Bellini-esque: Intro – Venice 3-6 May 2007

Beauty. Art. Achitecture. Faded glory. The city where Robert Browning died. Where Byron kept his fiery mistress Margarita Cogni. A striped shirted man standing at the rear of a gondola, belting out an aria as he steers the craft through a picturesque, narrow canal while his charges, a couple, canoodle. An unpleasant watery stink. Titian. Caneletto. Pigeons.

Venice means many things to many people. To my father, who visited during the honeymoon with my mother some two decades ago, it meant amazing food. To my housemate, the city would be full of Americans believing they were being faah-bulous in flouncing about far from home, in a city so steeped in history and culture. To a single friend, it would be a ground hog day Valentines’ Day fiasco, a city to be strenuously avoided unless one was with a lover. To a colleague, getting lost in its maze of lanes was one of life’s greatest pleasures. Yet another person hoped it wouldn’t be a chocolate box city, full of tourists and locals catering to them, but with very little real work being done.

Christmas most fowl

For someone who dislikes Oxford Street and its great press of humanity and all its antecedent smells, noise and sweat on any given day, the thought of visiting the Borough Market in the lead up to Christmas hardly enticed. The Borough Market throng was sure to be more chi chi, more well-dressed and possibly less pungent, but it was sure to be just as nasty, particularly with the stress of the Holiday Season more pressing than ever.

Who burnt the pie?

It could only happen in the English public sector.

Two days ago, while enjoying my early morning cup of coffee while getting down to the day’s business, the building fire alarm began to sound. Skulling the rest of my drink – oh that sweet caffeine goodness, so necessary in the morning – and grumbling at having to do so, I was forced to don coat, scarf, gloves and bag (always an elogated ritual at the best of times) and evacuate along with my colleagues into the midst of grey, overcast fogbound, bloody freezing London. Our breath wreathing around us like smoke, we milled around for about 15 minutes, before being allowed back in.

The smell of burning greeted our nostrils as we made our way back to our floor. The culprit? A mince pie, apparently microwaved for an overly long time, had been reduced to a smoking, shrivelled, curranty and calcified pastry mess. Which had set off the alarm and sent us into the freezing chill.

Thank you very much to the Microwave Ignoramus inhabiting our building.

And a Cool Yule to all.

Paris and Versailles, 15 – 18 September 2006

With knee operation and enforced confinement looming, a jaunt about the arrondissments of Paris and its patisseries, galleries and boutiques seemed like the thing to do. And so off I set, in that most pleasant of European months, September, with a visit to Versailles also in mind. After all, Marie Antoinette would be premiering in the UK on 20 October and seeing the palace up close and personal would make Ms Coppola’s rock and roll rendition of Versailles life all the more illuminating.

Perhaps.

Ping Pong: ‘Would you like to try the extra sauce menu for another £1?’

Err… no. The basic chilli oil, chilli sauce and soy sauce will do just fine, thank you.

Yes the condiments offered were more exotic permutations of the above. But would they enhance what should by rights be steamed parcels of tasty perfection? Unlikely. And the extra £1 cost? Outrageous!

Dumplings of the Chinese variety have seemingly taken the West End by storm. Just a hop, skip and jump away from Yautcha, beside the Tudor exterior of the wonderful Liberty, is Ping Pong, another trendy establishment offering an all day dim sum dining experience.

Guerilla Cuisine

We came. He cooked. We ate.

Yesterday, in a small West London flat kitted out with all the necessary accoutrements (portable deep fryer, family-sized rice pot, halogen stove top, a mini blowtorch), a HackerKitchen took place.

‘Let them eat brioche’: Part 1 – Paul

Marie Antoinette (and the French in general) certainly had the right attitude when it came to delectable combinations of butter, eggs, sugar and flour. And if Paul had existed in 1789, who knows if the course of French history would have been vastly altered. For what maurauding Gallic peasant could fail to be quietened by Paul’s Normande (baguette, beurre and creamy melting camembert), its tarte au citron or its rhubarb tart?

Where’s Clooney? or I Laghi, Italia 25-29 May 2006

The agony, the ecstasy, the spectacle, the good times, the (more than) occasional snorefests, and the plain old distraction of fußball’s month long fest, has dissipated. Time to painfully wrench back into life away from staring, round eyed at a bunch of millionaires chase after a golden sphere, and catch up blog-wise, on an Italian weekend in May.

Lago di Como’s most famous resident was nowhere about during our sojourn to the Italian lakes. He was never far from our thoughts however; the receptionist at our hostel pointed out his casa, Villa Oleandra, on a map of Como (in Laglio, on the Lago di Como’s western shore), before we even had a chance to ask, and on the Saturday, tantalising local newspaper headlines appeared at the newspaper stalls. They read something to the effect of ‘GEORGE CLOONEY: NARCOTICI EN CASA’ (sic). We never did get to the bottom of those headlines but as the Italian nationals, nor a google search revealed anything, i can only assume it was a local beat up. But that hardly mattered.

Hare & Tortoise, Bloomsbury

Continuing my current theme of scrumptious better value alternatives to the foodie hell of Wagamama, I recently re-visited Hare & Tortoise, in the newly developed Brunswick centre. An old favourite haunt, after being introduced to it a couple of years ago by friends who used to live around the corner.

H&T’s close proximity to UCL ensures that it has a steady stream of customers in the form of students, international and local, eager for cheap, tasty meals. And its Bloomsbury location also makes it a magnet for the budget tourist.

Ryo: “no, you order and pay first!”

Hellbent on a seat, much needed after 2 hours trudging through the hell that is the July Oxford Street sales, we halted midstep at the waitress’ bark, spun uncertainly to face the menu lying on the cash counter and began to um and aah our way through it.