-judged.  Dessert was a dark chocolate mousse in decidedly un-gourmet proportions; so rich I left half of one of the two hefty quenelles.

They're quite proud of their wine list here, which is heavy on organics and small vineyards.  We let the wine waiter recommend something interesting and ended up with one of those classic French bottles that pairs well with the food but isn't very palatable on its own.  (We should have known what we were in for when the wine list said:  "This wine will not leave you indifferent.")  The white Julien Courtois "Originel", from Solonge in the Loire Valley was 80% menu pineau, 20% romorantin, and so musky with farmyard scents we had to ask the waiter if it was corked.  Had he tasted it?  Yes, and it was as it should be.  I thought he was pulling one over on us until I tasted it with the pork.  Excellent.  But I wouldn't do it again.  I want wine that's more than a condiment.

Prices are £6 to £8 for starters and £13 to £18 for mains, which is cheaper than the more traditional French menus though certainly not a steal.  A quirky, quality spot in a part of town that's increasingly dominated by chains.

Proof point No. 2:  The Green Man & French Horn on St. Martins Lane.  Like Antidote, this is a one-of-a-kind spot in a high traffic tourist area awash with chain restaurants.  It shares the casual feel, organics-heavy wine list and the authentic French approach.  (Though the angle here is that it's all specifically about the Loire Valley.)  In fact, they're so close in style you could be forgiven for thinking they share ownership.  No.  The Man & Horn does have a sister restaurant, but it's nearby Terroirs, the experiment in French tapas we visited in April.

If you're eating, rather than just out for a good by-the-glass wine list with some nibbles, this is a more fulfilling experience than Terroirs.  Though probably a bit more expensive, and less congenial, than Antidote.  While both cram as many tables as they can into a small space, The Man & Horn squishes the most.  Five of us were around a table that would have been a bit cramped even for four, jammed against a wall and across from the stairs to the wine cellar.

The food here has a narrow edge on Antidote, however.  My Jerusalem artichoke soup managed to be both delicate and full flavoured, while the pork rillette brought grins of deep satisfaction to the boys at the table.  No wine experimentation with this lunch:  we went for a pleasingly floral Sancerre that worked beautifully with both the starters and an amazing poached pear, which sat on a pool of salted carmel and had been injected with cream in the cavity left when it had been cored which didn't reveal itself until you plunged your spoon in.  A neat trick.  In between, there was a rich and hearty red (the label of which escaped my notice), partridge for some and beef for others.  Like sister restaurant Terroirs, this place has a deeply-local French wine list with a lot of options by the glass or carafe.

Both Antidote and The Green Man & French Horn are welcome additions to the restaurant scene in London.  We have plenty of haut cuisine, and plenty of spots that feel like affluent Parisian bistros.  But not the kind of homely places I'd enjoyed in the countryside.  These deliver on that simpler ethos, though when you emerge you'll have a trudge back to the tube rather than a saunter along some lovely canal.  C'est la vie.

'Tis the season to be merry. Exceptionally.

The Christmas open house and official house warming party is finished.

We met the majority of our house decorating deadlines.  The holiday decorations are up, most of the pictures are hung, we have about half the curtains.  (The rest are promised before Christmas itself.)  The dog has a holiday outfit.  We baked a ham.  We baked a cake.  We mulled wine.  Boy, did we mull wine.

As our special Christmas gift to you, here's the recipe for Piers' glogg.  That's Danish mulled wine.  Ever been to a fraternity party?  This is like that innocent tasting, fast-acting punch that put you on the dance floor in one, the couch in two and under a table in three.  Except done with holiday spices and served in cozy mugs.

1 bottle red wine
1 bottle port
1/2 bottle Danish snapps (akvavit)
100 millileters kirsch
200g raisins
100g flaked almonds
3 cardamom pods
3 cinnamon sticks
1 tbs cloves
lemon peel
sugar to taste

Macerate the fruit in the red wine and port for several hours first.  Then mix the rest and put over slow heat for at least an hour.  This burns off the harshest of the alcohol and leaves something that's sweet, mellow ... and toxic.  Enjoy.

You may not be able to go home again, but your stuff can follow you

A life in nine boxes and six pieces of furniture.

The chandelier in its original setting, circa 1965

After nearly two years of sorting my mother's estate, that's all that was left.  Collected from a storage unit in Kirkwood, shipped slowly trans-Atlantic, held up for three weeks by zealous customs officers in Felixstowe, driven cross country and finally unloaded by a couple of brawny lads in less than half an hour.

Finally, alone with my stuff and a packing knife, I started unwrapping the past, and was confronted with the folly of memory.  For little was as I recalled.

In the cold light of a new house, pieces of furniture that I remembered as beautiful and imposing were underwhelming.  The grandfather clock is a lot smaller than I thought (a grandmother, really), and the wood on that chest of drawers is in horrible shape.  The upholstery on great aunt Lucille's French chairs is badly stained.  I'd never noticed any of this in St. Louis.  Could I have bought better quality stuff at antique shops over here for less than the cost of the shipping?  Quite possibly.

The chandelier moves to my childhood home.

With more silver than we can already use at the average dinner party, all the badly tarnished plate in those boxes left me wondering why I bothered keeping them.  How about my original Macintosh ... the first ever, 512k, 1985.  My dog Windsor's collar and tags ... the only thing on this precariously emotional day that actually sparked tears; I had forgotten I'd kept them.  And that pile of high school yearbooks?  (In my defence, I'm not just IN the yearbooks ... I edited them.)  All these items are here more because I couldn't bear to throw them away than because I wanted to keep them.

But there are a few treasures that justified the shipment.  The bronze Buddha family legend says came from one of my grandfather's patients who'd "liberated" it during the Boxer Rebellion.  (Must get that to the Antiques Roadshow someday.)  Also on the bronze front, the original sculpture of my mother's last golden retriever, heads captured at six, nine and 12 months.  The oil painting of the autumnal riverbank in its outrageously Baroque gold frame.  And best value for money: the chandelier.

The chandelier in place in the Bencard dining room.

Doing a cold calculation, I figure the exercise paid for itself on this one item, as buying anything equivalent would have cost more than the cost of the whole shipment.  The elegant, classic, six-armed crystal piece has hung in my grandparent's house in Bellerive Acres, then my family home in Chesterfield, and now England.  So many Christmas dinners under it, and more to come.  A financial deal, but more than that, memory, tradition and continuity.

Because those are really why we save things.  These weren't boxes of stuff, they were boxes of memory.  A collection of things that tie me to the past, and that childhood home to which I can never return.

First trip to Annecy sharpens my taste buds for the French Alps

Way back when I was lamenting the departure of my friends Cora and Didier from the UK (and the cost of their 2-Michelin starred farewell dinner), I couldn't have predicted all the fun I'd have visiting them in Luxembourg in the years to come.  Many blog entries attest to what followed.  Now, they've moved to France, and I'm ready for fun.  I still miss my friends being right up the road, but as long as they keep moving to fantastic weekend destinations, I'll cope.

My new part of the world to explore:  Annecy.

It's a picturesque French town on the northern tip of an eponymous Alpine lake, with all the scenery you'd expect.  Deep, crystal clear waters.  Bike paths, promenades, gardens and marinas around the lake.  A ring of craggy mountains.  Alpine chalets, meadows and church steeples.  And, because it's just over 20 miles from Geneva, tasteful suburban villages (we were in one of these) populated by prosperous white collar commuters who can't face the extortionate property prices in Switzerland.

With its water sports, walking, sumptuous scenery and fairly dependable summer weather, Lake Annecy is a well-known holiday destination in warmer months.  But I can't imagine a better introduction to any Alpine setting than at Christmas time.  The mountains were snow covered, the town decked in tasteful Christmas decorations.  It was the first weekend of their Christmas market, and vendors were just setting up their traditional wooden chalets with tempting displays of jewellery, crafts, gingerbread, candles, mulled wine and luxury food items.

The Old Town spreads for about half a mile around where the river, Le Thiou, runs into the lake.  The castle of the Counts of Geneva (this was once their base, and a much more significant spot than Geneva itself) sits on a hill.  A warren of four or five particularly charming streets winds beneath it.  The architecture mixes everything from Medieval to 19th century in a tasteful melange that makes most views postcard-worthy.  Especially when you catch a snowy mountain peak in the background.  And unlike the English high street, the shops here tend to still be individually owned.  There are plenty of galleries and unusual boutiques, like the store selling highly-scented, hand-made soaps created by a corporate exec who cashed in and retired to a gentler form of life.

Walk more than 10 minutes, however, and you're into humourless, brutal concrete architecture of the 20th century.  We wandered down this way as it's where the city had set up the Christmas skating rink and the food court.  You can forget architecture when you're watching happy children while sipping mulled wine and eating a fried foie gras sandwich.  Yes, foie gras as street food.  Only in France.

But beyond the Christmas season, once you've wandered the Old Town the appeal is very obviously the lake.  19th-century gardens radiate back from the town hall into the lake, offering stunning views.  There are bicycle and walking paths all the way around.  Our brisk trudge along icy gravel, looking out at misty views, was beautiful despite the chill, but I can imagine going for hours in nice weather.

In addition to sightseeing potential, Cora and Didier have also kept up the culinary standards in their latest move.  Native cuisine is hearty mountain fare, dominated by the happy cows that munch all that Alpine meadow grass.  Thus steaks, fondue and raclette all feature prominently on menus.

Our most delightful meal was in a tiny, family run spot in Cora and Didier's village.  They didn't even have a sign, and from the outside it looked like just another house.  Limiting it pretty much to locals who are all on a first name basis with the owner/cook and her assistant, who specialise in fondues and cheese-laden pizzas made fresh in the wood-fired oven in the centre of the dining room.  I'm confident we'll be back, though I must remember to ask them to halve the cheese if I get pizza again.  (My husband and Didier, meanwhile, devoured a sizeable vat of bubbling fondue between them with ease.)  God help any lactose-intolerant visitor to this region.

Our most elegant meal was in the Brasserie St. Maurice in the Old Town.  Its ground floor is deceptive, looking like little more than a humble bar, but head upstairs for white tablecloths, cozy stone walls, mirrors and elegant cuisine.  Our best view, Le Bistrot du Port, occupying a purpose-built modern building with a boathouse feel right on the water.  Great atmosphere and unusually large portion sizes make this a fine spot for big, boisterous family gatherings.

Not a bad start for a weekend visit.  Now that we've had our appetiser, we're eager for the next course.  Getting inside the castle.  A long bike ride along the lake.  The grand Imperial Palace hotel and casino.  Maybe even a little local wine tasting and a visit to a cheese producer or two.  Cora, get researching that, will you?  We'll be back at Easter time.

It's an uneventful, but blessedly sunny, visit to LA

Los Angeles offers enough activity for a doorstop-sized guidebook.  Little of which interested me this trip.

My priorities were family and shopping, with four half-days of work woven in to extend my time on the ground.  I did nothing that was new, and little that would be of interest to the average tourist.  So, rather than proper blog entries, here's a roundup of some random, brief observations.

• I had forgotten just how football dominated Thanksgiving is.  Celebrating the holiday for years overseas, for me it's a sophisticated dinner party with dear friends, built around a discussion of how good our lives are.  Back in the country of my birth, it was about people drifting back and forth from the buffet at the golf club, bolting down food in between long stretches of sport on a jumbo-screen TV.  Yuk.  The highlight was heading to the cinema for the fabulous Argo that evening.  I'll take my adapted holiday on foreign soil.

• Sport might have made my holiday tedious, but it's turning my nephews into good little lads.  Their father, who was sports-mad himself, believes that athletic endeavour keeps kids on the straight and narrow, teaches responsibility and teamwork, and gives them a sense of goal and purpose.  His philosophy seems to be working, and American life offers enough options to involve them seven days a week.  Though I worry they'll end up one-dimensional. I was reading the 7-year-old a fabulous, interactive iPad version of The Wind in the Willows, but he still had to play football on his own iPad at the same time.  I guess the multi-tasking is good, but it sure is a different world from my own childhood.

• You don't have to get up at the crack of dawn for Black Friday deals.  Wandering to South Coast Plaza by noon was sufficient, and was the first of multiple days of shopping that topped up my wardrobe and started the fulfilment of the Christmas list.  Nothing exotic for me.  Macy's, Old Navy, Wal Mart and Trader Joe's accomplished all I needed.  Rather amazed at how Asian the mall now is.  I'm not talking Californians of Asian descent, but throngs of Chinese-speaking 20-somethings wielding shopping bags from the most expensive brands.  Welcome to the new economy.

• We only headed in to downtown LA once, to Little Tokyo for sushi.  It's an odd place, not particularly picturesque and just one street over from one of the most crowded skid rows I've ever seen.  I wouldn't have wanted to be here without a local; too easy to stray into danger.  It's an L-shaped outdoor mall lined with restaurants and shops, with a Japanese-style tower in the middle and a public karaoke stage at the centre.  It wasn't the best sushi I've ever had, but by far the biggest rolls.

• The Palos Verdes peninsula remains one of the most beautiful places in the States.  Winding streets, lined with palms, bougainvillea and other exotic flowers, wandering past ever more exquisite houses.  There are faux French chateau, cutting edge modern architecture and, most often, a Mediterranean palace style that resembles the set of some Errol Flynn pirate flick.  If family holidays had been less stressful, I might have noticed this as a child and wanted to live there.

This visit was trouble free, however, thus allowed me to appreciate all that tropical beauty as I headed back to LAX.  One day, it was hot and sunny.  48 hours later, I was pulling on snow boots in the French Alps.  That's the kind of November it's been.