Tartufo: A hidden fine-dining gem in elegant Belgravia

If I were looking for a romantic spot for a secret assignation … with great food … I'd be at Tartufo.

It's a quirky location, tucked in the basement of an Edwardian townhouse now kitted out as a super-posh boutique hotel at 11 Cadogan Gardens.  Nestled between Sloane and Cadogan Squares, this is a busy part of London, but you'd never know it on this quiet lane, in this subtly signposted hotel.  (It is, in fact, very easy to stroll by without realising it's a commercial premises.)

Giving Sarah an elegant send-off

Enter through a marvellously lush hall, decorated as if Oscar Wilde has just stepped out for a moment, head down the stairs and you'll find yourself in a warren of small dining rooms.  There's a conservatory roof in one, and they've all been decorated with mirrors, pale upholstery and light blue accents to make the place seem bigger.  But I doubt you could get more than six tables in any of the rooms without making it feel crowded.  Overall, this adds a cozy feeling, as if you were dining in someone's home or a private club rather than a restaurant.

Of course, we were there on a Monday night and it was fairly empty.  It risks feeling loud and crowded when full.  The set-up means rooms can easily be converted to private dining for groups, which was what took us there.  A farewell dinner for my longest -serving employee, who's been steadfastly at my right hand for more than eight years, deserved something really special.  And this fit the bill.

As you'd guess from the name, Tartufo is Italian.  It's on the gourmet end.  Definitely in Locanda Locatelli territory, this is Italian classics given the modern gourmet treatment: beautiful presentation, surprising combinations, the odd bit of foreign fusion.  Like smoked eel with yuzu jelly and chlorophyll sauce.  Everything we had was delicious and faultlessly cooked, even if it didn't trip my ethnic Italian buttons the way current favourite Luce e Limone does.

In traditional Italian style, you're encouraged to dine over four courses: antipasto, pasta, main and dessert.  Portion sizes are determined accordingly.  At four courses you emerge pleasantly full; at three, less delicate appetites might have felt a bit peckish.  As you might guess from the name, truffles feature heavily across the menu.

I started with the beef carpaccio, sliced ethereally thin and dressed with the appropriate delicacy to enhance rather than overwhelm the meat.  The paccheri pasta with crab was a touch less balanced.  Though the pasta was obviously freshly made and succulently al dente, the chef had edged just a bit too far into tomato territory, losing the subtlety of the crustacean.  The pork fillet wrapped in smoked pancetta was a tasty basic, made special by its base of aubergine and fennel puree (must try that at home) and a shaving of black truffles.

The standout course, ironically, didn't seem particularly Italian in any way other than its name: Conte di Cavour.  (He was an Italian nobleman and gourmand who was a force in the unification of Italy and died relatively young.  If this dessert is anything to go by, probably from diabetes.)  It's a dark chocolate wedge, somewhere between mousse and cheesecake, on a delightfully crunchy hazelnut base, slathered in dark chocolate ganache, decorated with praline and served with a bit of lemon ice on the side to cut the richness.  It's a dessert worth returning for.

There's a small, mostly Italian wine list filled with really interesting choices; regions or varieties that often don't leave the country.  We had the light yet fruity Shioppettino, one of my favourite reds from the North of Italy, and a crisp, friendly Vermentino from Sardinia that married well with many dishes.  But all sorts of other things tempted, from Puglian unknowns to Italian takes on Gewürztraminers and Reislings to a beguiling Morellino di Scansano.  Surprisingly for this very expensive area, more than 20 of those Italian options are under £50 a bottle and there are fine choices in the low £30s.

In fact, the prices are a pleasant surprise over all, with a flat a la carte rate of £30 for two courses, £35 for three and £40 for four.  Which probably brings your total for fine dining here in at less than The Orange, the posh gastropub I reviewed last entry, that's in the same neighbourhood.

I suspect the prices will go up.  This has the feel of a place testing the waters as it builds its reputation.  Alexis Gauthier, of the well-known eponymous Chelsea restaurant, is the financial backer.  GM Michael Lear, who was the front-of-house constant at our old favourite Roussillon (I wept when it closed) is at the helm here.  Back in the kitchen is a young Italian named Manuel Oliveri, about whom I predict we're going to be hearing a lot.  Check this place out now, before he gets famous.

The Orange, Pimlico: The very model of a modern gastropub

The traditional pub is an endangered species.  The latest statistics from the Campaign for Real Ale say that, on average, 26 a month closed in Britain in the six months leading up to March 2013.

Food has been the saviour of the pubs now in thriving health.

Most people consider the rise of the gastropub a good thing.  Sure, there are a handful of the old guard who miss the local boozer filled with regulars downing pints. But most people appreciate that the conversion of drinking establishments into restaurants with decent food, often with cozy areas still preserved for the business of drinking.  The margin on food, and the higher-margin wines almost always consumed with meals, keep these places from being shuttered.

The Orange in Pimlico is an exemplar of the new breed of gastropub.

Casual drinking and dining happens downstairs; upstairs there's a proper dining room.  The look is casual yet elegant, lots of scrubbed, pale wood in Georgian architecture.  The first floor dining rooms are particularly light and airy, with towering ceilings over what were once gracious drawing rooms.  On sunny days, doors to little false balconies stand open.  With a tree-filled square just across the road, the whole place has a pastoral, Southern European feel.

Logical, then, that the modern European menu has a distinctly Italian undertone.  They have a wood-fired pizza oven and offer both starter and main course sizes; thin and flaky with interesting toppings like aubergine or smoked mozzarella.  Rabbit makes a regular appearance on the menu, as do more unusual pastas and delicate seasonal fish specials.  The wine list is broad enough to be interesting without being overwhelming, and has some quirky, unusual choices.

I've eaten here twice this spring, first for a girls' lunch before the Chelsea Flower Show.  Second for a larger family lunch to celebrate my mother-in-law's 75th birthday.  Excellent meals, beautifully presented, with good service both times.

The drawback, as ever and especially in this part of London, is price.  When I first came to England, pub food was fish & chips, burgers and pies.  Sometimes the food was even good.  But you don't make margin on those sorts of simple meals.  You make it on people who do three courses.

Chilli salt squid with smoked chilli mayonnaise for £8.50, Jurassic Coast rose veal rump for £18.50, a couple of £4 sides, roasted peach with basil mousse for £7.  All consumed by the type of people who like to linger over a meal and tend to sink a bottle each, with probably a £12-20 margin on each.  All of which means a sophisticated, relaxed meal here will easily cost you £60 or £70 once you put in the tip, water and coffee.

And when you're spending that much, you have to ask yourself … should I be spending a little more and going to a proper restaurant?

A lot of this, of course, has to do with the ridiculous costs of doing business in London.  Our local pub, the Four Horseshoes, has food just as good as the Orange.  Minus the pizza oven and with only the most basic of wine lists.  Our bill on a recent visit: roughly half that of The Orange, with the same amounts of food and wine.

The Orange is an elegant, reliable model of the modern gastropub in one of London's most exclusive areas.  Fortunately, it's setting a model that country pubs like ours can follow.

 

Rush hour trains and bad legs: A hellish combo gives useful perspective

Last week saw debate in the British press about a change that could cut American classics like To Kill a Mockingbird from the curriculum.  It's a an understandable move in a battle to raise pitiful awareness of British literature on its home turf, but it's a shame to think of anyone growing up without Atticus Finch.

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view … until you climb into his skin and walk around in it," Finch teaches us.  I have a strong grounding in British classics, but I can't think of one that drives that particular idea home that idea so well.

This was on my mind a lot as I faced a tough rush hour commute.

I like to think I've always been relatively sensitive to disability on public transport.  I became acutely aware of the challenges as my mother lost her energy and mobility.  Commuting, when you're not in good shape, is a gruesome thing.  But it was not until I started tackling journeys with my own mobility compromised that I realised how gruesome.

I'm quite unsteady on my feet right now.  I'm walking slowly, stumble easily, take steps one at a time.  Standing up for the full 50-minute journey to London … something that's often necessary on our overcrowded rush hour trains … is impossible for me.  There are designated seats for disabled people, and I'm walking with a stick.  Should be a place for me, right?

Wrong.  Civility is dead, even in what was once the land of good manners.  Commuters load onto trains in fast-moving packs.  They jostle for any available seat.  Everyone, including those in the supposed disabled seats, has perfected the art of self-isolation.  They keep their noses in their iPads, avoid eye contact, block sound with their headphones, and thus probably wouldn't notice someone having a heart attack next to them, much less a middle-aged woman who needed to sit down.

I'd witnessed this, but it is only now, walking around in a disabled skin, that I understand the consequences.  It's not just the added effort and the risk of falling over.  Knowing what's likely to come, it's a deep-rooted dread.  What happens if I don't get a seat?  What if someone pushes me over on those stairs, or getting off that train?  It turns commuting into a stressful, high-anxiety experience.  All exacerbated by the embarrassment of sticking out.  Needing help.  Being different.  Could I ask someone to get up?  Sure.  But I'm mortified to do it, and hate to confront the fact that I'm turning into an old woman.

Thankfully, I don't have to commute during rush hour very often.  Even more thankfully, my current issues are probably temporary and I have a chance of getting back to normal.  But now I've truly experienced how even a mild disability can transform something simple, taken for granted, into something hellish.  The empathy will make me a better person, hopefully even more sensitive to those in need.

That's the lesson To Kill a Mockingbird tries to teach.  I hope British kids find their way to the book, one way or another.  Trying to understand the world through someone else's perspective always makes us better people.

Head to Paris this summer to learn all about ancient Rome

It's a big year for anniversaries.

A century since the start of the first World War.  Three since the dawn of the Georgian era in England.  And 2000 years since the death of Augustus Caesar.

Historians, TV programmers and museum curators around the world are each trying to convince us that their event had a massive impact on our world.  The Augustan camp gives us Moi, Auguste, empereur du Rome at the Grand Palais in Paris until 13 July.  This collaboration between the Louvre and the Capitoline Museum in Rome looked so big as to be unmissable.  It's the one event I built our weekend around.  And big, it turned out to be.  If not in any other way, then certainly in size.

There's a point in this show where you've been through galleries on Augustus' political story, his family, religion, and an awful lot of sculpture, and you come into a gallery that opens up into a grand staircase flooded with natural light.  "A bit smaller than I expected, but a great show," I thought.  Before realising that this wasn't an exit, but an ascent, and we'd now continue through an additional series of galleries above the ones we'd just toured.  More religion, ways of death, everyday life and the Augustan home, politics and civic architecture in the colonies.

This wasn't the insight into the character of Augustus I imagined we might get from the title, but a retrospective of just about every aspect of Roman life and art during the man's reign.

If you, like me, read a constant diet of Roman history, and historical fiction, and are beguiled by everything about the time period, you will happily poke around here for at least 2.5 hours.  If you're less of a fanatic, then even with the excellent English audio guide (essential, since all of the labels are, of course, en francais) you might find yourself a bit bored.  My husband, history buff that he is, didn't find enough of a story to hold things together and hit the "too many statues" point about 2/3rds of the way through.

There are still enough highlights, however, to be worthy of anyone's attention.  The Augustus of Prima Porta, one of the best known of all representations of the great man, sets the stage in a stately first room, made more dramatic by a reproduction of the towering walls in Rome on which he inscribed his laws.  (French translation running behind the statue.)  I loved the circular gallery that surrounded me with portrait busts of the whole extended family.  Roman sculpture at that time went in for realism and each of these is distinctly individual.  Any reader of I, Claudius will be entranced at the characters come to life.  There's an extraordinary video of the Ara Pacis (the altar of peace, newly restored in Rome, but some bits brought here) that shows how it would have been vividly painted in its active days.  And the galleries upstairs displaying household items from Pompeii really are extraordinary, featuring a wide range of beautiful things in magnificent condition.  There's no individual item here that isn't both lovely, and interesting to inspect.

The exhibition's problem, I think, comes from its resolutely old-fashioned approach to display.  With the exception of that video, and an interesting room upstairs where they use projectors to create a Roman room around you, the decor of which keeps changing, this is a procession of grand objects, on static display, with prim labels beside them.  I thought of the day before, when a small show at Malmaison of the Empress Josephine's books and decorative objects on birds and flowers was made far more dramatic with the use of soundtrack, video and lighting.  There is little of that new approach here; perhaps the curators feared "dumbing down".

Even a change of wall colour would have helped.  The majority of the exhibition space is white.  White sculpture against white walls.  Wonder if there was a latin phrase for snow blindness?  Only the frescoes from the House of Livia, left, really stood out against this background.  A rich, jewel-toned background would have highlighted most of the artefacts so much more.  Instead, we seemed to be looking at the white, pristine world of Rome as imagined by the Victorians.  Rather than the lively, messy, colourful world that the Ara Pacis video showed us really existed.

I expected a concluding gallery or two that showed me the impact that Augustus and his age had on the world.  From Virgil's stories inspiring art to aspiring leaders studying political strategy to architects of important civic buildings pinching ideas.  If it was there, it was far too subtle.

And so I staggered out of the show, happy … but feeling a bit overdosed.  As if I'd eaten far too much, but none of it really adding up to a meal.  If you're going to make the trip to consume what this show puts before you, make sure that your taste is solidly Roman before you start.

5 tips for rediscovering the magic of Paris

Samuel Johnson famously said that when a man is tired of London, he's tired of life.  When a man is tired of Paris, it just means he's been there eight or ten times.

Maybe it's Baron Haussmann's drive towards uniformity, or the fact that every bistro has pretty much the same menu, or the reality that once you've been up the Eiffel Tower a couple of times it's just a very long queue for a lift with a view.  Paris, once you become a frequent visitor, can get a bit boring.

This is, no doubt, a complete travesty to my American readers, who imagine Paris as the trip of a lifetime.  But you need to remember that Paris to London is a 45-minute flight, and a frequent business trip destination.  It is in the same orbit from London as Chicago is from St. Louis.  And though I loved the Windy City, I hardly considered it exotic.

We set off for the City of Light for the bank holiday weekend on the express mission to see an exhibition at the Grand Palais.  (Of that, more in my next entry.)  We purposely made no other plans and had no specific destinations in mind.  We would, we thought, just drift.  And this turned out to be a brilliant idea.  Freed from the short list of "must see" sights, with no expectations whatsoever and leaning towards lesser-known activities, we ended up cobbling together some great experiences that made this one of my best visits in many years.

Here are five activities that will revive a jaded Paris visitor's love for the city.

1. Tour the Opera House (Palais Garnier)

I've passed the Palais Garnier so many times that its magnificent architecture, grand as it is, had faded into the general stage set of Paris.  Turns out you can go inside on a self-guided tour.  The interior makes the facade look understated.  It is one of the most magnificently lavish buildings I have ever encountered, its profuse marble, mosaics, frescoes, gold gilt and lighting making the public areas as much of a show as whatever was playing behind the curtain.  It has all the opulence of Versailles, but with much smaller crowds and a manageable number of rooms.

It is, of course, from a different time period.  Built in the mid-1800s under the artistic direction of architect Charles Garnier, by whose name it's now often known, it created a look for Napoleon III's new empire.  What came to be called Second Empire shares the rich ornamentation of historic French styles, but combines them, and borrows from others, to create something new and totally of that time.

You'll pay 10 euro to get in; don't skimp and spend an additional 5 on the audio tour, essential to

understand both Garnier's artistic intent and how the building was used.  Without it I wouldn't have appreciated, for example, that the Salle Des Glaces (literally, hall of ice cream or ices) was decorated with women representing pastry, ice cream making, confectionary, tea and coffee … all the things consumed here.  Or that Garnier started the tradition of red curtains and upholstery in auditoriums because, with candlelight, it is the colour that is kindest to women's complexions.  Every step through the building is fascinating, but my highlights were the stunning grand staircase, the jaw dropping grand foyer (based on Versailles' hall of mirrors) and some fascinating 19th century opera stage set models in the library.  (Which confirm I would have enjoyed Wagner a lot more 120 years ago.)  It all ends in a gift shop more than double the size of the one at the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden, filled with everything from small souvenirs to hand-crafted chairs modelled on those in the boxes.  There's even a child-sized version if you want to indoctrinate your kid into grand opera.  You just need to fork out 1,300 euro.

2.  Go to Malmaison

The horrific crowds of our last visit to Versailles had put us off palaces, but this one's a different matter.  Napoleon and Josephine shared this home.  Josephine stayed on after the divorce.  It carries the spirit of its owners in a way few great palaces do.  Napoleon's council room is decorated as a grand campaign tent, as if he were still out in the field on some great conquest.  The library is a neo-classical pastiche much to his taste, filled with memories of his campaigns.  Upstairs, several rooms are filled with portraits, china, furniture, models and other odd bits, all adding up to quite a good little museum on the great man.

But it's Josephine's touch that really lingers here.  While outside she borrowed her style from the English, planting parks and gardens you'd find mistake for Sussex, inside she fused neo-classicism, Regency style, Egyptian influences, a love of flowers and soft colours to create something unique which went on to influence others throughout the 19th century.  Her dining room is tastefully elegant, her music room impressive, and her bedroom completely over-the-top yet somehow cosy at the same time.  At the moment there's an exhibition on the top floor all about her love of birds and flowers, showing how she not only decorated with them, but sponsored expeditions and collected magnificent hand-illustrated books upon their conclusion.  The curators have enlivened the show with sound (birds, bees, wind), video, lighting and flower displays to make it even more fascinating.  This special show is
only on until 30 June; it you happen to be in Paris, don't miss it.

Malmaison also benefits from years of excellent restoration.  I visited here almost 15 years ago and was bitterly disappointed by a shabby house and almost non-existent garden.  The transformation has been extraordinary; it looks as if Josephine has just stepped out and may return at any moment.  I think she'd still be disappointed in the gardens.  For a woman famous for her roses, they still have a way to go.  But as interiors go, this is hard to beat.  And best of all, there's hardly anyone here.  It is an undiscovered joy … we often had rooms all to ourselves.

3.  Attend a concert at La Madeleine
Earlier this year our visit to the Amsterdam Concertgebouw taught us the joys of concert going in foreign cities.  Before this trip, we discovered classictic.com, a website that lists classical concerts all over the world, searchable by city, and brokers tickets for you at a reasonable, normal rate.

Thus we stumbled upon an evening of Mozart (3rd violin concerto, mass in C Minor) at La Madeleine church.  It's a strange and wonderful interior; a 19th century recreation of a Roman civic building decorated with some religious statuary to make it into a church.  We toured it on a past visit and were intrigued, but found it really came into its own as a concert venue.

It also led us to a realisation.  The majority of our modern musical experiences are acoustically perfect.  Halls built and baffled to direct sound, recordings and earphones meant to deliver a flaw-free mix direct to our ears.  But this wasn't the circumstance for which most classical music was written.  The acoustics at La Madeleine weren't great; a lot of sound got swallowed in the dome or the vast side altars, which is exactly the way it would have been for Mozart.  The effect meant that the main orchestra or choir dulled a bit.  The music blended to become a bit fuzzy … although still wonderful.  And then, over this, cut the violin or the soprano soloist.  The sharp, high tones slicing through the air in a different way, and bringing an entirely distinct level of sound.  The vocal gymnastics of strong soprano, when presented with perfect acoustics can, frankly, sound like shrieking.  In a more natural setting, it's exactly what the singer needs to cut through the challenges of her surroundings.

4.  Go out to eat with a local
Not every city offers this opportunity, but I'm lucky enough to have plenty of friends in Paris.  Including a wonderful former boss.  We met up on the Monday.  A working day for him, though not for us, so a chance to do lunch with the business crowd and get a real look at the hustle and bustle of local work life.

Paul took us to Le Mesturet, a bistro specialising in food from the Southwest of France.  Turns out the locals are just as sick of the repetitive menus of steak tartare, steak frites and tarte aux citron as the rest of us.  By finding someplace with a regional speciality, they can escape the same old thing.  It's also a revelation to see how a native, at ease with how things work and totally fluent in the language, sparks an entirely different reaction from the waiters.  Not necessarily better, but far more attuned to specials, what's good today and what are the best value wine matches.

Le Mestruet wasn't our best meal.  (Aside from our introduction to the Paris-Brest, a circle-shaped choux pastry filled with praline flavoured creme, named after the bicycle race between those two cities.  Evidently the shape is reminiscent of a bicycle wheel, and it was much loved by cyclists for the calorific energy boost.  As we were merely wandering around the Opera after lunch, rather than cycling to Brest, we split one.)  In fact, most of our dining was so average I'm considering skipping my regular post-trip restaurant review.  But, thanks to the company, it was one of our best experiences.

5.  Stop to give an American directions
Seriously, try it.  Spot an American puzzling over a map, and offer to help.  He will be so relieved to hear his native language spoken in conjunction with confident advice, he will almost certainly engage you in conversation.

We ended up the highlight of the day for three older couples from Hershey, Pa., who … once we steered them towards Notre Dame, but told them their time would be much better spent at Saint-Chapelle … wanted our honest opinions about all sorts of things.  Their amazement at meeting a dignified, Downton Abbey-esque Brit married to an American who'd actually been to their home town (that's a story for another day) knew no bounds.  Talking to them, seeing the wonder and excitement with which they were tackling every moment in Paris, their absolute delight in getting to walk those streets, reminded me of just how special Paris is.  Not only Paris, but anywhere.

Travel is a privilege.  If you ever need proof … just ask a sightseeing American.

The best of Chelsea happens off the main avenue

"Getting sick of purple iris interplanted with grasses now.  Something different, please?"

That's the phrase that came out of my mouth as I reached the last show garden on the main avenue of this year's Chelsea Flower Show.  What's trending in horticulture was glaringly obvious: crowded, informal planting continues; grasses have taken over from gypsophilia as the drifting plant that unifies the herbaceous perennials; dark purple dominates, with deep reds and apricot browns as counterpoint; the hard landscaping is modern, austere and unobtrusive.  So much for the main avenue.

As a long-time Chelsea goer I've learned that this isn't where the action is.  Have a quick look at the show gardens, grab a Pimms and get down to the serious work.  The best stuff is in the smaller display gardens and in the great pavilion.  The latter, of course, is where the real gardeners concentrate.  I was on a mission to buy next year's sweet pea seeds, find a supplier for more interesting pond plants than my local water gardening store supplies, and to see what colour medal the Hampshire nursery that provided most of my herbaceous perennials got.  All three accomplished, and a gold for Hardy's Cottage Garden Plants.  Hooray.

Pictures speak louder than words when it comes to gardening, so here are a few highlights.

Make a date with The First Georgians at the Queen's Gallery

After all the baroque bombast of our Sicilian holiday, I'll admit … I was happy to be home.  Happy for a place where people observe rules when approaching a roundabout, and where my eyes could be soothed by the regular lines and cool colours of Georgian architecture.

Thus it seemed logical to top up my cultural tank (it had been 10 days since I'd seen anything significant, after all) with a bit of sane, measured English culture, by way of Germany, in the Age of Reason.  The First Georgians: Art & Monarchy 1714-1760 is running at the Queen's Gallery, Buckingham Palace, until 12 October.  This is a spectacular show for anyone who likes Georgian art or history, and especially for those who want to understand how history shapes the world we live in today.  Because, as this show ably demonstrates, the foundations for so much of modern life ... from copyright law to greed-driven investment boom and bust cycles to a fascination with celebrity … all started in these thrilling years.

This is one of the biggest shows I've ever seen at this venue, filling all of the exhibition rooms.  Make sure you leave at least 90 minutes, and take advantage of the audio guide that comes with your ticket.

You'll explore the fascinating personalities of the first two Georges and their families.  Queen Caroline is one of my favourites, and deserves to be better known.  There are fascinating maps and prints that allow you to delve into architecture, military history and urban life.  Cases of luxury accessories like snuff boxes, miniatures, weapons and a jaw dropping casket encrusted with gilt figures, jewels and rock crystal (admittedly, veering back towards Sicilian bombast) that's also an early juke box playing Handel tunes.

The two largest rooms mix furniture, paintings and decorative objects, into which the audio guide gives great insight.  Don't miss the harpsichord.  These instruments differ from pianos in that the keys are plucked by quills instead of hit by hammers.  This one uses quills from the legendary ravens at The Tower, and you can listen to a snippet of a performance upon it.  (There's a bit from the Handel music box as well.  It's a shame, frankly, that they didn't run a glorious 18th century soundtrack throughout the whole exhibit.)

The paintings show the first Georgians as great collectors.  Detailed watercolours of exotic flora and fauna expose them as patrons of adventure and discovery.  The portraits remind you of the magnificent personalities of the age, the table settings entice you to imagine some great parties.

And if you work in my industry, you'll be reminded throughout of the Georgians as marketers.  A new family on an unstable throne, most of what you see here is part of constant attempts to promote themselves as the right choice for Britain.  Deploying culture like corporate sponsorship, images of St. George or the English lion like a corporate logo.  Benevolent, constitutional monarchs who were ushering in a golden age.  Looking around this show, you'll believe it.

The exhibit is co-sponsored by the BBC and there's a brilliant three-part series fronted by historian Lucy Worsley that tells the wider story, using many of the items on display here.  Watch that first (it's no longer on iPlayer but you can pick up versions on YouTube) and your experience will be even better.