In which a hotel bar is the order of the day

I could spend hours sitting in the perpetual dusky twilight of a hotel bar. I love hotel bars, good hotel bars, fancy ones with monogrammed coasters and deep buttoned sofas and flocked wallpaper and ancient books and cocktail menus and wine lists thick and heavy; weighty tomes. I love the dark light that seems to live in them, the palpable air, the rows and rows of single malts, the steady hum of the day passing unbeknownst to the quiet souls within it. Yesterday, Tam and I, in celebration of her birthday, spent much of the afternoon nestled in the nook of one, glasses of red wine winking up at us in the moody light.

First, we went for lunch at Kitchen W8 – a superb pick of Tam’s that did not disappoint. I had a rib eye so meltingly tender and utterly delicious it made me re-evaluate my whole ‘last meal on earth’ dinner plan all over again, and go back to the original menu, of which steak was the star of the show. There was also the added benefit of after having felt a bit peaky and somewhat wan for the last few weeks, the steak made me feel as if I had mainlined iron. Lunch was long and leisurely and there were guest appearances by chanterelles and wild mushroom foam, foie gras mousse, Roast John Dory and dark chocolate truffles. After lunch, we took a stroll up High Street Kensington, popping into a shoe store so that Tam could purchase a pair of lovely tan brogues and I could stroke the soft leather of as many pairs of boots as possible without being frogmarched from the shop by world weary shop assistants, desperate for a commission and tired of the sighs and gasps and lip quivers of terminal window shoppers, such as myself. As we exited she shop, we partook in a bit of Chelsea beast spotting (yes, you, in the grey jumper. I’m talking about you.) and made our way to The Gore.

The Gore is a small hotel moments away from Hyde Park, hidden inconspicuously down a very Kensington looking street without much to-do. Through the austere stone pillars, typical of the area, a little bit of wood paneled heaven awaits. The Gore is opulent, but not ostentatious. There are huge gold gilt mirrors, oils of not entirely attractive women hang proudly on the wood paneled walls, elaborately carved staircases lead, white rabbit like, up tantalising plush red stairs. There are bronzed bits and pieces all over the place, soft carpets underfoot, wrought iron candelabras that wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval castle, and beams of coloured light that peek through the stained glass windows. Quite simply, old world charm personified. After seeing pictures of The Gore on the Lisa Borgnes Giramonti’s breathtaking blog, A Bloomsbury life, I knew that the bar and I simply had to get acquainted. Oh, and how we did. Tam and I ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir and reclined into the oddly deep leather armchairs and sat for hours and hours and talked and joked and laughed, and spent the afternoon in the comfortable confines of the chasm of time that exists solely in hotel bars.

A Moveable Feast

A long overdue photo post. Think of this as a quick tutorial in how every day can be turned into an event that uses food as its focal point.

To begin with, there is the casual sunday lunch, with a bit of ferocious car related debate and the customary Brawn/Ferrari/McLaren stand off.


Sometimes, Shelley makes us mussels. Pots and pots of steaming mussels in a deliciously hot, fragrant winey soupy base, begging for thick hunks of baguette to mop it up.

Which we enjoy with fine wine......

and dispose of our shells responsibly.

And then, sometimes we celebrate Christmas in November
And so begins the season for mince pies in cloches shone to a christmas bauble shine


with multiple servings of spiced pear bellinis, of course,


and scoring pig fat to create masses of crackling of crisped to perfection. Which goes nicely with



slow roast pork. Once again, courtesy of the dab hand of Shelley, culinary genius.


Sometimes (not often, but sometimes) we eschew linen and clean lines for fun tables, complete with board games, jenga and DIY decorate place mats.


And wipe the mess from smashing food into our faces with polka dot napkins.


Occasionally, I bake my body weight in Christmas Cookieswith these happy little cookie cutters

until I've made mountains of gingerbread trees


and spicy love hearts.


Reverting to type
we shrugged off the circus colours of Christmas in November and went for white tulips, linen and candles for Christmas Eve dinner.


We picked succulent roast marrow from the bone.

And made crockery and cutlery pirate flags.

In the aftermath of Christmas, when we were enraptured with playing with our presents, Shelley shared her white alba truffle with us
Which was heaven on a white plate.

And then, I retreated back up to the great white north, to The Hale
where Tamaryn's birthday dinner looked like this.


And this.

And this.

A heart two sizes too small

Whatever the New Year equivalent of the Grinch is, I fear that is who I find myself in the likeness of this new year. I must confess that the general joviality a fresh set of calendar pages has brought to most has passed me by and I feel tattered, weathered and downtrodden, as if still languishing in the last of the so called ‘Nasties.’ There seems to be a certain hubbub in the general population, the shedding of a decade’s worth of misery in lieu of embracing an air of impending prosperity. I read it put best today, in an article reporting the significant increase in like for like winter sales figures for London this year verse last year, saying that after nearly two years of recession Londoners were determined to enjoy themselves at the sales; they called it ‘frugality fatigue.’ It does seem that way, that the general populace has en masse decided the recession is over, that bankers shall stop jumping out of windows, bonuses shall return, champagne shall flow through the city streets, there will be riches, bespoke suits, Louboutins and cocaine for all! And it seems to be regardless of the fact that no one is shopping with wads of cash. No, it’s all on credit, the very thing that got us into this mess in the first place. Utter, depressing delusion. Just because we want something, does not mean it will simply BE. If that were the case, I would be typing this with a pair of Acne Atacoma wedges on my feet. And it does not stop there. How apt that this is the week the world’s tallest (and possibly most pointless) skyscraper opens? The Burj Dubai is a 206 floor hotel/apartment/office/parking/shopping space. Of that, 160 floors are habitable. It’s 828 metres high and its interior covers just over 3.5 MILLION square feet. Because that’s what Dubai needs. More empty spaces it can’t fill. It’s a state $100 000 000 000 in debt.That’s one hundred billion US dollars. BILLION. As of October 2009, 1 in 4 homes was vacant due to oversupply. Similar figures applied to offices. That’s before the Burj Dubia spat its 3.5 million square feet into the mix. Obviously I’m fully aware that the initial conception of the Burj happened long before this economic hiccup we are experiencing came to fruition. Back when the Burj began construction, Lehman’s had a gainfully employed workforce and people trusted Bernard Maddoff with their money. Remember all that time ago?

Needless to say (....don’t you wish it had been?) I am late to the party of New Year cheer. It’s going around like a bad head cold and I do hope I am not immune to it. Being a Grinch is boring and does not make for pleasant dinner conversation. And so, as to not be the bearer of altogether bad tidings, I can say that it has not been all doom and gloom these first few days of the year. Shelley received a beautiful white truffle from Paul for Christmas and I was lucky (/sneaky) enough to be with her the night it was eaten, shaved in gorgeous pungent slivers over silky pasta. Walking up Regent Street, I was pulled by the hand up onto a platform to pose for a photo with one of the Hamley’s pirates, as my 30 odd strands of pearls apparently made me look a bit like ‘a very stylish treasure chest’. That’s a direct quote from the main pirate, who took his personal camera out of his inside pocket, handed it over to Pirate #2 and demand I have my photo taken with him. Followed almost directly by a small kerfuffle when some Japanese tourists who had been witness to the scene then thought I was famous. I giggled all the way to Liberty, where Magpie and I drank several cups of tea, admired other customer’s expensive handbags and even more expensive plastic surgery. This evening, Robin and I went to see La Boheme (my absolute favourite opera) at The Royal Opera House. And right now, its snowing.

A not altogether comprehensive festive season activities check list:

Family Invasion.
Check.

Food prep in West London. 5 courses being prepared and 7 bottles of champagne consumed. First Bottle: Krug. Second bottle: Vintage Bollinger. Third Bottle: Ohlson de Fine MCC. Similar fashion to continue until all involved pass out drunk at 10pm; starchy fingers marking the sheets with potato dust.

Check.

Christmas Eve dinner party in formal wear with more champagne, roast marrow bone and tiny, perfect portions of confit duck shepherds pie. Unfortunate incident involving mulled wine reduction that looked like blood on the dessert plates. 100% my fault. I’ve been stripped of my pastry colours.

Check.

Vicious, brutal to the point of injury game of Yankee swap. Robin ended up with a maglite. Shelley got a Jamie Oliver cookbook. I was landed with a pink plastic shower cap in the shape of a pig. Gift FAIL.

Check.

Cheese scones on Christmas morning surrounded by cups of coffee, family and mountains on presents. End of the gift fail. Signature scent in pink box, rabbit hair oversized jerseys, zippo lighters, luxurious soft bed socks, Massimo Dutti sleep sets.
Check.

Christmas lunch at Kyle and Amy’s Christmas grotto of a living room. It was like a holly jolly santa ate too many Christmas cookies and exploded in there. In a nice way. Incredible gammon. Lots of wine. Feeling a bit sad about not being with my parents, brother and sister and upon (rather unexpectedly) seeing photos of them, bursting into floods of tears and dealing with an unattractive lip quiver for several hours. Followed by more wine.

Check.

Boxing day with puy lentils and pork chops, wine and old musicals. There was a lot of couching involved. See also: Sofa surfing, sloth, indolence. Inability to button up my Acne jeans.

Check.

Retreating to the countryside for the black hole between Christmas and New Years Eve. Marshmallow couches, listening to far too much Queen, drinking copious quantities of red wine and dancing to said music in the living room, rare roast rib of beef, The AGA, house shoes, teaching the parents about Jurassic 5.

Check.

All in all it was a festive season well spent. Tomorrow morning I must traipse back to London at a reasonable hour as I have a gig tomorrow night. And then, this year will be gone. See you all in 2010. xoxo

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat that doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me..."

When I grow old, I want to be one of those fabulous old woman London seems to breed. You don’t see them as they age, as they grow into their eccentricities. It’s almost as if they exist only in old age, waiting under a rock until they turn 75 and then emerge, fully formed, clad in Chanel and politically incorrect luxurious furs.

They always seem to be wearing massive sunglasses and walking with their knees slightly bent and their backs poker straight, somewhere between the awkward stumble of a baby giraffe and the gait of a runway model. They wear massive amounts of make up, have perfectly manicured nails and drawn on eyebrows that arch oh so high, as if to signify that behind those sunglasses they are in a state of permanent surprise.

I have seen a few lately that have stuck in my mind. On High Street Kensington at 11 o’clock in the morning I saw a tiny woman dressed in ankle length black fur, her white hair in a tight French roll, her face hidden two black Jackie O saucers. She walked slowly, with purpose, toward the red stand alone letter box next to the church and upon arriving at it, dipped a diamond encrusted hand into her quilted Chanel bag and retrieved a large white envelope. The address was written in elaborate curling calligraphy. I thought that the paper she used to write on probably cost more than my lunch that day. Dropping the letter into the box, she turned and made her way back along the road, into the maze of tree lined streets and opulent townhouses that define Kensington. As she walked away I noticed, on her feet, a pair of four inch black alligator skin boots.

On the bus, there was a statuesque woman carrying two Max Mara bags that would’ve crippled a lesser lady. She couldn't have been less that 80. She was rail thin but tall as an Amazonian, with long, rounded nails painted a pale gold and wore an outfit that consisted solely of shades of cream. As the journey went on and day quite quickly slipped away into the 4 o’clock nights of London winter, she removed her sunglasses and I noticed that she kept sneaking furtive glances at me from the corner of her perfectly made up eye. She was forming some decision about me in her mind, that much was clear, but I was unable to decipher if it was one I would find compliment in. As I stood to leave the bus, I made my way past her and saw her give me a small but distinct nod, as if she had come to the conclusion she found me acceptable. I self consciously touched my hair, fiddling with the loose top knot piled on top of my head. She caught my eye again and very quickly, closed her eyes and gave an imperceptible shake of her head, as if slapping my roving hand from my head. “Behave Eloise.” I dropped my hand. Apparently, if I want to grow up to shop at max mara and wear only cream, self conscious fidgeting must be left behind on the number 49 bus and not retrieved. Ever.

Going to Chiswick, I was sat next to an old woman who looked fit for a day of long walks in the Cotswolds. She was with who I can only deduce to be her granddaughter, who had clearly had enough of her company for one day. The granddaughter sat in stony silence, her arms folded across her chest, and fumed. The old woman, dressed in a knee length tweed skirt and a Barbour jacket, sat with her small shopping bag from a bespoke stationers and her handbag in her lap. She opened her purse and rifled though, pulling out a cream paper bag with old fashioned print on its crumpled front. She held the bag in one hand and with the other, wiggled her fingers over it, as if a top hat that a white rabbit was supposed to appear out of. She stretched out the opening of the bag and held it out to her granddaughter.
“Would you like a chocolate darling? I’ve got some rather good ones.”
Her voice was high and thin and clipped. It sounded like money and boarding schools for girls and long services in cold churches in the winter. The granddaughter, undeterred in her irritation, shook her head.
“Are you sure darling? They’re brandy truffles.”
The granddaughter shook her head again. Unruffled, the woman dipped a delicate hand into the bag and pulled out one dark truffle and popped it into her mouth. She gave a small shiver of satisfaction and closed the bag, dropping it back into her purse. Her granddaughter stood up and moved toward the door, where she stayed standing until she reached her station, a full two stops later.

Paris vs Berlin

It’s a question I’ve had over and over in the last few months, “So, which did you prefer? Paris or Berlin?"

It’s on odd thing, the way those two seem to be, to most, the ultimate in atmospheric city competition and simply cannot co-exist in the intrepid wanderer’s heart. I find it particularly curious as when I returned from Shanghai, no one declared, “Shanghai or Hong Kong? You must choose!” Similarly, there has never been any need for me state a preference between Christchurch and Sydney or Champagne and Franschoek, Barcelona or Brooklyn. But having lived in both Paris and Berlin, it appears that I am meant to find myself drawn more toward one than the other.

One thing I have heard numerous times, without any prompting, “Berlin is so you! More so than Paris!” As if I had preceded this statement with some confession of how I was never really all that comfortable buying baguettes twice a day and eating figs for breakfast every morning. For the record, no such thing is true. The honest truth is that I love Paris. I loved it then, I love it now. I miss it. I often read apartment listings longingly, wiishing the pound to gain in strength against the now almighty euro and bid my return to My Beautiful Paris. But the statement, the casual brush off of “Berlin is so you, Paris isn’t” is such a sideswipe it has often left me reeling. How am I not Paris? Are my shoes not designer enough? A quick glance at my shelves proves otherwise, spotted: Gucci, Versace, McQueen, Louboutin, Gina, Giles Deacon, Pucci, etc. No, i think I own sufficient snobbish footwear to qualify to Paris. What is it then? Am I not elegant streets and window boxes and city beaches in July? Am I not sidewalk cafes and wine in the afternoon and hot, buttery garlicky escargots and silk scarves and Laduree and coral lipstick in the cracks of the mouths of the old women in their moth eaten furs on the threadbare carpets of the beautifully dilapidated tea salons, eating nicoise salads, feeding the hard boiled eggs to their dogs? How am I not Paris, as much as I am a bit of everywhere that that I have ever been?

I don’t feel that I’ve gone anywhere and not taken something from it. It’s true I may not be Paris through and through, because I am also a little bit cold Methode Cap Classique in Robertson’s thundering rain, Shark Kites in Shanghai’s night sky, Milk Dumplings in Ningbo’s private dining halls, the thrill of cyclone in Coney Island and eating pizza at 5am in New York’s Lower East Side and Tuscany’s tiny passage ways and kid sized cars. I’m at least a fraction watermelon cocktails and blown out tyres under brutal Spanish sun and a tiny bit of those little pewter coloured pottery bowls bought on the side of the road in Swaziland, and just a hint of the Mozambique sunrise and a whiff of the dhows and dawas in Mombassa. A little bit British, a good handful of African red earth and the smell of gum trees and petrol and spice and hair cream and Zam-Buk.

How am I not one place as much as anywhere I have been?

And how am I so Berlin? How am I Berlin more so than anywhere else?

Berlin is a confused city. It bears its scars. It is, in my opinion, the only major western city that would do something like leave the bombed out spire of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church as is and make no attempt to mask it, rather to preserve it as a testament to loss. Berlin makes no qualms of its scars, its past. They are plain enough to see. As if finding shame in its past would equate a dismissal of its self, its bones. Berlin has long lived under a fragmented rule. It has been pulled apart by separate governing states. It has been burned. It has been bombed. It has been literally divided in thought and process and physicality. And even now, its identity is being forged. Even now, all these years after the war and the wall. Berlin is still learning how to be. It’s no wonder it is such a haven for the worlds poets, punks and general lost souls. At least in Berlin, you are always almost in sync with a city struggling to find its way, stumbling over its own feet, just as you are.

So maybe, in this way, I am Berlin. Fragmented. Stateless. Divided.