The Review - Sir David Frost - 2013

CAMARO 2SS Road testing the modern classic

Italian Idyll Villas in rural Tuscany AND UMBRIA

HELLO, GOOD EVENING AND WELCOME

SIR DAVID FROST Table Manner Our editor bites off more than he can chew Fashion Frontier Elie Saab and Pal Zileri

Big Trouble in Little China We visit the world’s newest superpower PLUS

The best in style, travel, food and motors

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THE

REVIEW ‘LIFE.

STYLE.’

I’m going to America. Not today or tomorrow, not even next week. I’ve just decided to go. The United States gets a lot of flak nowadays. It’s cool to hate on America, to blame all our worldly ills on its stupid government and stupider people. And it’s not just the mouth-breathers who indulge it, but intelligent folk who are travelled, liberal, humane and build rooms out of hardbacks.

I have no tangible connection to America, but contrary to what my CV says, it educated me. Hundreds of teachers, one medium: film.

Motion pictures are an underrated art. One of the most frustrating, overused and cliché things anyone can say is: “The film wasn’t as good as the book”. These are the people who keep inane books and films like The Da Vinci Code at the top of the box office. They’re also the people who forget all the great films that were better than their literary counterparts: Jaws, The Exorcist, Scarface, Jurassic Park, Trainspotting, Double Indemnity, Blade Runner, Psycho, Naked Lunch, The Shining, Clockwork Orange...

American films taught me right from wrong, sense from stupidity, morality from decadence. My first childhood heroes were movie characters, people to aspire to, guys who dripped cool, charmed girls and overcame the impossible. The first naked people I saw were in films, and I still have VHS tapes that go fuzzy during the sex scenes.

Hollywood provided a rite of passage that I would have otherwise missed in the innocuous suburbs of Swindon.

So much time was spent with friends at the cinema watching films – weekends, weeknights, even during school hours. And no one forgets their first awkward fumble at the back of a cinema: “That’s not the hotdog you’re holding, darling”.

I grew and evolved with film. It formed my being. Movies have contributed more to building my character than any teacher ever did, or any book for that matter (which may sound odd considering I write for a living). Directors were my teachers and philosophers. There was Kubrick for existentialism, Kurosawa for truth, Cronenberg for dualism, Scott for feminism, Craven for survivalism. Okay, not all those directors are American, but they were all filtered to me through Hollywood.

Freud said dreaming was the fulfilment of a wish. Films now do that job for us. You don’t have psychoanalysts theorising that repressed folk want to screw their mothers or mess up their fathers’ sock draws anymore, simply because we dream in film: images interact with the subconscious and purge us of phobias and traumas and anxieties. And if that isn’t a theory, I don’t know what is.

So, America may be the Great Satan, but it has actually provided the best mass education that money can’t buy. And for that, I forgive its sins. I forgive the contradictions of a country torn between materialism and idealism, hedonism and puritanism, freedom and security, war and peace. If anything, it has only made America a more fascinating and sympathetic proposition, as it awkwardly slips and falters on the world stage.

Twenty years ago, the USA was embodied by film characters such as John Rambo and Gordon Gekko, but now it follows the schizophrenic path of fallen Hollywood stars, fulfilling its own tragic prophecy. The USA is Norma Desmond.

So, if I ever want to make it to America, the time is now, before she’s ready for her close-up. Read about it on these pages soon.

The Review Q3 is teeming with inspiration and advice. In commemoration of the passing of Sir David Frost, we are reprinting Robinson’s incisive and candid interview with him from last year. Robinson also gives the skinny on Tuscan villas, the Fiat 500c and the Camaro 2SS. The usual suspects are all here too: McNichol goes on a gastro-tour of Madrid and scours the UK for the best places for brunch.

Paterson looks at the work of two prominent fashion designers, Elie Saab and Pal Zileri, and style editor Minns celebrates David Frost’s “sartorial correctness”. Aside from my new restaurant column, Table Manner, you can also read about my (mis) adventure in China and my quest for perfect seafood in Cornwall. And the gorgeous Gemma Phelan, our beauty editor (and social media doyenne), pens a piece on semi-permanent makeup.

That’s just a taste of the cultural priming, the style council, you can expect this issue. And if you can’t wait until Q4, be sure to keep up with us on Twitter. Until next time, stay styled and savvy.

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L A I T H A L - K A I S Y, E D I T O R I N - C H I E F F ollo w A l - K aisy on T w itter : @ laithalkaisy F ollo w T he R e v ie w on T w itter : @ there v ie w

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Living MRKH Earlier this quarter, The Review gave its full backing to an organisation called Living MRKH. They approached us, as many do, and asked if we would be interested in running an event with them in aid of MRKH suffers.

Well, at The Review, we’re always happy to don a tux or three-piece for a worthy cause, so the glad-rags were ironed and sponsors selected for this unique event.

Living MRKH is an organisation set up by Tabitha Pang to help progress the knowledge of Mayer Rokitansky Kuster Hauser Syndrome (MRKH): the absence of a uterus, affecting 1 in 5000 women. It is known as a syndrome, as there are symptoms which can affect other parts of the body, categorising two types of MRKH. One is associated with the complete or partial absence of the cervix, uterus and vagina. The other can affect kidney development, hearing, and skeletal growth.

The organisation’s main aims are to privately fund surrogacy and adoption journeys, along with efforts to change the UK law to accommodate surrogacy in MRKH cases.

This was to be a small and intimate affair for the magazine’s top tier, so we needed somewhere private. The team at MRKH opted for the private wine cellar of The Rummer Hotel in Bristol’s historic St. Nicks Market.

The head chef created a Cuban-themed menu, including crab bollitos, white gazpacho and black olive soup, sea bass escabesche, slow

INTERVIEW 14. SIR DAVID FROST

TRAVEL 24. CHINA 60. TUSCANy 86. cornwall 90. painswick 112. TUNE HOTEL 118. madrid 124. rancho 130. portugal 136. lancaster 138. lucknam park 148. K WEST

AUTOMOTIVE

36. CAMARO 42. ASTON MARTIN 78. Austin Healey 98. fiat

WINE 144. Argentina 146. riesling 76. CHAMPAGNE

DINING 52. Table manner 102. MRKH 106. Brunch 110.coastal manner

CONTENTS

STYLE : EYESITE PRIVE

Red Pocket Meet The Eyewear Stylists We talk to eyewear stylist Alistair Benson about Eyesite Privé – the future of luxury eyewear shopping.

They come to your home and they come to your workplace. In an age where time is valuable, the high-class eyewear stylists have provided their clients with a fresh way to shop for eyewear. Their CV boasts over forty years industry experience, three successive National Eyewear Awards, three luxury eyewear boutiques, department store concessions, and one very impressive client base to their name.

Eyesite have become the premier name associated with Luxury Eyewear in the UK, this year being crowned the UK’s No.1 Luxury Eyewear Retailer. Eyesite’s latest venture, ‘Eyesite Privé’, sees the eyewear experts launch an exclusive personal eyewear styling service, designed to meet the needs of the UK’s most discerning clientele.

“Our company ethos and business goals have not altered that much since receiving our national awards,” says Alistair. “Delivering first class service and pairing the perfect eyewear with our members has always been at the forefront of our make-up. With the evolution of Eyesite Privé, our wish is simply to take this experience to the next level.

Many people are looking for so much more than what the traditional eyewear shopping experience can possibly offer. This is where Eyesite Privé specialise.”

Eyewear is now, of course, a major fashion

necessity, with most leading fashion labels (such as Tom Ford, Celine, Dior, Chopard and Chanel) now carrying extensive optical and sunglasses lines in their collections. The Eyesite Privé concept works to minimise the stresses of shopping for eyewear, whilst maximising the tailored choice on offer for each client.

“Choosing eyewear is a very intimate occasion,” continues Alistair, “and we want our clients to enjoy unrivalled private attention and a bespoke selection, edited down from the overwhelming mass available across the globe; all in the comfort and privacy of their own homes.”

It is this exclusive appeal that has attracted elite clients from many well-publicised professions to utilise Eyesite Privé’s products and services, including stars from the music, sport and film.

“We’ve had the pleasure of styling some very high-profile clients, whose image is an essential element of their public profiles. It is understandable that these clients appearing in the public eye want to make the right choices in this department.”

As well as providing fittings for the more well-known faces, the Eyesite Privé blue print (although an exclusive service) strikes a chord for many more people, and for many different reasons.

“When you consider that eyewear may be the most prominent accessory you will ever own, you can then understand why our client base is so varied. For example, we’ve assisted clients who are new to wearing glasses and a touch apprehensive about where to start. We source styles for avid collectors who dislike trawling the shops in search of their next pair. We accommodate busy investors at their homes where time is very precious. And we cater for small holidaying groups who have a fetish for exclusive luxury sunglasses. Whatever the client’s motivation, Eyesite Privé can be a very useful number to have in your phone book.”

Eyesite Privé have built a reputation for having their fingers on the pulse, ensuring their clients remain ahead of the pack in the style stakes. Holding strong links with the very best in luxury brands, whilst also doing the ground work to discover the best upcoming labels, has certified their authenticity and ability to offer objective solutions to any client brief.

“It’s not always easy for individuals to shop for eyewear on the high street, because it’s impossible for stores to create a collection solely for your visit. That’s what makes this concept so definitive. You’re in your own peaceful environment, with your personal eyewear collection. No onlookers and no

Words: PETER OVERTON

Guess where the best Chinese restaurant in the UK is? Swindon. Oh, I see, you’re sniggering. Well, stop, because I’m serious. The Swindon Rendezvous is the best Chinese I have ever eaten – and I’ve been to China.

I’ve been local too: Hakkasan, Hutong, Royal China, New Fook Lam Moon, Kai... the list goes on and on.

Every Chinese I eat is judged by this Swindon barometer: sizzling lamb with ginger and spring onion; deep fried shredded beef in

chilli sauce, where each piece of beef is individually quick-fried, producing a paradoxical and unrivalled texture of tender, chewy and crispy; fried noodles, which are thin and unctuous, not sluggish, wet and sloppy, and served only with bean sprouts, not every ingredient on the menu.

I hadn’t been to a new Chinese for ages when I heard about Red Pocket. What’s the point?

Unless I’m in Swindon, I always opt for an Indian over a Chinese. However, Red Pocket

seemed sophisticated yet unpretentious; traditional yet chic. I can never help but look at a menu before visiting a restaurant – Red Pocket’s blended classic with contemporary, without falling into the pointless conceit of places like Hakkasan.

The interior of Red Pocket mixes informal with classy: stools line a stunning, long bar, decorated with quaint Chinese relics and vivid paintings. The seating is well-spaced, which is good if you don’t like looking at people –

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S h a d 114. RED ePOCket 116. Mash 140. gaucho So what if it isn’t summer in the UK anymore.

It is summer somewhere.

STYLE 166. BLT 32. ALPINA 168. BEST DRESSED 152. shade 110. tailors walk 172. Elie SAAB 176. PAL ZILERI 180. Musa En Otoño 188. BRUSSELS 196. Eyesite Prive

EVENT : HENNESSY GOLD CUP

STYLE : IN THE SHADE

JOCKEY BAR

The first recorded racing at Newbury took place in 1805 with ‘Newbury Races’, an annual two-day race meeting at Enborne Heath. The meeting lasted until 1811, when it transferred to Woodhay Heath until 1815.

Newbury Racecourse didn’t come into existence for another 90 years when Kingsclere trainer John Porter proposed a new racecourse at Newbury. The Jockey Club had laid down strict qualifications for new racecourses, and after Porter’s plans were rejected several times, a chance meeting with King Edward VII brought about a further application, which with the King’s support was approved by the Jockey Club.

In April 1904, the Newbury Racecourse Company was formed and purchased the land and construction began of the buildings and stables at a cost of £57,240. The prize of the Hennessy Gold Cup this year is three times that of the original price to build the course itself.

This November, the Hennessy Heritage Festival will take place at The Racecourse Newbury on 28, 29 and 30 November.

The three-day meet is one of the most fashionable social events on the calendar and will no doubt attract a host of celebrities and style icons, drenched in Chanel and draped in tweed. One of my favourite reasons for attending races held in the colder months is the opportunity to really dress for the occasion.

Last year saw attendance from Elizabeth Hurley, Amanda Holden, Hugh Bonneville and George Lamb, to name but a few.

Stephen Higgins, Managing Director at The Racecourse Newbury, said: “The Hennessy Gold Cup day is one of the biggest events in the social calendar. The racing is always fantastic and we’re looking forward to the biggest Hennessy Heritage Festival yet this November.”

The Hennessy Gold Cup has been won by some top-class horses over the decades, and last year’s victor, Bobs Worth, went on to triumph in the Cheltenham Gold Cup in March. The opening two days include the Bet365 Hurdle, The RSA Novices’ Chase, The Fuller’s Pride Novices’ Steeple Chase

“A horse gallops with his lungs, perseveres with his heart, and wins with his character” — Tesio Words: PETER ROBINSON Photography: HENNESSY

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HEALTH & BEAUTY THE REVIEW 2013 17

164. Highbrow makeup 192. Pain and Gain

TOYS FOR LIFE 206. SEA BreAcher

FINANCE 204. ORACLE

EVEnts 200. Gold cup

THE REVIEW 2013 9

CONTRIBUTORS

ARNELLE PATERSON

AMY McNICHOL

OLIVER SMITH

CHIARA THOMAS

FASHION WRITER

TRAVEL WRITER

MOTORING EDITOR

FASHION WRITER

Paterson’s work has appeared on the Spear’s magazine website and she has created her own newsletter for Hounslow Homes. Her grounding is in fashion, current affairs, food, celebrity, the arts, culture and lifestyle.

Amy McNichol

McNichol has worked across six of the BBC’s titles. She regularly writes for The London Word on all things food and booze related. A former Bangkok dweller and features writer at Thai glossy, Traversing the Orient, she considers herself an expert on (eating) oriental cuisine.

Smith is our very own automotive editor. By day, he is the marketing manager for a restoration company, looking after the UK’s finest pedigree automobiles. By night... well... just don’t give him cigars and a magnum of champagne. The Hangover doesn’t come close.

GEMMA PHELAN

PETER J ROBINSON

DAVID MINNS

MIMI AVERY

BEAUTY EDITOR

PRODUCTION DIRECTOR

STYLE EDITOR

WINE BUYER

Aside from reviewing the hottest new beauty products and services, she also runs her own digital marketing agency, DigitalBinx. Phelan has previously worked at the Daily Mirror and Elle Magazine, and is a lover of red lipstick, vintage fashion and ‘oldies’ tag radio.

Rebel without a cause.

Robinson has spent the past five years working in luxury print and publishing. This we feel may of jaded him slightly. He now heads up The Review’s partner video production agency and so you are more likely to find him on set than at an editorial meeting.

Something of a renaissance man, Minns loves nothing more than dressing for an occasion, and encouraging others to do the same. In his capacity as Senior Style Advisor for A Suit That Fits, he literally dresses the nation.

That’s right, rather than dragoon in a writer, we bring you Mimi Avery, buyer for the dynasty that is Averys wine merchant.

There is no one better to guide you through the world of wine whether it be for pleasure or investment.

Thomas spends her time between London, Barcelona and Brussels, contributing articles for Cosmopolitan UK and Metropolitan Magazine Barcelona, as well as being style columnist to The 405 Magazine and current sub-editor of Stylobal Magazine.

William Baldwin Alpina Brand Ambassador

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Sir David Frost If you were to compile some of the most famous interviews of the 20th Century, no doubt John Lennon interviewed by Jann S Wenner, Marlon Brando by Truman Capote and Malcolm X by Alex Haley would all feature high in the list. But none have made an impact on the collective psyche as much as Sir David Frost’s interview with President Richard Nixon. In honour of the passing of Sir David Paradine Frost, OBE, we bring you one of Sir David’s last interviews – with Peter J Robinson in 2012.

Words: PETER J ROBINSON

I N T E RV I E W : S I R DAV I D F R O S T O B E

Sir David Frost, OBE, 7 April 1939 – 31 August 2013.

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Some two years ago, I decided that a new magazine that we were preparing to launch needed a big name, to give us the weight required to be taken seriously in the market.

On many a Sunday afternoon, when I was too young to protest, my dear grandmother would take me to church. Upon our return, my grandfather would sit me down and explain

that I would ‘learn more in ten minutes watching Frost on Sunday than I would at church’.

This resulted in a lifelong hunger for current affairs.

The 73-year-old son of a methodist minister, Sir David Frost became a household name on both sides of the Atlantic. After studying at Cambridge, he came to television in the early

1960s, presenting the groundbreaking BBC show ‘That Was The Week That Was’. In 1969, he also introduced the much-criticised trial by television, notably of Emil Savundra – head of a cut-price car insurance company that swindled thousands of motorists.

In 2011, I began the task of securing an interview with the monolith of broadcast journal-

her for her help and explaining why a full issue of the magazine was not included.

After a few months of gentle nudging, I received news that Sir David wanted to discuss the interview with me. Saying I resembled a deer in the headlights would be unfair to the deer.

A date was set (avoiding Sir David’s numerous commitments with Al Jazeera) for January 2012. I was asked to call Sir David, but despite two calls, he was unavailable at the times we had planned. Later that evening, whilst sat enjoying a drink in a local bar in Bristol, my phone rang. I answered it with my usual “Good evening, Robinson speaking”.

“Hello Peter, it’s David Frost, apologies for earlier. How are you?”

“My grandfather would sit me down and explain that I would learn more in ten minutes watching Frost on Sunday than I would at church”

ism, Sir David Frost. Having interviewed six American presidents, eight prime ministers, several members of the Royal Family, and a galaxy of celebrities, I had little regard for my chances.

I initially sent Sir David’s assistant an overlypolite e-mail, asking if Sir David might have the time to consider an interview and feature

for the front cover of the new title. To my amazement, she asked for details to be sent over, along with a copy of the title. At this stage, we didn’t have a title; all we had was the teaser issue, and a few well-designed pages and front cover put together for the media men. So, with bated breath I sent a copy to Sir David’s assistant, along with a hand-written letter thanking

I almost dropped my drink, as I ran towards the doors of the bar to find a quiet area. “I’m well, Sir David, many thanks for calling. How are you?”

“I’m well,” came the reply.

Sir David had an almost Panglossian ability to stay positive in any situation. We discussed the interview, I explained our aims for the title and that, given my grandfather’s influence, I would be extremely pleased if we could interview him for the title. He accepted and asked that we set things up with his assistant after his return from Russia, post-interview with Vladimir Putin.

After a few more months of wrangling, the date was set for the 30 April 2012 at 3:00pm.

When interviewing a man of Sir David Frost’s calibre, your research programme becomes a job in itself. I trawled through transcripts, watched the Nixon tapes for weeks and finally set myself a list of considered questions for the day. Given the timing and Sir David’s calendar, a telephone interview was the quickest route.

Had we not had a print deadline, there is no doubt that we would have held off for a faceto-face interview. In some ways, the telephone interview yielded more material, as it was agreed that the telephone conversation would be recorded. I sat down in a separate office at 2:30pm and went over my questions. There was some safety from embarrassment, in that we were not face to face, but this would still be one of the most important interviews I would ever conduct.

THE REVIEW 2013 17

words.

I was intrigued as to how Sir David managed to maintain such a disciplined approach and not, like so many interviewers, lose his cool with his subjects?

“I am very fortunate in the sense that I don’t normally get nervous, and even before the vital Watergate sessions of the Nixon interviews, I wasn’t nervous then either. I was concentrating, focusing, lasering in on the subject we were about to discuss and so on, but I don’t get nervous in that sense, which is obviously a great plus for interviewing, because often your first task is to relax the person your interviewing. If you’re nervous and un-relaxed yourself, that’s much more difficult.”

This leads me onto an area which I’m positive has been covered in excruciating depth. I feel like I should take some advice from Sir David and avoid the subject altogether, as let’s face it, what could be left to tell? I hazard a question: I can imagine that when interviewing President Nixon you made it clear from the outset that you were there to get answers?

“That’s right. Obviously some of the famous questions are adlibbed, but others are ones that you know you have to get an answer to.

So, one concentrates on getting to those vital questions, but at the same time, in any interview, you’ve always got to be ready for a subject that you’re not expecting to come up that seems very fruitful. For instance, some great material came during mine and President Nixon’s ‘small-talk’ time. He had no small-talk, yet he insisted upon five minutes of it before each meeting. His verbal clumsiness was odd, because he was such a professional politician.

Once he said, ‘Did you do any fornicating this weekend?’ He was trying to be one of the boys with me, but he got the words wrong. Lovers don’t call themselves fornicators any more than freedom fighters call themselves terrorists.”

Nixon may well be considered to be Sir David’s crowning achievement. It’s been said that he sacrificed a lot to get the interview – be it fiscally, commercially and through relationships.

I ask whether, from the outset, he had the conviction that Nixon would open up on camera.

“Well, I was extremely hopeful that we would get him to open up on some of the key topics, but perhaps not all. In fact, what happened in the end is we went further – he went further – than we could have even predicted in terms of his confessions.”

Even today, Sir David seems every bit enthused as he was some 30 years ago. I pry, asking how it felt when Nixon did utter those infamous

“When the president does it, that means it’s not illegal,” he replies candidly. “He is cementing his ignominy there and then. Sometimes you’re delighted when someone is being very frank about a subject. Then your task, obviously, is to persuade them to go further and sometimes that is just by a short pause or a silence and the person comes forward with more things to say. So, if there is a silence, it’s a question of working out whether it’s potentially a very fruitful silence, or whether they have just forgotten what they were going to say.”

With such a varied history of interviewing high-profile people, one wonders who’s left to interrogate.

“I look forward very much to my next interview with Vladimir Putin, who is a fascinating man to interview. We’ve had two sessions, which were both very fruitful, one when he was acting president at the beginning of 2000, and the other before his state visit to the UK. Vladimir Putin is a very intriguing and provocative figure.”

It should make for an interesting interview given the increased scrutiny on the Russian government, in respect of freedom of speech.

I’m keen to ask Sir David what he thinks will happen to investigative journalism, given the ongoing Leveson inquiry exploring the boundaries of journalism and notions of privacy.

“Obviously there are times when it appears that investigative journalism is under threat, and given the recent fuss over the bugging and all of that, it has looked as though investigative journalism could be. At the same time, a lot of the pressure has been towards more free speech rather than less. It could go in a way that makes investigative journalism more difficult, or it could make it more free, and I suppose the recent stories that have emanated from the Sunday Times about Peter Krellis show that investigative journalism is alive and well at the moment. It needs vigilance now because it’s very important that the outcome of all these enquiries is not to lessen the freedom of speech in this country, but to increase it.

Lessening the freedom of speech would have dire consequences.”

I think it’s fair to say that Sir David has done his fare share for the cause. Choosing Al Jazeera was a bold choice in 2005. The station was mainly known in the western world for carrying exclusive Al-Qaeda messages. With many news outlets willing to bend over backward for Sir David’s services after leaving Breakfast with Frost, what gave this western unknown the edge?

“The reason that Al Jazeera was such an irresistible opportunity was that I felt that it might be the last time that a brand new news network covering the world would actually emerge. It made Al Jazeera English’s trailblazing plans very much irresistible. When Al Jazeera English started and when we started our show, Frost Over the World, they had 50 countries and 20 million households, in terms of reach. In the six years – it’s amazing that it’s six years – it’s risen to 130 countries and the reach has gone to 250 million households. So, the response to Al Jazeera has in fact been even better than one could have anticipated. It underlined that I felt I had made the right decision to say yes to their invitation.”

In 2011, US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton said that the network’s news coverage was more informative and less opinion-driven than American journalism. A great brand ambassador, if ever you needed the US administration’s support.

“Absolutely, that was a really strong endorsement, a very valuable one, and I’m sure that speech that she made did increase the positive impact of Al Jazeera English. The other thing they very wisely did was to say that we want to do a little more from the south of the world, rather than the north. We still cover the north of the world, America and Britain and so on, but we do tend sometimes in this part of the globe to underplay the rest of the world. It’s been a revelation to people – the material from South America and South East Asia and Africa.

Africa has been a tremendously fruitful area for Al Jazeera English as well. It’s a very big part of the expansion.”

A credible news organisation opening up to a series of countries that are disenfranchised inevitably opens doors to individuals that the western press has never had the opportunity to gain access to, I would imagine?

“Yes, I think that Al Jazeera has developed as wide a possible an access and that has been a tremendous help. It really has helped to make it – not just because of the Middle East – the most genuinely, international network. That’s what’s underlined its impact I feel.”

We are certainly living in uncertain times – politically, economically and socially. Al Jazeera has been at the frontline for the last three years, covering a period of mounting unrest.

Have you seen anything like this before and are you optimistic or pessimistic about the future?

“There was a real parallel back in the early 70s when the FTSE Index came down to something as low as 200 or 150. It was a real crisis and in a

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way it had even more impact that the current one, in terms of the sort of the crash that went around in 74. So that was very good training for this one, and in fact it probably had even more of an instant impact, although obviously there’s a continuing impact from this one.”

‘It seems that the only people weathering the financial impact these days are bankers and footballers’, I reply, deciding to change tact. There were stories that, growing up, you were interested in becoming a professional footballer for Nottingham Forest. Actually, I’m told you were rather good. Does your interest in sport extend to rugby?

“Yes, but not as passionately as football. Even though at my grammar school, Wellingborough Grammar School, they played rugby, I was playing for the local football team on a Saturday. I had to do my best when playing for my house during the week, but somehow manage to be selected for the first or second fifteen at the weekend. It was a pretty good juggling act.”

You always cite your interview with Sammy Davis Jr. as a great moment. My grandfather introduced me to the Rat Pack at a very young age, so I have to ask, was he every inch the entertainer he seemed?

“I’m so glad you raise the question of Sammy Davis Jr., because I think he was undoubtedly the greatest all-round entertainer the world has ever seen. He was so generous, because at the beginning of the 70s, I was doing ‘The David Frost Show’ in New York, and the rules of the talk show were that people got a minimal fee of $350 dollars. I think it’s only $500 odd now. So, $350 – and in addition to appearing for the interview, we had an orchestra, Sammy sang eight songs with the band, did about twenty impressions in the conversation, and did a wonderful dance. At the end of the show, he said ‘Thank you, David, I must thank you’. I said absolutely not, I’m the one that should be giving the thanks, because what you have given us here is just magic.

Sammy said ‘Whenever I want to give a friend of mine a present, I never like to just get them

something from the shop, I like to give them something of my own’. At which point, he took off his magnificent diamond watch and gave it to me. It was a breathtaking moment, just incredible, and it became my most prized possession for about 12 years, until it was stolen from a hotel room. But it was just a typical example of what a generous soul Sammy Davis Jr. was, as well as a magnificent artist.”

Having interviewed such an eclectic mix of stars from the stage and screen, it’s no surprise that Sir David returned to the BBC this year, with a guide to the art of television interviewing, called Frost on Interviews.

How has the interview changed since you first started?

“Over the last 50 or 60 years, from the very bland interviews that people did with politicians back in the ‘50s, interviewing in politics has got sterner and tougher, which is all for the good. At the same time, in terms of film stars and celebrities, interviews have got softer, because more and more spin doctors are getting involved. Tony Blair made policy up on the

air. In 2000, when he was under pressure over the NHS, he told me he was going to boost the level of spending on the NHS to the European average, which was not what he’d told Gordon Brown who, by all accounts, was furious. The next Thursday I went for drinks at Number Eleven and saw two treasury mandarins. One of them said, ‘You cost us £15bn on Sunday morning’. And the other one said, ‘No, it was much more than that’.”

You say interviews were previously bland, but did anyone stick out? Who influenced you back then?

“The interviewer who most influenced me was John Freeman. His interviews were called ‘Face to Face’ in the late 50s. They were stunning in the sense that they were so in-depth and to the point. He was also a very serious interviewer.

But in terms of getting to the basics, which I think a lot of interviewing is about, answering the question ‘what makes people tick’, he was at the forefront of developing the questions on that front.”

Freeman’s manner was neither aggressive nor provocative, but the questions were fairly forthright, combining that with the camera work of the show which focused almost exclusively on the face of the interviewee, the interview was more like a session on a psychiatrist’s couch.

“It had an element of that certainly didn’t it,” Sir David replies. “That’s a very interesting observation.”

You have been noted for your friendly, nonaggressive approach to interviewing. How do you view the Paxman approach? “[Laughs] Well, obviously I never like to comment on colleagues, but the basic point is that it’s no good going into an interview in a really combative way unless you’ve got the goods. I always remember one remark that the late Labour leader John Smith made to me after the last interview we did together. He said, ‘David, you have a way of asking beguiling questions with potentially lethal consequences’. I said I

would be very happy to have that on my tombstone. In other words, yes, of course you can be confrontational, as long as it’s a real confrontation. Doing it in order to sound tough, but without the goods, it won’t work.”

“Well, we’ve done 28 minutes, but we’ve covered the field I hope?”

‘You’re timing it, Sir David?’

“No, I just have a clock in front of me.”

‘Well, I have it at 27 minutes and 34 seconds’.

He laughs, “Well, we’re in agreement on everything then.”

At this point, our time is up. Sir David charismatically wishes me good luck with the new title and offers to help with anything else I might need. His final act of kindness was to sign a copy of the title for me, an item that I promptly had framed and will cherish for years to come.

From myself and the whole team at The Review, requiescat in pace, Sir David.

Sir David Frost, OBE, 7 April 1939 – 31 August 2013.

THE REVIEW 2013 21

BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE

CHINA

As we coast through a jigsaw of traffic, my guide points out the sights. “On the left, there’s a new office building.

On the right, there’s a government office building. Up ahead, that’s one of the city’s first five-star hotels”. For a country so staunchly proud of its politics, China is overtly obsessed with the superficialities of capitalism. Only here could a bland office block be of any interest, yet there is something forgivably earnest about it. I ask the driver to put some music on, and in the spirit of no-nonsense socialism, he produces a CD simply called ‘Disco’.

Welcome to China, where irony just shrivels up and dies. LAITH AL-KAISY makes his first visit to the world’s newest superpower.

Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone that you’re going to China. Not unless you want teeming lists of names, addresses, hints, tips, shortcuts, scenic routes, back roads and warnings. This never happens anywhere else you go, but with China, everyone thinks themselves a Michael Palin, offering itineraries, memos and maps, and saying things like “Well, if you don’t stop in Tongli, you may as well not go at all.” But no single experience can do a location justice.

People often say that a country is two places: the place in your mind and the place on the map. However, because so little is ever advertised about China, nothing quite prepares you

for it. The China of my mind was a deli balance between graceful aesthetics and traditionalism; obscurity and otherness. for every perceived truth, there’s an dichotomy.

When I first make landfall, it’s in Xi’an, miles south of Beijing. The city holds distinction of being the country’s first cap and is therefore steeped in the kinds of feu stories that make China so tirelessly com ling. The one thing people have here, a from a militant stoicism, is history. The Chin cling onto history for dear life. It defines culture and binds communities. The first l

icate vast But ugly

550 the pital, udal mpelapart nese s the local

T R AV E L : C H I NA

g-star 2001 collection

I meet is lady called Penny, who starts a trend that continues throughout the trip: offering mythology as fact. People talk of spectres and spirits with deadpan sobriety, as if they’re telling the world’s oldest joke. Anywhere else, this would be laughable, utter lunacy, but in China it’s accepted, even believable.

Smog enshrouds Xi’an like smoke in a dragon’s lungs. Everything has a hoary, socialist haze, both pallid and indifferent. The sky hangs, burdened and tense, like the city’s dirty laundry. It all feels on the brink of chaos; a peaceful schizophrenia that’s about to erupt. The only discernible colour belongs to the radioactive

slogans on billboards, all of which advertise exclamation-point cures to untranslatable ills.

Driving from the airport, the roads are a struggle between traditional values and imported wonder. You’re confronted with juxtapositions of poverty and wealth; power and hopelessness; of natural beauty and striving progressionism.

I’m told that Xi’an is turning into an economic hub, yet the divide between prosperity and abjection remains desperately stark, with proud monuments to business overshadowing dilapidated estates. Everywhere you look, there is binary metaphor, pitiless irony and political contradiction.

My hotel is adjacent to the technology zone, which sounds a bit like the Crystal Maze, but with all the industriousness of a Rampant Rabbit: bright, fast, assiduous, but ultimately onanistic. These gentrified places shaft the common person; a corridor of corruption and avarice. An article I read on the plane reported how university students are being forced to work as interns at an iPhone factory (on the production line) due to a shortage of labour.

Even in the land of dualism, Apple is still the Antichrist.

My first stop is the world’s unofficial Eighth Wonder, the Terracotta Army, which is the one

THE REVIEW 2013 25

TERRACOTTA WARRIORS

honor guard

story that China wants to tell more than any other. Xi’an has more historical sites than you can shake a chopstick at, but it’s this army of the afterlife that put the city on the map.

The surrounding gardens of the excavation pits show the country at its supernal best, lending credence to all the mythology and magic expounded by the locals. It’s all dewy flora, balmy mist, gloating crickets and haunting tranquility. The breeze kisses your ear, as faint as a Chinese whisper. This was the China of my mind; it actually exists.

A short walk leads to the 8,000-strong clay army, which was commissioned in 209 BC by China’s unifying emperor, Qin Shi Huang, to guard his tomb. However, no news story or travel piece can ever prepare you for the magnitude of seeing the warriors for the first

time. There’s no warm-up act, no curtain that comes up, and once you’ve fought past the gaggles of domestic tourists, you’re suddenly there, staring at 8,000 pugnacious men with fragmented souls. It’s not staring at the statues that leaves your heart in your mouth, but the statues staring back at you. They’re as grim, grey and deeply ethereal as everything else in Xi’an. The pits smell old and storied like a childhood book. And the more you stare, the more you wonder, not just about the powerful vastness of it all, but the seeming impossibility of it too. What kind of early civilisation could achieve such complexity? You realise that no view of human history can ever be accurate without an understanding of what happened in Xi’an 2,200 years ago.

There is a traditional tearoom here too. China

wears its tea ceremony with simpering pride.

This is a country that spits on the floor and pisses in a hole, but drinks a cuppa with complete balletic propriety. The hostess hands me a menu that reads like an alchemist’s delivery note. I thumb through the runic incantations, made from flower petals, leaves, barks and herbs; brews that will make you younger, happier, healthier and hornier. I can’t remember what I order, something with dragon’s jism perhaps, but it makes my cheeks wince and my lips curl.

I finish up, say my zài-jiàns, and walk to the gift shop. Here you can meet Yang Zhifa, the chap who found the Terracotta Army, who is paid around $200 a month to sign memorabilia.

His story is heartbreakingly tragic. This genial octogenarian – weathered and skeletal – whose

WHERE’S WANG

GENERIC SOLDIER

discovery generates millions of dollars, much of which lines the pockets of officials and businessmen, has never seen a cent. It says more about the relationship between the state and the body politic than anything else I see on the trip.

Back in the city centre, I stop at a family-run diner with some fellow hacks from the UK. This place is heaving with locals, all enunciating through gobfuls of food. So-called experts always say that you should experience a city as the locals do, but put it this way: if you’d visited Bristol last week and experienced what I do in my city, it would have put you off travelling for life. You would have skipped between a flat, an office, a cafe, a few bars, a restaurant and M&S. The idea that there are real and unreal experiences is both duplicitous and

pretentious, and recommending someone to eat here is the cultural equivalent of sending Mr Chang to a greasy spoon in Milton Keynes.

Yes, it’s popular with the locals, not because it serves the best food in town, but because the produce is cheap, the production is cheap, and the prices are cheap.

The food is typically Chinese: noodle soups, pork ribs, stir-fried vegetables, and sautéed meats. It’s all edible, just not memorable.

When people say “Chinese takeaway isn’t the same as food in China,” I can see why. I’m not trying to put the little man out of business, but for gastronomic food in Xi’an, go to a proper restaurant or a hotel. Siam Garden Terrace is a good start.

We talk with two Chinese women and the conversation turns to history (again), only

honor guard

this time, an international dispute: what was invented first, noodles or pasta? Surely noodles have been around much longer? Being no historian, I tell the women to leave a hundred monkeys in a room with some eggs and flour and see which dish they come up with first.

The locals will tell you that Xi’an is the real China, where all the history and authenticity lies, but I get the feeling that every community, however big or small, says the same thing.

No one seems to think in modern terms and people are obsessed with rolling and folding centuries of history into dim-sum-sized mouthfuls. Well, everyone except the children. I’m told that, due to the one-child policy, there is a generation of spoilt kids who have lost the Chinese identity, the work ethic, the political respect, and who would rather pick up a KFC

THE REVIEW 2013 27

bucket than a pair of chopsticks. Despite this, Xi’an is a font of erudition and interest, relentlessly absorbing, both aesthetically and intellectually. The history here may be impossible to deny, yet the future is endlessly uncertain.

“It’s forbidden to talk about what happened here in 1989,” says Angela, my Beijing guide, in hushed shorthand. I believe her too. I have never been to a place as intimidating as Tiananmen Square, not because you can see the oppression, but because you can’t. This was the site of the ‘89 protests, where the Chinese military opened fire on activists, and you can still feel the anguish in the air. It’s illegal to even talk about it. China’s government, its collective fear, looms menacingly on the horizon, spreading its shadowy tentacles like an omniscient octopus throughout the national psyche. There is a heightened awareness to everything and the Stalinist architecture serves as a physical reminder of a subjugated people. A giant picture of Chairman Mao hangs on the Gate of Heavenly Peace – a cruel joke, a painful irony, but one the majority of Chinese, many of whom still revere the man, seem oblivious to.

Looking around, eighty percent of the people are domestic tourists, all headed towards the Forbidden City, a citadel where emperors lived gilded lives for generations, completely shut off from the public they ruled. The stories are of combat, carnality and deception; of unmerciful emperors who had armies in the thousands and equally large numbers of concubines, which is far too much posse for any man.

The complex is vast: 720,000 square metres, 9000 rooms. The hundreds of classical structures are punctuated by the symbolism of colours and numbers, while the positioning of everything is dictated by feng shui and yin-yang; flow and balance. Entranceways are guarded by two lions, male and female, with ornate cedar walls that ascend to arching rooftops overseen by dragons, and every detail is examined by the Chinese visitors with forensic care. Most of it only dates back to the eighteenth century due to fires and restoration – but don’t tell them that.

Despite being a vast sprawl of samenessness and repetition, the Forbidden City is impressive, and I understand why the Chinese enjoy it too – for a moment, their cultural legends are tangible. But it also affirms why the country is so crippled. China’s leaders, including Mao, have always been elevated to the status of gods, and the Forbidden City is proof of that.

Men lived as untouchable deities, mainly because China’s religions and philosophies are so passive and fluffy. Everything is entwined

with animism, ancestor worship, folklore, ghosts, anthropomorphism, therianthropy, bestial guardians and vegetative remedies, giving exceptionalism to all but the human being. There’s no salvation, no hope, no sense of individuality, and people are marginal to a higher nature. Throw in communism and it just becomes a depressing round of social responsibility and civic duty.

Outside the city walls, a teenager jogs up and asks if his father can have a photograph taken with me. Perhaps he’s seen my photograph in a magazine. Maybe he’s my first Chinese fan.

Nope, he just wants his picture taken with a white man. “Ahh, Engerish” he says through a transnational smile. Though flattering and baffling, I realise that this isn’t China, not even Beijing. It’s where simple folk come to gawp and fawn. And while endlessly fascinating, the Forbidden City is a museum, a place of the past, and cities should never allow the past to

ing a bohemian centre, until the government realised what was happening and began to commercialise. She arrived in Beijing, as so many expats did, during the 2008 Olympics, working as a fixer for the BBC. It’s not hard to understand why westerners never leave. If you know where to go and who to do it with, Beijing is a hub of high living.

That evening, a group of us head to Atmosphere, the highest bar in Beijing, on the eightieth floor of the World Summit Wing.

Finding money is the curse of the modern city.

Everything has to be bigger, better, more popular, more fashionable and more expensive.

Beijing is an architectural cold war, a luxury arms race, a short-term exploitation. No one ever dreamed of this; Beijing isn’t by design.

It’s a jungle of best laid plans, conquering egos and penis envy. Products and services are a transient novelty, as in Dubai and Moscow, where contemporary is always temporary.

When I speak to one to the staff, she says that Atmosphere can only do so well for so long before a bar is built on the eighty-first floor of another building.

From the ground, Beijing is a wholly impressive and functioning city, yet from here it’s a science-fiction dystopia; a mix of Blade Runner and Metropolis, with noisy lights, dense pollution and people going nowhere quickly.

But at least, for now, they flock to Atmosphere, which, novelty aside, is sheer indulgence. As with all of modern China, everything’s been imported from the West, including Charly, the head mixologist, who brings us a selection of his signature cocktails. Soon enough, we’re in a cataract of champagne and I’m chewing on the tarry end of a Cohiba. If you find yourself in Beijing, I couldn’t recommend this bar enough.

“How was the Great Wall?” is the first question that everyone asks about China. And when I answer, I feel a bit boorish. Hangover or not, I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy it. I wasn’t even going to write about it. There’s nothing inherently wrong with the Great Wall – in fact, the Chinese did a good job at keeping those pesky Mongolians out. They blocked, chiselled and grouted their way to thirteen-thousand miles of impenetrable protection. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the fascination. The Wall is nice in a maudlin, I’m-standing-on-the-Wall kind of way. And I won’t deny that it’s deeply aesthetic, at least from afar, but I could have told you that from a postcard. Instead, I have to admit to not having the subtle sensibility to appreciate such a construction, nor the imagination to comprehend its size and significance. But

“Welcome to China, where irony just shrivels up and dies.” dominate the present. I needed to find the new Beijing.

I meet with Alice McInerney, the fashion editor of Time Out Beijing, and we saunter through the hutongs of Dongcheng. This is proletariat country; chaotically ordered and cacophonous. Vendors bark for custom, children occupy the streets, scooters weave with sanctimonious disregard, and tourists walk with bug-eyed intrigue. There is a rawness here – one that is missing in Xi’an. Hutongs are the cogs and wheels of the Chinese culture; the country with its lid off. The men are uniformly cold and completely indistinguishable, sporting short-back-and-sides, and the nondescript fashion sense of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

The girls are feline-pretty and doe-eyed, with cheekbones that arc like the Soviet sickle.

Modern Chinese women put their intellect before their ego, which explains how they pull off geek-chic with such impossible cool.

The trade is mostly souvenir tat and street food – fatty, fishy and frugal – and the smell is of rancid oil, exhaust pipes and Marlboros. The Chinese pride themselves on serving dishes that are light, but there’s enough grease here to host an orgy. The few art and textile shops seem disconnected, but there’s a reason for this. Alice tells me the area was slowly becom-

GREAT WALL OF CHINA

xian bell tower

forbidden city

xian bell tower

forbidden city

THE REVIEW 2013 29

beijing by night

it’s still just a wall and walls have never really been my bag.

That said, the surrounding views are utterly affecting: teeming miles of thickset forest and uninhabited vastness, which cracks and creeps like a Macbethian nightmare. I approach a woman who looks and smells about 130 years old, all toothless and crumpled. She yelps and yaps at me, though I have no idea why. I pick up a snow globe about the size of a golf ball and ask ‘how much?’ She takes out a piece of paper and scribbles 150, which is about £15. For a communist country, this oldtimer’s got capitalism nailed. The one thing about Chinese traders is that they won’t let you leave without a sale – a game I am always happy to play. So, we go back and forth, to and fro, up and down, until she finally sells at £1.50, which is the best haggle of my life.

Welcome to the free market, grandma.

If it seems as though I didn’t warm to China, something’s gone wrong, because I really did.

I loved it more than words can do justice. Was it the China of my mind? In flashes, yes, but that doesn’t matter, because the China I now know is the place on the map and the place on these pages.

I wrote a similar article for an international newspaper. My editor said “Your criticisms

of the Chinese government jar,” to which I replied “Great, job done, here’s my invoice.”

“No,” she said, “I want you to edit it.” This put me in an awkward position, because I couldn’t change my experience, my perception, what I saw, what I felt, or who I spoke to.

I couldn’t change my truth. There’s a reason I decided not to concentrate on things like the cuisine – because it’s not important. Food may be the great metaphor for life, but China is blessed with having bottomless metaphor everywhere you turn. And if you’re the type of person who finds interest in great walls, not in the psychological nuances of a nation, that’s fine, you’ll love China too, because it’s a Lazy Susan of choice and depth and sweet and sour.

The drive to the airport is marked by deafening silence. Even the stasis of millions stuck in traffic somehow has meaning here.

China’s past and present is a cautionary tale, a parable of how not to run a country. You only have to open a newspaper to see what’s going on. Corruption is rife, mainly because capitalism is the still the country’s dirty secret. China is a nation in the closet. There is money, fathomless money, but it’s traded in bribes, blackmail and backhanders. China may appear to have a communist govern-

ment that preaches the tenets Maoism, but it’s more capitalistic than you or I will ever be. In fact, the only western pretension that it hasn’t adopted is charity. The bourgeoisie has found the monkey’s paw, but the proletariat are too faithful to their past, their ideals, to rock the corporate boat. They fear change and officialdom. Theirs is a world where a dead man is still in power; where people are privately well read, but publicly well Red; and where questioning authority besmirches filial values and face. And this tragic complexity is what makes the country so damn beautiful.

An old woman sweeps the road with a brush made of twig. Her pace is painful, going nowhere, just like the traffic. The sight is oddly bizarre, as unremarkable and mundane as the grey office buildings, but it sums up the China of my mind. As the car passes by, I can see she looks frail, almost ghostlike, dressed in traditional garb and conical hat. This woman personifies the Chinese struggle; her life has no doubt been spent doing the same Sisyphean task. And though she looks trapped, destined to eke out her days retreading the same steps, you sense she knows the entire story of China as well as she knows that road. And I can’t wait to go down it again.

TR

Alpina Extreme Diver 300 Words: ALIYAH LASKIT Given that orange is one of the most visible colours in the spectrum, it makes sense that Alpina’s new Extreme Diver 300 timepiece features the colour heavily.

I’m not a diver. I scuba a little and snorkel when I can, but 300 metres? No need. I can, however, appreciate a fine timepiece, and as the weather in our usually-coldand-wet little country seems to be doing us proud, why not consider one just for the sheer hell of looking good.

The new Extreme Diver collection features a three-hand auto and mid-size quartz. The range is indeed designed for professional divers. It has a serious bezel, an adjustable strap to go over your wet suit and a rubberised grip on the crown. The diver’s style of watch is the modern man’s day watch. So, whilst I look forward to testing one on the Amalfi coast, it looks just as good on the wrist in Knightsbridge.

The watch does feature anti-reflectivetreated sapphire crystals, screw-down crowns and case backs, and is fitted with polished jet black 60-minute, unidirectional rotational diver bezels.

The AL-525 model has a 44mm case and comes with 38-hours of power reserve.

So, when you’re lying unconscious on the ocean floor, your oxygen won’t last, but Christopher Walken will still be able to deliver the watch to your infant son.

One of my favourite points is the exhibition-case back, affording the owner a good view of the automatic movement. This, whilst impressive, isn’t quite as dramatic as the watch’s packaging. The Extreme Diver 300 comes in a specially-designed mini scuba tank. We assumed the package to the office was a bottle of something fizzy!

It almost ended up in the drinks cabinet – but at least it would have survived alcohol damage.

The watch comes with a choice of a rubber divers strap or a metal clasp bracelet with a secure folding divers clasp. Whether jaunting across the med, sealing an oil well or standing out in the City, Alpina have evidently got you covered.

TR

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THE REVIEW 2013 33

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CAMARO

2SS

MOTORING : CAMARO SS2

Words: PETER ROBINSON

When Cheverolet put the Camaro on sale in September of 1966, the SR-71 Blackbird was flying at Mach 3 over mother Russia, The Beatles were apparently more famous than the messiah and wooden-toothed Walt Disney sadly popped his clogs.

The 60s were a time of psychedelic drugs, JFK, civil-rights and a cultural counter revolution; a time that I would be hard pressed not to spin the dial to, if old Doc Brown turned up the in DeLorean.

So, whilst America was on its way to a decade of societal change, so was the automotive industry. When Ford released the Mustang in 1964, there was no serious reaction from GM. Once the Mustang had sold 100,000 units in the first six months and almost half a million in the first year, the GM board sat bolt upright.

It wasn’t as if they were unprepared for America’s love story with the four seat sports car. GM had actually begun preliminary work on such a car as early as 1958, according to Pontiac designer Bob Porter. “I remember a four-passenger, sporty type car of the general size and weight class of the Mustang being worked on in an advanced studio. In the early 60s, similar cars were developed from time to time. Everyone wanted to do one, but at the time there was really no corporate interest.”

The responsibility for producing a giant killer was given to the GM design centre’s Chevrolet studio under the direction of Henry C. Haga. Interior design was directed by George Angersbach, who had been heavily involved in the design of the Corvette and Corvair.

The designers did mock-ups of many different models, including a two-seat roadster, a fastback, and a station wagon. GM was trying to keep the cost as low as possible, however, to compete with the Mustang, and decided to stick with just two models: a coupe and a convertible.

Finally, the car was introduced to the press as the Camaro (considered to be a good name because nobody knew what it meant). Chevrolet produced an old French dictionary showing that the word meant ‘friend’ or ‘companion’, but Ford found an alternate meaning in an old Spanish dictionary: ‘small, shrimp-like creature’.

The countries automotive press laughed long and hard until they saw the 67 Camaro and realised that they were witnessing the birth of a classic.

Fast-forward some forty years, the SR-71 is in the Smithsonian, we have one Beatle left and Disney is cryogenically frozen. And what we do have is the fifth generation Camaro. The Camaro is a car that I played with in the 80s with my family. At that time is was the Hot Wheels and die-cast models, none of the plastic muck you find creeping its way into toy boxes these days.

So, you can say that the Camaro holds a mythical place in my heart. When it was delivered on an unusually hot day this year, I parked it across the courtyard from

THE REVIEW 2013 37

my apartment so I could get a general idea of what passersby thought. Let’s not muck about: it was the 2SS and had the bumblebee paint job.

Bright yellow and racing stripes meant there would be no speed tests in this.

“Tango two six, tango two six, we have a yellow Camaro driving between Junctions 13 and 14 at speed, can you assist?”

“Well, I don’t know, let me see if I can spot it...”

I can’t say if I really expected a furious breakneck speed from the Camaro. I knew that the 2SS model had 556 lb.-ft. of torque and so I would be able to reverse the climate with my foot applied to both the break and the accelerator.

I have met many car writers in my time and the ones that write for titles that consider themselves refined and well-to-do would probably consider the colour and size of this Camaro some-what gauche. Well, I have news for you, you’re all fallaciously inaccurate. Your logic is flawed, your ideas spurious and your opinions groundless.

When I saw the Camaro parked proudly outside my building, haven driven a decidedly dark Aston Martin Vantage the week before, I too wondered about the merits of its nuclear-yellow paint job (the paint job is actually Rally Yellow for when you buy yours).

I am in publishing and so do not shy away from

the bright, the eccentric, the elaborate – rather, I embrace it. Not only I, but it would appear everyone that came into contact with the Camaro too.

As I sat in the left-hand side of the car and turned the ignition, the car rumbled to life in such a way as to shake it from left to right like a pissed-off metronome. The torque on this 6.2LT V8 was astounding and would later lead to an angry letter from the UN asking why I had shifted the earth off of its axis. Despite a curb weight of 3860 lb., the Camaro SS hits 60 mph in 4.6 seconds. It feels like it gets there a lot quicker. To be honest, you’re not able to focus

on much other than the sound that the V8 kicks out.

Dead ahead of me, a blue flash appeared and the Cheverolet logo materialised in the distance on the road. I had been told about the Camaro’s HUD. A beautiful addition to the modern driver’s arsenal and one that I think should come as standard in all vehicles. Add it to the cruise control and you need barely so much as move your neck. Sadly, we here in Blighty aren’t blessed with the same mighty highways as the Americans. So it won’t be long before you are tapping the cruise control back and forth in an effort to avoid the car that’s pulled into the

fast lane to get a better glimpse of the Camaro’s majesty.

After the first mile and in pretty serious British heat, I had all the windows down and found myself almost intrinsically placing my left arm out of the window and down the side of the door. Almost as if the Camaro Gods demanded the hint of a possible automotive sacrifice that could be the loss of my arm. THEY COULD TAKE A LEG. Despite my hillbilly appearance, the sun was shining, the air conditioning provided enough chill to keep the Arctic from melting, and I swear to god, Black Betty played from a rather

well setup Boston Audio system.

Every time I glanced out the side mirrors I saw the beautiful muscle car wing staring right back at me. The Camaro concept that the fifth generation is based on was launched at the North American International Auto Show, where AutoWeek awarded it’s good looks with best in show.

The SS sits on Pirelli P Zero performance tires 245 upfront and 275 at the rear. We didn’t attempt any serious slaloms, but the ride is planted and the steering well pointed. Obviously the Camaro is epic to drive: it is precise and gives sterling feedback. It is also the first Camaro in

THE REVIEW 2013 39

history to have independent rear suspension, a multilink design working with a MacPhersonstrut front setup. Obviously when it is pushed you will encounter a fair amount of body roll which is to be expected with a car of this weight.

No matter, you can just torque it back into a straight line. It never displays any nasty handling habits though, and in low speeds, you can steer with the accelerator.

I decided to take ‘the bee’ out to the countryside to see what it was made of, hoping to find some empty sun drenched roads and tunnels. As with most big cars, junctions and turnings are a delight, because people tend to give way pretty

sharpish. In the Camaro, however, I sensed they were giving way just so they could glance at it for a little bit longer.

I encountered my first set of many enamoured teenagers on the M32 into Bristol, leaning out of their windows to shout “Nice car, mate”.

Yes, it is, I thought. Not wanting to appear arrogant I offered a simple thumbs up whilst secretly revving a little longer for them. The Camaro is a showman: it enjoys being stuck in traffic and crawling through rush hour in style, or blowing your passengers hair off down the open road.

The interior of the Camaro maintains the

retro-modern theme: the dashboard is vast, the instruments recessed into cockpit formation and a steering wheel and centre console stack shared by no other GM marque. The seats are built for the US market and so my UK frame fits more-than-comfortably. Like I said before, the HUD is also a stroke of genius.

The Camaro, for me, is a well-executed, modern version of a classic. It stays true to the ethos of a muscle car and one that never should have been cancelled in the first place.

With a starting price of £35,320 pounds, it’s a great price to own a marque that will no doubt be a modern classic in no time.

TR

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Nathan Fletcher

V8 Vantage I sat there, motionless, in my own deplorable car, watching the 2013 V8 Vantage get smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror. Perhaps if I careered into a post or a wall the team at Aston Martin might take pity on me and drive me to the hospital in it, giving me few more fleeting minutes of motoring nirvana. How do you go back to anything other than an Aston Martin? I should have been given some counselling by a tenured therapist on how to cope with my grief.

Words: PETER ROBINSON Since its launch in 2006, the Vantage has had a number of tweaks and minor remodels. In 2009 we saw a V12 version and 2008 gave us an update that, I would imagine, was based on some sage advice from current Vantage owners: “Leave the exterior alone”. Of course there were many tweaks, all done with serious engineering prowess.

Our marque for the week was the 2013 V8 Vantage Roadster in Meterorite silver, boasting an impressive 4.7 litre engine with 420 bhp.

I picked up the Vantage up on an uncharacteristically sweltering British summer day. That’s right: summer, blue sky and warmth.

Having driven a DB9 before (if not somewhat briefly), I thought I would be at one with the Vantage’s ECU key system. Apparently not. It took more than a few attempts to grasp that one, but let’s not discuss my driving aptitude just yet.

My first impressions of the Vantage were that it was clearly a thing of beauty, modelled by the gods for those of us that were deserving enough. The Vantage is Aston Martin’s entrylevel model, designed to entice a new generation of sports-car owners into the meld.

The interior befits the brand and is first class: leather that smells like heritage, a precise lever

AU T O M O T I V E : V 8 VA N TAG E R OA D S T E R

THE REVIEW 2013 43

THE REVIEW 2013 45

of a handbrake to the right of the driver that looks like it releases the oil slick, and a graphite centre console.

When the V8 starts up with the push of the key, all your worldly worries and cares disappear – least of all, because you can drive away from them, they would be hard pressed to catch you.

The Vantage immediately feels weighted and hunkered down. Even at low speeds it feels concise and solid. For something with a curb weight of 1710 KG, 200 pounds more than the coupe, it is planted, to say the least. You wonder whether the clever chaps at Aston Martin have installed a small electro magnet somewhere out of sight.

I’m only 30 seconds down the road and faced with a set of traffic lights that appear to change every 20-30 minutes. As the weather was unusually hot, I decided to pop the roof down (this can also be done at 30 miles per hour I’m later told!). Having popped the roof down, done the iPod dance (in order to listen to motoring classics), I sit waiting for the red glow to appear up ahead. There is no one ahead of me; only the open road and an hour drive back to the office in Bristol.

Change, change, change! RED! In my haste, misjudged the clutch placement and found myself sat there, head in hands, having stalled

the beast. What was worse, no one passed me! I don’t know if there was some misplaced sense of respect, because I appeared to be an Aston owner, or pity because I couldn’t drive it.

An eternity passed. I took out the key and pushed it back into the central console and waited. Nothing. Two attempts later and the engine roared into life. Unable to withstand further embarrassment, I planted my foot on the clutch and the accelerator and shot off towards what appeared to be a recently-green, amber light. “Was I committed?” I asked myself. Having driven the car for less than five minutes, three of which were spent stationary, I didn’t rightly know.

I decided to crawl forward. Not only would i have to sit in the same traffic with the same perturbed motorists that I had already let down, but I would run the risk of having the Vantage back later than planned for its video shoot with the team. With a roar that would have silenced a pride of lions and enough torque to displace the continent, I headed towards the ‘light’. With my head sucked to the headrest, I found it somewhat hard to comprehend the spectrum of colour. All I knew was that 420 BHP sends the Vantage forth in refined pleasure: 0-60 in 4.7 seconds.

As I sailed through the lights, I realised that I had been the only one to escape the clutches

of the industrial estate. I gave a brief thought to my fallen brethren, and then sped off up the road with an eclipse-size smile on my face and a V8 engine note that is well-bred and screaming at the same time. A rock opera if you will.

It was a bank holiday weekend, so traffic had amassed on my way back to deepest Somerset.

No matter. I was more than happy in the left lane, assessing the Vantage Roadsters mid-range cacophony. The 2008 update saw an 11% increase in BHP and a 15% increase in peak torque taking it to 470 Nm. This increased the mid-range performance and gave the Vantage an even higher top speed. It also made it more fun for my good self (my thanks to the dedicated men and women at Gaydon, he gushed).

With time on my hands and average traffic speed at 50mph, I decided to put the rear mid-mounted six-speed through its paces. I have to say, the driving position and control placement was excellent. I had that inexplicable feeling running through me that made me want to push forward harder. The 160 W Aston audio system kept me company for the duration – even with the roof down. I have no idea what I looked like. I was “that guy” – roof down, hair dramatically blowing back, iPhone, car and driver all wrapped in a death grip and

completely smitten.

I honestly wish I could be less gushing about the V8 Vantage Roadster, but you would have to be mad to not find it desperately attractive.

As I cruised into the home straight, I parked the Roadster out front and headed upstairs to grab a change of clothes. When I returned, it appeared that some of the neighbours had popped out onto the balcony to pass judgement. It was reminiscent of the old senate chamber.

Having mentioned our ‘automatic’ cousins, I will take this opportunity to say I have been told that the six-speed manual is much more fun than the sportshift II seven-speed automated manual. However, this comes from friends, rather than personnel experience. I imagine it has something to do with a sense of loyalty to ‘proper driving pedigree’. Personally though, given my ‘coughs’ clutch issues, one might suggest the automatic might be proper for me.

Anyway, my neighbour Michael looked down approvingly, raised his eyebrows and gave me a thumbs up. 50-plus speak for “Bloody hell, you little bugger”. I don’t think Michael immediately recollected what I do for a living and so perhaps judged my apparent purchase too quickly.

I slid back into the full grain leather seats,

pushed the key into the ECU and waited for that V8 to silence my onlookers. Eyes widened, nostrils flared, hearts palpitated and my wishlist was cleaned out and replaced with one single item.

Having made it to the shoot early, I decided that it was worth taking the Vantage for a little spin around the edge of the city. The M5 had been a long smoking trail, but what the Vantage really needed were some corners to eat.

Obviously the Roadsters rigidity is a little reduced from its coupe older brother, but it is still an astoundingly well-balanced sports car. The steering is weighted and it takes 3.1 turns lock to lock, so not the quickest, but why would you possibly spend that much time parking? You’re in your Aston, just explain to a fellow motorist how the feudal system works and request that they move their vehicle from its spot and allow you to park.

In the corners the roadster holds on like an 80s bond villain being kicked out of a plane. It holds and holds and holds beyond the realms of what is physically possible. It feels firm and unshakeable.

As I headed back into town and into Clifton Village, imagine my shock as an identical Roadster came towards me. We both slowed half-heel, nodded in agreement that we were indeed kings among men and sped off, won-

dering about what the others do in this world.

I sometimes wish we had pulled over for a proper discussion about the car – who better than an everyday Aston owner? Surely he would have realised that the car wasn’t mine and that I didn’t know the secret handshake.

With that missed opportunity, like the rest of my everyday issues left at the side of the road, I headed back to the studio to park in the Aston, ready for its interior shots.

As I sat across the road from the studio waiting with the car, listening to it cool down, I pondered the fuel consumption. There are many ways to skin this particularly beautiful cat, but our reality was around 19MPG. The Aston will, however, hold its value like nothing else available in its class.

I would live and fall in love with the Aston for another four days that week (and still, some two months later). Reliving the moment I handed it back is still too much to bear.

The V8 Vantage Roadster has a price tag of £84,995 – a great entry level price to the analogues of motoring history we feel. It makes what is arguably one of the finest engine notes on the planet and its unparalleled beauty is worthy of a place in MoMA. If you are aren’t considering investing in this icon of modern British motoring, then hand your subscription to The Review at the door on your way out.

THE REVIEW 2013 47

Table Manner Words: LAITH AL-KAISY

I was thinking about which part of my girlfriend I’d eat first. And no, not in a sexual, cunnilingual, cannibalistic way – I’m no vorarephile, at least I don’t think –but rather what the tastiest part of a human being would be.

It’d be too easy to order the sexually-charged bits of a female.

The arse, for instance, looks especially appetising. It feels tender enough, but we all know that a plump rump is nothing more than tough meat and fat. The same goes for boobs and thighs; useless calories, though nipples could make an interesting delicacy. That said, boobs contain glands, which could be coated in flour and quick-fried for sweetbreads.

Sweetbreads have fast become my favourite thing on a menu. Ask any food critic and they’ll say the same. It’s an unspoken, collective thing, being drawn to innards, offcuts and stuff that other folk would turn their vomit-filled noses up at. Perhaps it’s boredom with meat. There are only so many times you can have the best steak you’ve ever had; only so many ways you can eat steak before saying, ‘Look, just wash the cow’s arse and put it on a plate’.

Certain offal, however, should be approached with caution. For example, brains cause kuru, a real slow-puncture of a disease. A tribal region in Papua New Guinea suffered an epidemic in the 1950s – that’s what you get for ritualistically eating the headcheese of your dead. The illness goes through a number of stages, including imbalance, tremors, loss of muscle control and speech, inability to walk, depression, incontinence, uncontrollable laughter, and finally death. So, if you’re planning on eating human offal, steer clear of brains, unless you want to shite yourself to the grave.

Whilst laughing.

Anyway, the bit of girlfriend I decided to eat was cheek. Not her buttock, but that tiny, round, tender ball of flesh under the eye socket. Technically, cheek isn’t a sweetbread, although that’s how I’d market it. In fact, what you have there is the most succulent cut of all. Cheeks lead a happy life: chewing, smiling and not much

else. That curious ball of meat would barely provide a mouthful, but what a mouthful it would be. On a menu, human cheek would be the most expensive dish, a delicacy, either fried rare, or as tempura, or served raw as carpaccio. If you want to attempt it at home, here’s how I would do it:

Cheek with radish and fresh chervil • • • • • • •

Ingredients (serves one – you) 2 cheeks 1 radish Sprig of thyme 1 garlic clove Fresh chervil Knob of butter

Preparation Take cheeks out of the fridge and bring to room temperature approximately 30 minutes before cooking. Finely slice the radish and pick a few chervil leaves. Garnish plate. Heat a frying pan on high until smoking. Add a drop of olive oil to the pan. Smash the garlic and add to the pan, along with the thyme, to flavour the oil. Quickly add the cheeks and cook for 45 seconds on one side. Turn the cheeks and immediately add the butter. Baste whilst cooking for a further 1 minute. Remove cheeks from pan and rest for five minutes under foil. Use the pan juices as a jus, then season and serve.

Et voila.

NO CHEeK

D I N I N G O U T : TA B L E M A N N E R

Palm, London, SW1X I was looking forward to Palm, mainly because of its ethnicity: an American steakhouse in London. Steak is properly Yankee. Where the French do poncey fillet mignon, America serves cuts of beef that are bigger than a trucker’s steering wheel.

I’d recently been eating pokey bits of meat with dribbles of sauce, so was ready to tuck a table cloth into my shirt collar and tackle an animal in gravy; something I’d have to dislocate my jaw to eat.

The menu is definitely, definitively American. Everything is bigger and better, like Toys ‘R’ Us on a plate. Palm is in the business of man food. Ordering a strip steak here is akin to taking out your penis and swinging it around your head like a lasso.

Order a salad, however, and you may as well tuck your johnson between your legs and sing show tunes.

To start, we shared jumbo shrimp and calamari fritti. The portions were perfect.

I’m sick of being served exceptional food but left wanting more. The jumbo shrimp, sautéed in a dijon mustard sauce, were jumbo to the point of mutation. These weren’t ordinary shrimp; these were Cher-

nobyl fallout shrimp – menacing, voluptuous and juicy. And whatever late-night, marijuana-driven experiment put prawns and mustard together was an absolute revelation.

I’ve been eating too much squid recently, which has been useful for one thing: judging good squid. This was decent calamari: tender, cornmeal-crispy and served with lemon and pepper.

The waiter, a likeable and solicitous chap, brought a platter of uncooked steaks to show us. It was like staring at an autopsy, as he discussed the anatomical origin of each cut, the benefits of marbling, and the cooking procedure. If, like me, you already know this stuff, it can seem a touch patronising. However, objectively speaking, for those who don’t know their rump from their elbow, it’s an affable touch.

Despite the waiter gently goading us towards beef, I had other ideas: surf and turf, but with rack of lamb instead of steak, and lobster instead of prawns. Obviously.

Certain foods are innately theatrical.

Lobster and rack of lamb are two of them.

It arrives, you stare, you smile, you contemplate, you fawn. And considering how greatly prized these two foods are, their en-

joyment depends on just two things: quality of meat and timing of cooking – and the chef is only responsible for one of those things (a cut of meat may be well-sourced and look appetising, but not even a chef knows what’s going on inside it). The lobster was warm and tasted like a mermaid’s top half. Too often it’s the opposite. The rack of lamb was huge by British standards, verging on cartoonish, and arrived with a rosy, blushing interior. Not as potently lamby as I’d have liked, but still enjoyable.

Key lime pie came next, along with New York style cheesecake. This was my first and last key lime pie. I get why the yanks like it, but it’s not for me. New York cheesecake was proper cheesecake, the Judeo-EasternEuropean kind, with a dense, curdled cream and acerbic raspberry sauce.

Palm has received a lot of snobbish flak from fellow critics who obviously despise the fact that an American chain has landed on our precious culinary doorstep. It’s utterly baseless, seething pomposity. If you want the true story, Palm is an informal and egalitarian night out, where the food is appetising and plentiful, and the waiters don’t make simple requests seem like they’re doing you a favour.

THE PALM

INTIMATE DINING

danish long bone rib-eye

CLASSIC STEAK

THE REVIEW 2013 53

Sake No Hana, London, SW1A I never liked the idea of sushi. Or sashimi for that matter. The fascination always escaped me. What’s to like about raw fish?

I can see why the Japanese like it (after all, they’re masters of self-punishment) – but the rest of us?

To start with, sushi and sashimi are cold.

Some of it looks clitoral, the rest looks labial, and not in a good way. The whole process of eating it is very animalistic, very therianthropic. Remember Batman Returns with Danny DeVito as the Penguin gnawing on uncooked mackerel? I rest my case. Then there’s the smell. Ever been to a fish market? Exactly. It’s a fetid offence to the olfactory and fishier than a politician’s expenses claim.

So, when asked to review Sake No Hana, a sushi restaurant, I didn’t want to go.

But something stuck with me, tapping on my brain and tugging on my tastebuds. I couldn’t shake the restaurant from my mind and decided to check out the menu online. Surprisingly, there was meat; lots of cooked meat. Rib-eyes and chops, and things that were seared, fried, roasted and

DO YOU BAMBOO

steamed. It was music to my belly. And I wouldn’t even have to touch a slippery raw fish.

The restaurant is broody and bamboo, straight out of a Kurosawa film. I expected Toshiro Mifune to leap out and start neatly butchering the morning’s catch with a samurai sword. That said, the conspicuous lack of Japanese people serving or eating didn’t bode well.

Those fears were quickly kyboshed, however, when a selection of food arrived, some of which was sushi. That’s what happens when you ask the waiter to choose your starters. Tempura prawns were an iron first in a velvet glove: properly meaty shellfish in the most fragile of coatings, cooked with the type of diligence you expect from the Japanese. Any less would mean hara-kiri.

Seared scallops came ornately dressed with wasabi truffle, which may sound overpowering for the poor little creatures, but actually worked well against the salty sweetness of the ocean.

Then it was time: sushi. Arm extended, eyes closed, chopsticks trembling, and in it went. Barely a mouthful, cut from a fish the size of a 5-year-old child, in a cute package of seaweed and rice. Surprise

and joy overcame me; it was delicious. I didn’t want to stop, not then, not now, not ever. One hit is all it took. Mouthful after mouthful, fix after fix, my new-found sushi junkyism. Everything about this sushi was balletic and light and moreish and divine.

Sticky rice, sharp seaweed and fresh fish: the holy trinity.

Teriyaki lamb cutlets arrived with ceremony, along with beef fillet, both of which were cooked to a cherry-blossom medium.

Red meat lends itself well to the quickfried nature of wok cooking, which was exquisitely demonstrated in these dishes.

Sake No Hana proved to me that Japan now has two art forms to be characteristically modest about: film and food. The lengths, the painstaking diligence that the Japanese put into film and food is overwhelming.

And thinking about it, these are the only two modern Japanese artistries that have made a successful transnational leap and now influence Western proclivities.

The skill – the neurotic and aesthetic detail – that goes into making Japanese food is inconceivable to most Westerners. And ironically, it’s this intricate dexterity that produces the most simple-looking and clean-tasting food on the planet.

Cinnamon Kitchen, London, EC2M So, we got escorted off the premises of Cinnamon Kitchen the other day. The lady and I were frogmarched to the roadside by the scruffs of our necks and admonished for doing the unimaginable, the abominable, the detestable – for smoking.

It was like being back at school. There we were, two grown adults, merrily imbibing the night, suddenly cut down by these health fascists. I understand not smoking next to the front door, but in an empty seating area? C’mon, guys, don’t cack on free choice. Other restaurants would be thankful to have a drippingly cool couple who think they’re Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall smoking outside. You don’t want that starchy, uptight feeling of Westminster (home of sister-restaurant Cinnamon Club). This is Shoreditch, so you want that wanton, bohemian, devilmay-care aura on your doorstep. It’s just good for business.

So, Cinnamon Kitchen: the less dressy, less pricey, less prestigious younger sibling of Cinnamon Club. And I don’t mean that pejoratively.

It’s Friday night and busy. The vibe is convivial and chirpy, and we’re already drunk.

There’s only one thing for it: the tasting menu paired with wines, because there’s no better judge of delicate gastronomy than two omnivorous inebriates.

Bread, dips and chutneys arrived, which tasted like the start of any Indian meal, only better, because it didn’t come from a jar. Naan breads fresh from the tandoor were well-baked and bursting with garlic, coriander and coconut. Superb.

One thing about bog-standard curry is that it all tastes the same: a tomato or yogurt base, tweaked with fruit and veg, then injected with heat ranging from mild to infernal. Curries are often too similar in consistency and so convoluted with ingredients that they are impossible to deconstruct. This is where Cinnamon Kitchen shines. Individual flavours that marry in the mouth are what make a memorable meal. With British and French food, it’s easy. However, the vast amount of stuff that goes into Indian food means it’s an art form.

A silky broth arrived with a sweet lobster tail buoyantly sitting on top. The triad of coconut, chilli and cumin was calm enough to let the lobster take centre stage, and the colours of white and pink meat against the exotic orange broth exuded the very spirit of Indian cuisine.

The courses kept arriving; a merciless onslaught of gastronomy. Sea bass and

venison were all cooked to perfection and complemented by a divine knowledge of spice and balance. Not a single mouthful was overwhelming. The deer, in particular, tasted ruddy and wild, like eating an eccentric old aunt.

Too often duck is served like it’s just been stolen from a butcher’s chopping block – not just underdone, but still being read its last rites. This was evenly pink and crisp on the outside. Still, no one will ever convince me that duck belongs on an Indian menu – not even this dish.

Though impressive, this tasting menu lacked one thing: cohesion. Plates of food arrived, we ate them, then some more came, but there was no sense of journey, no narrative, no first, second and third acts. A tasting menu needs to create a relationship between each plate of food to avoid turning into a showy gastro-wank.

Other than that, however, Cinnamon Kitchen more than justifies its existence.

CINNAMON KITCHEN

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Seven Park Place, London, SW1A “This place needs some music. Shall I put some on?” asked the lady, as we contemplated the noiseless din of Seven Park Place.

If this two Michelin star restaurant is missing one thing, it’s soul. The room reeks of a warped Englishness, a reptilian complex, as if imagined by William Burroughs. It’s an odd mix of grandeur and joylessness, the type of solitary place where bankers come to have existential breakdowns, before realising that, indeed, there is nothing left to live for.

6pm. The place was empty except for two tables of Japanese, who were probably staying at the adjoining hotel. They looked terribly bored and unimpressed, but I couldn’t work out if it was the restaurant or just because they were Japanese.

A waiter recommended that we avoid the degustation menu because the restaurant needed the table back at 8pm. “We’ll have the degustation menu then please”.

SEVEN PARK PLACE DINING ROOM

Scallop carpaccio was off, replaced by monkfish, which worked well – probably better than the scallops would have. The fish was delicate, meltingly tender, and cleverly spiced with ginger and lime. I wanted to hate it, but couldn’t. Lobster tail with cauliflower and butter is about as inventive as you can be with lobster without spoiling its unmistakeable subtle flavour and meatiness. Such thoughtful simplicity has to be admired.

The worst adjective a food critic can use is ‘nice’, but that’s the only way to describe the sea bass with artichokes and cabbage puree. Nice yet forgettable. The foie gras arrived as foie gras does, fatty and nondescript, and I just stared it for a while, like a surgeon who’d forgotten to put a piece of the patient back inside. Four dishes into a meal is not the time to serve foie gras. Its slick blubber just doesn’t sit well with the other courses, akin to chucking a tub of lard into a cement mixer. Foie gras should be served at the beginning of a meal or not at all. Still, it was unctuous and earthy, as foie gras should be.

Assiette of lamb is a contender for my dish of the year – and trust me, there aren’t many. The trio of lamb included loin, neck and tongue, each cooked to the right second and the right degree. Served sparingly and beautifully with turnip and thyme, the plate was utterly faultless.

Still reeling from the lamb, I can barely remember what cheeses were served for dessert. But cheese is cheese – I didn’t die and still have my eyesight, so go ahead and assume it was pungent and, well, cheesy.

The curtain call was roasted pineapple with coconut sorbet, which was fine for something that felt like the 1980s in my mouth. It was light and cleansing; a well-judged finale.

Seven Park Place has left me conflicted.

I don’t care for the decor, I don’t for the atmosphere, but boy do I care for that lamb.

Indeed, the degustation menu took me on a rare epicurean journey. Would I eat there again? For the lamb, yes, but then I’d probably consider committing a small crime for it too.

And at £252 for two people, I’d probably have to.

“Assiette of lamb is a contender for my dish of the year – and trust me, ” there aren’t many.

THE REVIEW 2013 57

Bermuda’s National Drink is a Little Like Her National Dance.

Unique, exciting and passed down for generations.

It’s true for our exotic Gombey dancers, who duck and twirl in practiced moves handed down since the 1700s.

And it’s true for our notorious Dark ’n Stormy® cocktail.

Made with 50 ml of Gosling’s Bermuda Black Seal Rum, twirled with Gosling’s Ginger Beer over ice, this exciting drink’s been helping Bermudians keep cool for generations.

Happily, you’ll now see it at more and more fine establishments here in the UK. And Gosling’s Black Seal at more and more spirits retailers.

But to see a Gombey in person, you’ll need to board a plane and come to Bermuda.

And would that be so bad?

Gosling’s. For Seven Stubborn Generations.

THE REVIEW 2013 3

www.goslingsrum.com We make it slowly, stubbornly. Please enjoy it slowly, responsibly. 40% ABV. Distributed exclusively in the U.K by Love Drinks Ltd, 16 a Clapham Common Southside, London, SW4 7AB Tel: 02075019630 Email: info@lovedrinks.co.uk www.lovedrinks.com

Italian Downti

TR

T R AV E L : A & K V I L L A S

ime

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There has to be a bucket list written by the gods somewhere, listing the world’s ultimate holiday destinations. If such an ethereal summation of Earth’s most breathtaking places does exist, then surely Italy’s midriff would feature highly.

Words: PETER J ROBINSON

Tuscany, the birthplace of the Italian Renaissance, gave way to Chianti, Montepulciano, Morellino di Scansano and many more. Sensing that my status as a functioning alcoholic might come into question, I suggest we move on. Tuscany would indeed be our first destination in central Italy. Having little experience with luxury villa holidays, I tend to stay ski-centric, so enlisted the help of the Abercrombie & Kent team. You’d be hard pressed to find a more prestigious luxury holiday company than Abercrombie & Kent, founded fifty years ago by Geoffrey Kent and his parents in East Africa. I’m told that the first trip was a safari that consisted of a refrigerated truck and a silver ice bucket. Well, what is a safari without

a chilled G&T to keep the mosquitoes at bay? This set the gold standard for safari travel, staying true to the brand principals of authenticity, inspiration and organisational excellence.

We were to visit two properties during our week away – spoilt, I know. Having secured a flight at stupid o’clock from Manchester airport, my long-suffering girlfriend, Tabitha, my oldest chum, Dr Paul Farrow, and his fiancée, Lucy Stott, boarded our flight to Rome. In order to board the flight, of course, you need to whittle your Tom Ford aftershave down to a dribble and remove several key organs to weigh in. We shan’t discuss our flights, other than to say, you’re better off asking the team at Abercrombie & Kent to ar-

range yours. This can be via any airline or private charter. Of course, they will always get the best price, not to mention airport transfers and luggage collection.

Arriving in Rome, I stepped onto the tarmac into a rich bath of light and warmth.

Even though it was mid-September, Italy is still a damn sight more hospitable than Blighty at that time of year.

As our first villa was a two-hour drive from the airport, we decided that hiring a car was the best way to go. Despite having a doctorate in neuroscience, Paul doesn’t possess a driving license. Lucy does, but didn’t like the idea of a left-hand drive.

Tabitha has been equally wary of a lefthand drive, ever since I convinced her to drive the new Camaro earlier this year. So,

I was clearly going to play dad.

Not exactly a chore, though, as driving through Italy bears no resemblance to the M4. We passed castles, followed by vineyards, followed by a medieval town.

It was quite special. Having not had great experiences with Europcar and Hertz, there was bound to be a local outfit that could offer a more personal service. Also one that could offer something a bit sportier than a Reno Clio or Pope Mobile (says three Hail Marys as penance).

The team at Prime Rent operate Europe wide from their offices in Milan and Monaco, and offer virtually everything, including the Ferrari 458 Spider, the Maserati GranCabrio, the Range Rover Sport, and the BMW X5. Unaware of the

terrain, we opted for an X5 diesel, which was waiting for us at the arrival lounge.

Paperwork signed and the car assessed, we jumped in and stowed our luggage for the short drive. We were no more than twenty minutes down the autostrade when Tabitha and Lucy fell fast asleep – such was the quality of my driving and the X5. A short while later, we found ourselves in Cetona, a small sleepy town about two kilometres drive from our destination. As vineyards and olive groves blended into one, we pulled onto the private track and up to our villa. The sweeping driveway rounded the beautifully kept lawn and we all clambered to the right side of the X5 to stare like backpackers in need of a good meal.

The property was beautiful: a three-bed-

room villa, designed by the daughter of the owners (an architect of some repute, we’re told). The property is part of a larger estate that sleeps fourteen in total and includes a wine cellar, tennis court, play room, two pools, relaxation room, BBQ and high-speed wireless internet. I firmly expected to be off grid for the week, so having internet access was both a curse and blessing. If, of course, you are hoping to prize your friends and family away from the plethora of mobile devices available to society, you could always just unplug it.

The property had a rustic feel, despite its relatively recent build. The central room features a large wrought iron wagon wheel converted into a table as its centrepiece. Polished concrete floors made

THE REVIEW 2013 63

the property feel warm yet homely. The heart of any gathering is undoubtedly the kitchen, and this one made a great hub. The bedrooms were equally wellappointed with soft furnishings aplenty, a bath that looked out across the grounds, and a shower fit for a Scarface scene.

Having not eaten anything since departure, we were in need of sustenance. The owners had kindly stocked the fridge with prosciutto, pancetta, serrano ham, a selection of Italian cheeses, homemade tomato salad, olives, and crucially a few bottles of wine from their bustling vineyard that surrounded the tree-lined entrance to the estate. With glasses in hand and the table in the courtyard nicely laid, we set in for a few hours of relaxation.

Despite being told it was too cold to get into the pool, the heat was starting to get the better of me, so I convinced everyone that it was time for a dip. It was arguably bracing, but in the sort of way that makes you want to lay poolside and dry off for a few hours. Hardly a chore.

By 5pm I decided that we were running low on supplies. Okay, not supplies, specifically my holiday vice: sigaretta.

Armed with the keys to the X5 and a wallet of euros, I was sure I would find what I needed in the local town of Centona.

Having driven the large 4x4 around the towns 11th century streets trying to park, we eventually completed a lap and found a place looking over the piazza. It was a beautiful town, steadily reviving the ste-

reotype of sleepy Italian doldrums. Old men sat on benches with crumpled hats and canes, and woman dressed in black pontificated about the ‘young people’.

You could imbibe the atmosphere.

Paul and I, having been stunned by its natural beauty, decided that we shouldn’t stay too long. The women folk had specifically said “Don’t see anything without us”.

I had ignored the obvious errors in syntax and multiple jokes to centre on the task of meeting the locals and educating them about the customs of Britain. It would appear, however, that I would be struck down immediately. We found a rickety cigarette machine from the 1980s, promptly inserted five euros, and then proceeded to gently rock it in the hope that it would

deliver a nicotine fix. I would like to point out that smoking is bad for your health, but I was on shore leave and taking in my guilty pleasure with deep breaths. Accepting that the cigarettes were not coming out, we realised it was because the Italians are clearly morally superior. The machine was fitted with an ID card reader. Ten points to Italy for keeping the bambinos away from death sticks.

Across the piazza were two bars – one up a side street and one in clear view with the last of the afternoon sun blazing down on it. We opted to investigate the bar that looked like it was on the side of the angels rather than the shady looking den of inequity up the back alley, surrounded by itinerant Latin traders.

We wondered why there was raucous shouting coming from the bar. The local men were indulging in their national pastime: shouting at Italian football on TV. And yes, it was a small TV on top of a fridge. And yes, they were all on small wooden chairs drinking Peroni. The stereotypes were unabated here in Cetona.

Paul informed me that some football team or another were playing. I explained that football was like watching twenty-two millionaires ruin a lawn and then fall over clutching something whilst wincing in pain. Rugby is the game to watch – and that’s all that will be said on the subject.

And seeing as I have access to a periodical of repute in which to write my opinions, I shall see to it that I’m not challenged.

(Puffs chest out, takes deep breath, folds arms, angles head upright and to the left.)

After realising that our Italian was shocking, we started the bitter process of asking the bar owner if he spoke any English, but sadly he didn’t. There was, however, a wine menu, so we ordered three bottles of well-priced red and a clutch of beers. Having paid the kind guy, I decided to go all in, now that the attention of the locals had waned and we were no longer entertainment fodder. Yes, I mimed smoking. I’m not proud of it. My Spanish and French is honestly a lot better, but unfortunately Italy is not a place I have visited often.

The barkeep clearly took pity on me and pointed across the street to the 80s cigarette machine. I countered this element

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of mime genius by pointing to my UK driving license. He nodded in agreement and began to take on a shifty nature.

He looked towards the doors and then with a raised eyebrow asked “Marlboro?”

‘Si’, I replied. And out from under the counter came a pack of beloved Malboro.

He passed them to me under a napkin. I handed him a five euro note and the Italian Job was done.

We drove back to the house toasting ourselves for conquering foreign language, both pretty pleased with ourselves. You might be thinking ‘was there not a shop in town we could have used?’ The short answer is no. The timetable for shop opening in rural Italy is comparable to that of Northern Rock. They don’t open and you have no faith that they ever will. You have a window of opportunity to access the amenities; miss it and be damned. I almost expected to see hundreds of starving locals stood clawing at the windows of the local deli. Such is the pace of life in rural Italy. Eventually it washes over you.

That night we dined on a selection of meats and pasta, accompanied by the wine from the owners’ vineyard. Heaven.

Uncharacteristically, we all found slumber before midnight, despite being in our mid to late twenties.

The following morning, we picked fresh figs and pomegranates from the trees in the garden for breakfast and decided to do a little yoga on the lawn. This sparked a very real debate about the spiritual virtues of yoga and whether women were more naturally attuned to its benefits than men.

Not being a tenured professor in such subjects, I stayed well clear. This didn’t stop everyone else diving in, though. As I sat there watching my friends debate, whilst sipping fresh orange juice and eating just-picked figs, I thought ‘why isn’t everyone doing this?’

Indeed, that’s what the real breakfast table debate should be about. The English are far too polite about taking holiday time, let alone demanding it. So much so that I know people who are forced to take their accrued holiday and spend it at home.

There aren’t enough exclamation marks.

That day we sat by the pool, relaxed, talked, ate well and generally took time to appreciate the basics in life. The food was simple but rustic, the weather was fabled, and the wine, well, the wine was herculean. The property was fit for a king. Such was its expanse that we didn’t make it into the pool house or onto the courts once.

The pool and the view over the vineyards of Tuscany were enough for any man.

The following morning we awoke early to see the sunrise over the hills. I convinced

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Tabitha that there was a perfect picture to be taken at dawn. Despite the sunrise being on Italian time and coming up almost twenty minutes later than I had researched, it was indeed beautiful. So, with that fond memory in the bank, we began the job of packing the X5, heading out of Tuscany and into the hills of Umbria.

Having opted to drive the back roads via Lake Trasimeno, I was very glad to have the BMW from PrimeRent. Without it, we would have been at the mercy of public conveyance. And whilst I’m not a transport snob, it would have eaten into our short week. The freedom to pull over at your own leisure, take in the Tuscan views and occasionally be told a restaurant isn’t open is achievable with PrimeRent.

We were to meet Thomas, an animated German, that afternoon at a local hotel lobby. He would shepherd us to our next villa in the hills. Thomas instantly won my respect when I realised he was driving a

That night we dined on a selection of meats and pasta, accompanied by the wine from the owners’ vineyard. Heaven.

Defender. It also made me realise that our next destination might be more remote than the last. Not necessarily a bad thing.

Having driven for 15 minutes down a remote track overlooking the hills, we found ourselves at a large set of automatic iron gates. Driving up a private path, the hilltop farmhouse came into view. It was quite the plot. We ascended the 1:4 hill in the BMW and eventually found ourselves on a film set. The views were grand and imposing. It was later that week we realised the hills could really carry a sound, so an aquaria language barrier was erected across 30km.

Thomas later told us that Villa Serena was actually used as a filming location once.

The property was set in 117 acres and the balcony looked out toward a 12th century Umbrian fortress atop the next plateau.

Romantic doesn’t come close to it. The chandeliers, beautiful baroque furniture and fixtures and fittings were picked with

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a clear style idea in mind. Someone had serious focus and attention to detail. The property sleeps eight and the ground floor consisted of three reception rooms that made for a captivating split-levelled entrance. Not forgetting a charming farmhouse kitchen, library, TV room, dining room and downstairs shower. The master bedroom was really something special, complete with its own entrance, dressing room and en-suite, with a Victorian bath boasting a view of the hills. Outside there was the terrace, a dining veranda and of course a huge pool area.

The scenic drive had turned out to be a few hours more than the direct route, so by arrival time the guys were in need of a good meal. The dish was to be bread, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, meat and cheese.

Oh, and wine. Definitely wine. As we sat by the pool, music turned up (given that the nearest neighbours were 2km away), all our earthly worries seemed to drain away.

As the sun went down, the discussion returned to food. We decided that gnocchi was the order of the day, accompanied by fagioli beans, and served on the terrace

dining table, with ample light provided by the house’s churchyard of candles. Had it been colder weather, I would have also relished the chance to light one of the house’s open fires. I imagine this property is as picturesque snow-laden as it is sundrenched.

We sat, we ate, we drank, and we put the world to rights. Total mental relaxation.

Early evening turned to night and we decided to move indoors for a game of Articulate. We were showing our age playing board games at night, but the reality is, it was far from a refined game. Or at least

the way we played it. The night whiled away with laughter, a few heated debates and several bottles of great wine.

I am not a bath person. I was raised in the sort of house that had a bath only until the mid 90s, so I don’t appreciate sitting in lukewarm water. However, the villa boasts a Victorian roll top bath that was not to be missed. My night’s sleep – in a bed that I can only imagine is a few hundred years older than – was joyous.

As the sun rose over the mountains the next morning, we got up only to lounge by the pool until mid-afternoon. This was

followed by a trip to Montone, a medieval town, a short 15-minute drive up the hill.

Once again, our efforts to secure food at any time of the day were dashed, so we happily drove back to the villa to prepare a feast. I donned my apron to prepare my only dish of the trip: garlic sausage on the barbecue.

As we filled the table with food, lit candles and poured wine, I got a sense we were returning to the great and good of what a holiday should be: good food, great friends, and a breathtaking place to lay ones head.

TR

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AU T O M O T I V E : AU S T I N H E A L E Y 3 0 0 0

Big Healey The

My understanding of the classic car world could be described as entry level at best. It begins with the classing system. I assume that if it comes with colour-coordinated driving gloves and requires a checklist to start it, you can class it as a classic. Apparently not. Antique means it was built somewhere between 1880 and 1930. The pre-war, war and post-war classifications speak for themselves. Then we have classic from the late-50s to mid-80s. Having probably given one era too many years, I fully expect the Bristol owners club to organise a very slow picket outside my apartment, ending with a drive for scones somewhere.

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Ok, let’s give the idea that classic cars are tweedy a backseat for a second. If I asked you to choose between a 2013 Jaguar XKR convertible and a 1963 E-Type, any sane person would opt for the E-Type, a marque which is regarded as the world’s most aesthetically pleasing car.

Classic, or ‘retro’ for the hipster-brigade, is cool. Very, very cool. Sadly I don’t have the garage space or the readies to catapult myself into the classic car fraternity by purchasing a piece of motoring history. What I do know is that Britain used to be the head of the class when it came to motoring ecstasy.

Aston Martin, Bentley, Jaguar, Land Rover, McLaren, Morgan, Rolls Royce – the list goes on. In 1937, Britain provided 15 percent of the world’s vehicle exports. By 1950, we produced 50 percent. Now, do you suppose that’s because of our general cheery disposition and ability to sell to our colonies, or because we made bloody good cars?

Given my inability to purchase a marque, I spent some weeks trying to find a hire company that offered classic car hire to the average Joe. I assumed that I wouldn’t need to prove that I attended public school and had previous motoring prowess. For those

of you that ask me on a semi-regular basis, no, I didn’t go to a public school, this is just how words sound when they are pronounced properly. The French enjoy the vowels so much, sometimes they give them a little hat.

Use the vowels, people.

The lack of a personal recommendation for a classic car hire firm resulted in the most basic of searches: Google, sadly. The more the digital era takes grip, the less I am able to secure a personal word-of-mouth recommendation from a confidant. Perhaps, however, this time, I would be the person to seek out a reputable firm and become the introducer.

Based in Warwickshire, between Stratford upon Avon and Warwick, The Open Road Classic Car Hire has been making the best and brightest of our automotive past available since 1997. As one of the longest established classic car hire companies in the country, it had the sort of pedigree that The Review covets. The possibilities are endless – weddings, birthdays, family reunions – and I am not talking about hiring for the bride, groom, or person of celebration. Rather arriving yourself in effortless style.

‘Head-turning’ takes on a new meaning when driving a piece of automotive history. Given

that classic cars are now thought of as a sound investment opportunity, it also makes sense to consider hiring a marque before you part with a queen’s ransom.

I gave my choice ample consideration: The Open Road has a Ford Mustang Fastback and Convertible, E-Type, MGB Roadster, Morris Minor Convertible Saloon and Traveller, Triumph Stag and TR6 and Caterham Super 7. It also has modern classics like the Porsche 911, Aston Martin DB7 and Jaguar XK8. With limited knowledge of the market, I engaged the input from Oliver Smith, our motoring editor. One word came back over email: Healey.

The Austin Healey 3000 is indeed a British marque, built between 1958 and 67, and is the best known of the ‘big’ Healey models.

The slimline bodywork was made by Jensen Motors and then assembled at the BMC Abingdon works. Yes, in Britain. The car was built and assembled in Britain. That alone should have you hankering for a drive.

Our model was a 1963 Austin Healey 3000 MKIIA sports convertible in sapphire blue over silver grey. The interior was in light blue leather with contrast dark blue piping and dark blue carpets. It was a vision. Classic car

motoring needn’t be a throwback to the dark ages. The hood is erectable in seconds rather than minutes and it comes complete with wind-up windows. You won’t need a heater; the engine block keeps you toasty warm, especially in the passenger seat.

This model Healey is particularly rare, as it is one of only 455 right-hand drive BJ7 models built for the UK market. You are most definitely in good company with this Healy, having been used in a Crew Clothing shoot in 2006, and a write up in Classics Monthly. The day rate for the Healey is £295, and seven-day hire is £1475.

As I drove up to meet Tony, the master of ceremonies, at The Open Road, I had a feeling of trepidation and excitement. My driving experience of classics is an Allard M1 and a Jaguar XK140. These, however, were a few hours here and there. It wasn’t like I had lived with a marque for a prolonged period of time. I was driving up in the office pool car, my least favourite car, and one that doesn’t warrant mentioning the name of. “What would he think?” I thought to myself. Surely I would be expected to arrive with a transporter of classic cars, just to prove I had the lineage. No, not at all. The Open Road is there to provide you

with an experience available to all who want it. You don’t need any special paperwork, or knowledge of the history of the combustion engine, just a desire to drive a classic.

I made it clear to Tony that my knowledge of driving classics was limited, so he took the time to carefully explain the starting procedures and what each of the 70s-style switches controlled. The Healey is a car built for a generation of drivers that were taught to drive a vehicle, manage engine and gear control, and understand how to not get blindsided, not answer a list of benign questions and reverse park in a cul-de-sac. There were therefore some basics, such as how to manage the gears, as the Healy has no synchromesh in first. This means that the goal of approaching a roundabout or lights is to allow the car to roll in second, rather than coming to a complete stop.

I was always taught by my uncle John that a good driver should anticipate the road conditions and traffic and should not need to brake sharply or come to a complete halt, unless completely necessarily. Even my grandmother proudly informed me that she could double declutch. “Instead of pushing the clutch in once and shifting directly

into another gear,” she said “the driver first engages the transmission in neutral before shifting to the next gear. The clutch is pressed and released with each change”. I looked at her blankly for a moment before nodding, completely perplexed.

It isn’t really that hard, but the Healy also has enough torque to pull away from a slow roll in second.

Having taken a sterling short course from Tony, covering clutching, engine management, switches, oil pressure, indicating, and putting the roof up, I was ready for the Open Road. Don’t recoil at the prospect of driving a classic; once you understand the controls, it is like driving anything. It just takes a good teacher – like Tony.

The following week was like a motoring renaissance for me. I drove the Healy to The Court House Manor in the Cotswolds for a weekend of fishing and shooting, and the sheer power of the classic car must be seen to be believed. I genuinely could have talked my way through the gates of any country club or into the arms of any female that happened upon me and the Healy.

Driving a classic car has obvious charm, but with the sun beating down, the roof off and

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the open road ahead, it has become one of life’s pleasures for me. One of the unspoken rules that you will miss: British classic car drivers come out on the weekend, so many people will throw you a gesture in their cars as they pass. Nod back or wave; they don’t know it isn’t yours. Also, people will approach you at the petrol pump, in the street, and anywhere else you arrive with the Healy.

They will ask you about the car. If you want to play it off as your own, hope they are not enthusiasts. Some people asked me questions I knew the answers to from Tony’s brief sheet.

Some asked me questions that only the chief engineer that designed the marque would know. My advice: avail yourself of the truth quickly and explain that the car is hired and that they too can loan the vehicle from the chaps at The Open Road.

The experience was so much fun. We are already considering which marque to hire next time.

Here are some golden rules. The experience of driving and running a classic is not to be missed. Take the time to drive her somewhere in old England, though – you will appreciate a classic against a period backdrop. If the sun is out, the roof is down – no exceptions. You can cut into traffic without the fear of a horn being beeped. If someone decides to pull out in front of you on a stretch of motorway, take it with good grace – they are appreciating the car. Take the time to check the tyres and oil pressure before leaving and make sure you warm her up for a bit first. Finally, invest in some good driving gloves and sunglasses – the car makes an effortless impression and deserves to have you return the favour.

TR

The open road www.theopenroad.co.uk 0845 070 5142

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.BLT. The formidably styled and fiercely sartorial, Lord of the Trad clan, David The formidably styled andThis fiercely sartorial, of Fox the Trad clan, David Minns. issue, DavidLord visits Brothers & Co.Minns. This issue, David talks about his man crush on Sir Michael Caine.

Pictures: MANY Photography: MANY

FOOD : EBRINGTON ARMS

A friend recently introduced me to the new owners of Fox Brothers & Co., the last remaining cloth mill in the south west of England. Accepting an invitation to visit the showroom at their mill in Wellington, Somerset (given that I live just an hour away in Bristol), I was keen to learn more of Fox’s provenance.

The mill itself is no longer in its original location, but driving through the country lanes en route, one can see the original Georgian red-brick buildings in the distance – and how majestic they are too.

Fox once employed 5000 staff. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the company employed Wellington, as it was, at the time, the largest employer in the area – not dissimilar to Clarks, also in Somerset, whose shoe empire built the village of Street. a Before I’d even entered the reception of the mill, I could hear the clatter-clatter of some original looms, weaving some of the finest cloths in the world. To the front of the mill is tailor Brian Smith’s workshop. Brian was master cutter for Huntsman for many years, but now works his sartorial magic in the surroundings of this mill, which he is very familiar with (tailor’s nirvana?). And there, in the window of Brian’s workshop, was the cloth that had eluded me my entire tailoring career: the Prince of Wales check flannel. Its mix of autumnal-coloured yarns, ever pleasing to the eye, almost brought a tear to mine.

And the PoW is not the only true British classic that Fox Brothers produce, as their archives proved. To say I was in my element, perusing the tomes of cloths produced over the past hundred or so years, would be putting it mildly. The selection of wonderful worsteds and flannels (for which Fox are renowned) seemed endless, yet so of the moment. It is encouraging to see a business, founded in 1772, not only flourishing and upholding such timehonoured tradition, but also being so relevant to modern style.

Of course, suits are currently enjoying something of a renaissance, and have been for a number of years, but there’s nothing quite like following in the footsteps of some of our greatest sartorial icons. Here are just some of Fox’s discerning and well-known patrons.

Cary Grant: Bristolian, Hollywood icon and greatest sartorial inspiration of The BLT’s patrons. Grant favoured Fox’s plain worsteds. Picture Grant and you envisage Fox Brothers cloth.

Sir Winston Churchill: esteemed prime minister, political heavyweight and cigar aficionado, Churchill favoured Fox’s chalk stripe flannel cloth. Churchillphiles can not only partake in smoking Churchill’s eponymous cigars, but also acquire his favoured chalk stripe cloth, for use in their very own version of his classic three piece suit.

The Duke of Windsor: king, sartorial hero of mine, and once bearer of the title HRH Prince of Wales. Edward VIlI may not have been the namesake of this beloved cloth, but he certainly did much to promote it. So, whether you are a renaissance man (like me) or simply a classic dresser, there is surely nothing more hallowed than sporting a suit made of cloth of such provenance.

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T R AV E L : C O R N WA L L

St Clements – Magic in Mousehole Words: DANNY WATERMAN

PORTHCURNO

Cornwall is characterised by its breathtaking coastline, featuring over 300 miles of dunes and cliffs, old school harbours and woodland creeks. Perhaps Cornwall’s most enchanting getaway, however, is littleknown Mousehole – a fishing-port village, located two miles south of Penzance.

Tiny villages such as these stay true to the history and preservation of Cornwall. Generational estate owners refuse to sell out to developers or profit from growing tourism.

This steadfast attitude means Mousehole remains unspoilt, making a perfect family or romantic retreat.

We’re staying at St Clements, a recentlyrenovated apartment, boasting a panoramic view of the harbour, Mounts Bay and the Lizard peninsula. It’s utterly beautiful – and the apartment is no different. This unique space, situated in a grade-two listed building (the former Lobster Pot Hotel), has been deftly reimagined, updating the property for the modern vacationer.

Speaking of which, the apartment features a variety of mod-cons, ideal for keeping the family entertained, having a quiet night in, or even getting some work done: broadband, 40-inch flat screen TV with freeview, and DVD player with surround sound.

My favourite part of the property was definitely the open-plan kitchen, lounge and dining room. Despite its modern sensibilities, this space oozes comfort and warmth – unlike many sterile, characterless holiday homes in other coastal towns. Cream sofas complement the soft walls and French oak floors, and there is even a fireplace for those snug nights in.

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The kitchen is fitted with oak units and an electric oven, fridge freezer, dishwasher and utensils – fully kitted for preparing breakfast and dinner, to be eaten whilst absorbing the magnificent views. The recent refurb’ is outstanding, keeping in taste with the apartment’s vastness and historicism. This kitchen is just what any discerning traveller needs: it’s light, airy and spacious, perfect for cooking or for lazing.

However, most will find it too tempting to not explore Mousehole. Saunter for two minutes along the seawall and you’ll find the village centre, with a good selection of restaurants, pubs, shops, galleries and cafes. Be sure to stop at the Cornish Range Seafood Restaurant. We ordered mussels; crispy monkfish with tempura scallops and prawns; Cornish fillet steak; and lemon sole. It was a truly memorable meal – and

the locals are relentlessly welcoming.

Back to the apartment. The property has two bedrooms: the first featuring a king– size bed with teeming views over the bay.

“the locals are relentlessly welcoming” The en-suite has a freestanding bath and shower cubicle with power shower. The second bedroom features twin beds, which can easily be pushed together to make a double, as well as a bath and shower in the

en-suite.

St Clements is a faithful reflection of Mousehole, retaining a sense of history, charm and bottomless character. Holiday homes can make or break a vacation – pick this apartment and rest assured, you’ll want to relive this holiday again and again.

West Cornwall Cottage Holidays have a range of self-catering accommodation to suit all visitors, budgets and lifestyles. Although their portfolio of properties is first class, St Clements is part of a very special collection made up of a limited number of exclusive and unique rental properties. Along with St Clements - St Clements Cottage, Seagulls, Chy Ryn, and Beachcomber also feature within their higher end portfolio, so if St Clements is booked when you enquire about staying, do ask about vacancies in one of these other properties.

TR

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T R AV E L : PA I N S W I C K C O U R T

Court House

Manor

As I hopped into the Austin Healy 3000, to drive to the Cotswolds on a sunny Friday afternoon, I didn’t really know what to expect – except for the faint waft of Farrow & Ball paint and more limestone than you can shake a stick at.

I followed Smith, our motoring editor, up in his XK140, weaving our way through the rush hour traffic, as if we were holding a special classic car pass. Either that or the five o’clock commuters were too fearful of the insurance bill to fix the classics we were driving that day.

As we headed up the M5, on our way to Painswick Court (known as the Court House Manor), I wondered if we would make it before nightfall, as I can’t say I relished the idea of driving the Healy around the small winding roads of Painswick.

I knew little of the Cotswolds, other than it was famed for its wool in the middle ages, which led to many wealthy merchants investing in sizeable piles and hoarding much of the local limestone.

There are indeed some impressive properties in the region and some big name converts. Kate Moss, J K Rowling and Hugh Grant are but a handful of the British names in the area. The Cotswolds is what I imagine most Americans consider to be traditional England. Golden limestone meets sash windows in a chocolate box melting pot.

We were en route to a property described by Abercrombie & Kent as “the Queen of the Cotswolds”. The Court House is a Grade 1 building, re-built into its current guise in 1604 for Thomas Gardener.

During the Civil War, King Charles I and his army passed through the parish of Painswick on 9-10 August 1643 before laying siege to Gloucester, and on 5-6 September on their return. On 10 August, he issued a proclamation from his Court at Payneswicke ordering his soldiers not to molest, rob or spoil any people bringing victuals of any kind to his camp before Gloucester on pain of death. It is said that the ghost of King Charles and his men can be seen walking the grounds. Even this possible encounter with an apparition from beyond the grave didn’t stop The Court House Manor being one of the warmest and most welcoming places I have ever been. The property is steeped in history, from the hidden staircase to the 16th century fireplace and the bullet marks on the front door. We presume musket fire and not hand gun. The property

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sleeps up to 14 and is part of Abercrombie & Kent’s Cotswold Collection. Such is the demand for the quaint areas rural retreats that it seemed appropriate for A&K to start supplying the best in show.

Our hosts for the weekend were the resplendent owner and her son who, being around our age, became one of the rat pack with little effort. Returning the property to its former glory whilst maintaining its sense of character and period features has clearly taken a lot of time and patience. The main rooms in the house, like the drawing room, dining koom and King Charles suite, clearly show attention to detail.

The manor is set in four acres of landscaped gardens and boasts sun terraces, a pool house, fire pit, BBQ and outdoor jacuzzi.

This property was built for entertaining. I could see myself spending a family gather-

ing or Christmas break here in fine comfort.

The property is sprawling. Fear losing your keys or phone – you may never find them. As we strolled through the gardens with the sun beating down, G&T in hand and the Healy and the Jag in the drive, it seemed a million miles away from daily life.

It usually takes me a few days to settle into any form of holiday, so weekend breaks for me tend to be activity-based, otherwise I walk around like a cellular drone sending e-mails. The manor put me into a strangely relaxed mood, though. Maybe it was the furnishings and decor, maybe it was the company and the stiff drink, or maybe a heady mix of all three. By 7:30pm we had toured the property, changed for dinner and found ourselves having a quick glass of Laphroaig before wandering over to the Falcon Inn for a spot of dinner.

If you hadn’t remembered to bring your Belstaff or Barbour, the manor kindly has quilted jackets for guests – very thoughtful.

Over a dinner of fantastic wine and country fare, we discussed the local area and found out what each guest was doing that weekend. Cookery schools, walks, talks, polo, it all sounded very quaint.

“And what do you have planned for tomorrow, may I ask?” enquired one of the guests.

“Oh, a spot of fly fishing and then shooting at the Ian Coley shooting school,” I replied.

Silence. Envy is a bitter soup.

Several glasses of wine later and the discussion turned to whether or not anyone had the ‘minerals’ to hop in the hot-tub that night. Well, we were certainly stocious enough. So, without much encouragement, if any, we were in. To be exact, the gentlemen of the group were in, the ladies were,

“And what do you have planned for tomorrow, may I ask?” enquired one of the guests.

“Oh, a spot of fly fishing and then shooting at the Ian Coley shooting school,” I replied. Silence. Envy is a bitter soup.

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well, ladies, and certainly didn’t envisage an evening ending in the drink. Take either meaning as you wish.

Having laid back and relaxed for half an hour in a quiet, gentlemanly fashion, I decided it was time at the bar, before the crème de menthe, the last remaining vessel, came into play.

The following morning, feeling a little jaded, we were met by fresh coffee and pastries. It is at times like these that a large black coffee and dark sunglasses are perfectly acceptable. As an early riser, I parked the Healy at the back of the property for some photos. That engine could wake the dead, so god knows how everyone managed to retain their slumber.

Having collected our wicker picnic baskets and loaded up the Healy, we headed off into the beautiful Cotswold morning. With

the roof down and the wind in my face, the little Healy was a joy to drive, especially as Smith had decided to hop in with me (his constitution couldn’t take driving just yet) and school me on the correct procedures for driving a classic car.

We arrived in the village an hour later and strolled over to the fish farm. It was less skilled than I had imagined. My early memories of fishing are poaching at a salmon farm with a family friend and at a stag do a long, long time ago. The stag do was actually rather good. This was more shooting fish in a barrel. Having spent all of ten minutes trying to catch something in the standard river with our fixed rods, we agreed to try the well-stocked ponds. This involved dangling the bait and waiting all of five seconds. The hard part was actually working out which fish we had hooked and

catching it in the net. Despite my support for countryside pursuits, I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of each fish that wriggled off the line and got away. With six easilycaught fish in twenty minutes, they were gutted, ice packed and we were on our way.

Having spent the morning beating fish to death on camera, we decided it was time for hair of the dog. The choice was either to arrive at the shoot smelling like Dean Martin, or arrive and be unable to hold the gun on account of the slight hangover. Bloody Marys all round and we were back on top.

Ian Coley is a British gold medal winner and trained the current Olympic team. We were in good hands. Our instructor, Gary Wood, was a king among men. The comparisons he used to describe how to safely hold a shot gun were inspired (but for an audience of gentlemen only). I didn’t re-

alise there were so many options when it came to clays. Arguably it wants a terrorist training camp. Things were kept safe at all times, but my god, what a hell of a lot of fun it was.

Immediately afterwards, we went ram raiding at the local Boots. I jest. The instructors were great and really had our form down in a matter of hours. An adult course of six lessons costs £325 with an introductory hour course at £65. We also got to be children and keep the official shooting school caps we were issued. I think it will serve me well next time I stray from Clifton into St Pauls.

Dinner that night was prepared by the owner of Made by Bob and head chef, Bob Parkinson. My kind of guy: down to earth and a good vein of eccentricity. You have to be slightly offbeat and masochistic to open a restaurant of any kind, but Made By

Bob at the Corn Hall in Cirencester has a reputation as being pretty bloody great. It’s obviously successful.

The food that night was rich and heartwarming, and whilst I would love to pontificate on the virtues of the beef and the cheeseboard, I think you should go to the manor and have Bob and his team cook for you every night. Or of course, head to his place in Cirencester. We will, fingers crossed, have a proper conversation with Bob in our Christmas issue.

If the canapés were anything to go by, this was going to be a pretty exceptional meal.

The formal dining table was laid, suits were pressed and dresses steamed. We were approaching murder mystery territory. What a setting.

Conversation flowed, the fire roared and friendships were strengthened, as we

whiled away the evening. Something firmly missing in British society today is the use of the humble dining table as evening routine – an occasion where conversation is given a chance to form, debates are made and laughter is heard.

Court House Manor was quite spectacular, not only for the sublime surroundings, but for the people. Taking time away from the daily grind to reconnect with family and friends is a must in life. You don’t need to take a flight when you have areas of outstanding natural beauty in your back garden. The property and its cavernous listed rooms were exquisitely appointed, truly welcoming and effortlessly regal, easily earning the title of ‘Queen of the Cotswolds’.

TR

THE REVIEW 2013 95

The Lancaster Words: PETER ROBINSON

Do you remember 1966? Can you tell me one thing that happened that year that doesn’t involve words, football or Germany? Labour won the election, that’s about all I can remember and I wasn’t even born. I’m pretty sure my mother was still an infant.

It is also the year that TP Bennett Architects completed an eighteen-story office block opposite Hyde Park. There is nothing that makes English Heritage want to attach a blue plaque more than precast concrete. Fear not, the errors of their ways were quickly swept away courtesy of Eric Parry Architects in 1998 with a £13.7 million pound renovation that would see the eighteen-story block transformed to today’s shining glory.

The Royal Lancaster Hotel holds an envious position on the north side of Hyde Park, offering its guests unfettered views across London’s open space and skyline. If you’re staying at the Lancaster, opt for something on the upper floors and with a decent view.

You made the effort to pack a case and travel to the hotel, so make the effort to secure the best room the hotel has to offer.

We arrived and parked in the hotel’s bijou car park, a few floors above the bustling London streets and Lancaster Gate tube station. That is about as convenient as it gets. As we took the lift down to reception, I recall being impressed by the art deco features in the hotel.

It had a distinctly glamorous 40s edge. The sprawling reception area was reminiscent of the Trump in SoHo, an equally impressive ‘lobby’. Having checked in we ascended the seventeen-or-so floors to our executive club room, with a vast view of West London and a bed that would no doubt take a fullback.

We settled into the room and took in the view over a few hours, stopping only to admire the marble and gold-adorned bathroom. The room came with all the standard amenities one expects from a modern London hotel: wifi, flat screen, air-conditioning, safe, power shower. But one particular item caught my eye: the eLite hairdryer, a remnant object of a bygone era. Imagine a vacuum cleaner tube

on a large white box, fixed to blow out warm air – voila. Arguably it is a little more technically advanced than that, but if you are going to refurbish a hotel with modern amenities, perhaps revoke the 80s hairdryers. Although, that being said, today’s modern woman and metro man probably carry their own.

Having spent a few hours running around London, we decided to venture back to the hotel to change into our finery for dinner in the Nipa Thai restaurant. When we arrived , I felt appropriately dressed in a David Minns black three piece suit with white opencollared shirt. There was a large group of phillies immediately on our left upon arrival, having a very polite dinner. All dressed well.

Sometime later that night, they would leave, giving way to a mixed bag of diners, wearing everything from flip flops to suits. Thus is the reality of eating in any restaurant without a dress code. Don’t let my elitist propensity lead you, though. We were greeted by the restaurant manager who escorted us to the top table at the head of the restaurant.

We didn’t need to see a wine list; I had been told about the restaurant’s Thai wine and so opted for a bottle of whatever the restaurant manager recommended. To be honest, when eating anything high in spice, I tend to forgo wine, as the dish is usually too overpowering. In this instance it was a worthy pairing, though. Like a smooth Bordeaux, only velvety.

We ordered the selection of the chef’s Thai starters: Tom Yum Koong soup, Keaw Nam Koong, Kaeng Kiew Warn Kai and Phad Kiew Warn Pla. I assume all of you speak the native tongue? No? Well, that’s prawn dumpling soup, chicken and aubergine curry and sea bass in green curry sauce. It was as good as it sounded.

Having eaten Thai food before, I knew what I wanted, but felt it appropriate to ask one of the geisha-grade waitresses what she felt we should order. She suggested that it would be right to order a starter, soup, salad, then curry dish. This quickly turned into a four course meal. Thank goodness the hotel was above us.

Sometime later, it felt a lot like we were in a time-lapse video. People would come, dine and disappear back into the hotel’s bar. We soaked up the atmosphere; the restaurant is beautifully decorated and it should be no surprise that it has earned two AA Rosettes for its precise and authentic cooking. It also holds the Thai Select award from the Thai Government for restaurants proven to have achieved the highest standards of quality and cuisine. I expect our delayed departure has as much to do with finding our way through four courses.

At the end of the meal, when all was cleared away, I decided that there might be room for the ice cream tod. This translates as ‘ice cream, deep fried’. I won’t ruin the surprise of how they do it; you should see for yourself.

But it was immense. No wonder sales of deep fried Mars bars are so high north of the border.

Having enjoyed the warmth of the staff and the fine Thai food, it was time to retire, including a quick pit-stop to quaff some Taittenger at the hotel bar. When we finally reached the hotel room, after a lengthy sabbatical in the bar, there was little brain power to do more than stare at the lights across West London.

It was also at that moment we realised that London’s historic double-decker buses aren’t red on the roof!

The Lancaster deserves your custom for the lights of the city alone.

TR

T R AV E L : T H E L A N C A S T E R

high above the smoke

lunch at nipa

NIPa thai

THE REVIEW 2013 97

500c

M O T O R I N G : F I AT 5 0 0 c

I grew up knowing the Fiat brand as the 2000-model Punto. It was a friend’s first car, and not one that exactly filled me with any discernible passion. But at least it wasn’t a Panda. Fiat is a cool brand, though, embodied by the idea of creating the Italian ‘people’s car’. So, when our motoring editor, Oliver Smith, asked me to review the new Fiat 500c I thought I could stack it up against previous reviews. He knows the last car I tested was the Camaro, so this seemed to be a giant stride across the masculine-feminine divide.

A girl-about-town mobile arrived in newage cream. It didn’t enamour me, I will be honest. It struck me as being about as masculine as a hair band. My preconceptions of the vehicle’s styling are based on a deep family obsession with cars and our family all owning a Cortina or Capri at some point. When you grow up and have only the styling prowess of the 80s Ford range to admire, you balk at the sight of anything that doesn’t resemble a breeze block.

The 500c sat in the courtyard until about 8pm that night, whilst me and the team worked late. I stood up from my desk and decided that it was time for a spin.

Our model was the twin air turbo engine marque, with 85 break horse power and a kerb weight of 970kg.

This power-to-weight ratio was a revelation. Driving the 500c was like kicking a small, well-groomed poodle in the behind and watching it fly off like an angry Italian being woken at 2pm to run the family shop. It was more fun to drive than I can describe. I drove around for a good two hours entertaining myself.

As air fills the engine, you can feel the compression under your feet as

the little car jets down the road. Had I enjoyed it anymore, I certainly could have spent some time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. After testing the acceptable speed levels of town driving for an hour, I decided to pop the 500c’s roof down to see how it felt open-topped. Is there any shame in driving open-topped at night? I simply didn’t care. As the car retains its structural integrity and shape, there is no handling loss. With some convertibles, you are left looking like a smug prat in traffic, even in the hint of sunshine. In the 500c, however, no one from the front or sides can really tell that you’ve taken your canvas top off.

Of course, as the roof drops down at the back, it’s clear to those behind you. But then, they’re behind you, which means you overtook them once already, so who cares. Oh, and did I mention it can be opened at speeds of 60mph.

The car arrived with a full 35 litre engine and on most of our auto reviews, we expect to keep the oil cartels in business.

The 500c, however, despite driving it all week, wasn’t filled up once. I pondered calling the office at one point to make sure the fuel gauge wasn’t on the fritz.

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The 500c has a combined mpg of 70.6. The average fuel cost for 12,000 miles is a mere £1076 or £0.09 per mile. The numbers are astounding for a car this fun to drive. The little Fiat makes it up to 60 in 11 seconds. If you think that seems on the slow side, you should try one. It feels a hell of a lot faster when you’re in the saddle. You could of course opt for the Abarth model or the multi jet engine, giving an extra 10 horsepower.

When my week with the 500c was almost over, I sat down at the laptop to look at the

actual prospect of dusting off my wallet and investing. The sheer amount of customisation options boggles the mind – from the obvious colour choices to the cover on the key. Masculine, feminine, sporty, retro, the 500c is the best kind of everyman.

The pop culture interior was well-styled, and I particularly liked the Sun-reading, transit van style of gearstick. I challenge you to not drive the 500c like a racer. It drives like a bigger car; it feels solid with body motions that are well controlled and a suspension

with a firm character. The five-speed manual transmission felt good and operated cleanly for a cable-actuated system.

For a mere £14,560, the 500c is a steal. What you’re really investing in is not just bags of pedigree, but a car that is more fun to drive around town than anything I have encountered. I drive angry and I enjoy driving angry.

But there was some part of me that melted in the 500c. It’s a rare little beauty with style and substance, and should I find myself in the market next year, it is firmly on my list.

TR

THE REVIEW 2013 101

Living MRKH Earlier this quarter, The Review gave its full backing to an organisation called Living MRKH. They approached us, as many do, and asked if we would be interested in running an event with them in aid of MRKH suffers.

Well, at The Review, we’re always happy to don a tux or three-piece for a worthy cause, so the glad-rags were ironed and sponsors selected for this unique event.

Living MRKH is an organisation set up by Tabitha Pang to help progress the knowledge of Mayer Rokitansky Kuster Hauser Syndrome (MRKH): the absence of a uterus, affecting 1 in 5000 women. It is known as a syndrome, as there are symptoms which can affect other parts of the body, categorising two types of MRKH. One is associated with the complete or partial absence of the cervix, uterus and vagina. The other can affect kidney development, hearing, and skeletal growth.

The organisation’s main aims are to privately fund surrogacy and adoption journeys, along with efforts to change the UK law to accommodate surrogacy in MRKH cases.

This was to be a small and intimate affair for the magazine’s top tier, so we needed somewhere private. The team at MRKH opted for the private wine cellar of The Rummer Hotel in Bristol’s historic St. Nicks Market.

The head chef created a Cuban-themed menu, including crab bollitos, white gazpacho and black olive soup, sea bass escabesche, slow

C AU S E : L I V I N G M R K H

roast shoulder of pork with cuban mango mojo, and finishing with a seleccion de postres cubanos crema de vie ice cream, caramelised pineapple, churros, rum and anise.

Yes, it was a beautifully-appointed meal, and our thanks go to the team at The Rummer Hotel for their help and support. Drinks that night were provided by Goslings Family Reserve, the creator of the dark and stormy, who kindly donated a case of rum to lubricate

proceedings. Cocktails all round.

During the meal a silent auction was held with gifts donated by Gillian Anderson Price, an expert antique dealer who features on Discovery’s ‘Dealers’.

Alpina watches of Geneva kindly donated a fabulous timepiece from their new diver collection.

Victor Jet kindly donated air travel to any EU destination.

The night was a fabulous success, raising thousands for MRKH. This year sees Living MRKH launch its very own products, using a signature fragrance of calla lilly in the candle, perfume and cologne ranges. Not only will these products help increase awareness of MRKH, but they are designed to say ‘Thank You’ for supporting the women and families affected by this syndrome.

TR

THE REVIEW 2013 105

Move over Sunday roast, all day brunch is where it’s at.

Words: AMY McNICHOL It wasn’t until I moved to London that I really, fully ‘got’ the magic of a damn good brunch. It’s not a snobbery thing. It’s not because I’m deluded and under the impression that The Smoke is the only city in the UK to cater for difficult group of clientele, the ones who wake too late for breakfast, but who cannot wait for lunch. I put it down to a life stage thing, and I reached this particular one when I moved to the capital. A love of brunch comes with age.

It creeps on to one’s radar when one begins to refuse the last four tequila shots on a Saturday night. Consequently, one starts to wave b’bye to the day-long, self pitying groaning from the depths of one’s curry sauce-stained pit, the day after the night before. When one is able to forage further than the cold crusts of pizza on the kitchen worktop, that is when brunch comes in to play.

Sure, you haven’t waved goodbye to hangovers completely, just the majority of incapacitating ones that once occurred on a weekly basis. Leaving the house seems manageable, and so does being sociable. Oh, hello there, Maturity, seems like you could do with a spot of brunch!

From the sweet to the savoury, from the classics to the down right seductively experimental, here is my pick of the best spots to brunch.

Best for....Mexican

The Breakfast Club, various venues, London The Breakfast Club serves up top quality brekky. Seems obvious, but the name actually comes from the owners being enormous John Hughes fans. These guys are due to open their sixth venue very soon, and it’s high time, judging by the queues spewing out of the existing ones. Just as Mexicans do, The

Breakfast Club know how to go large for the first meal of the day. Their breakfast burritos are stuffed full of chorizo, scrambled egg, roasted peppers, mushrooms, guacamole, cheddar and a spicy pepper sauce. Also on offer is huevos rancheros; a tortilla with melted cheddar, fried eggs, refried beans, chorizo, salsa, sour cream and guacamole. While you wait for your grub, add to the hectic wall space by scribbling details of your hungover state on a napkin and pinning it next to the Polaroid snaps up there already.

Best for.....ethical and seasonal produce The Reliance, North Street, Leeds The clever chefs at The Reliance make all of their charcuterie products using traditional techniques and well pondered recipes. The kitchen boasts a bespoke curing room and they source the pork (whether it be for charcuterie or fry up purposes) from just up the road in Thirsk in North Yorkshire. Go the full whack and dig in to a Reli Breakfast of eggs, sausage, smoked streaky bacon, baked beans, roast tomatoes, mushrooms and homemade black pudding. Take your time here. The staff are friendly and add to the whole laid back atmosphere.

Best for.......veggies

Barossa, New Kings Road, Fulham Although Barossa aren’t a veggie-only place, their non-meat options are divine. There’s the classic smashed avocado, tomatoes and feta on toast or the more unusual toasted banana bread with blueberry compote and vanilla mascarpone. Without a tedious quorn sausage in sight, the menu also includes a veggie equivalent of a full English: grilled halloumi, sautéed spinach, roasted plum

BEST OF BRUNC

DINING OUT : BEST OF BRUNCH

CH

THE REVIEW 2013 107

tomato, garlic mushroom corn fritter with sourdough toast and eggs however you like ‘em. Not only damn good at veggie catering, the independent, Aussie-run coffee house can pour a delightful coffee too. Their coffee beans are supplied by Caravan Coffee and are roasted in small batches and served with a tonne of love by knowledgeable baristas every day.

Best for......Saturday brunch

The Rummer Hotel, All Saints Lane, Bristol The Rummer doesn’t serve brunch on Sundays so I implore you to head there on a Saturday. There is nothing sloppy about this place – Head Chef Andrew Clatworthy ‘gets’ brunch. This is not food for the hopelessly hungover, this is fine dining. How many greasy spoons would serve smoked fish on toast with egg yolk and spiced butter? Top of the Bristolian’s hit list is the eternally popular eggs benedict but kedgeree, featuring kippers rather than smoked haddock, is on the way up. Good quality local ingredients is key to this place’s success.

Best for......tea

Boston Tea Party , Corporation Street, Birmingham It started in the West Country and recently opened its most northern branch yet on Corporation Street in Brum. One cracking

thing about this family-run place is that it serves breakfast all day long. Although the food menu isn’t super exciting, it does a real good job of covering all the brunch bases from stacks of scotch pancakes drizzled in maple syrup to eggs Florentine and bagels, porridge and granola. The extensive tea menu, however, is really something to swoon over, if that’s what gets you going. There’s lapsang souchong, yellow gold oolong and organic rooibos. There’s also an interesting little number they call ‘Karma’ with flavours of ginger, fennel seeds, cardamom pods, liquorice root, rosebud and vanilla.

Best for.......Bloody Marys

Dean Street Townhouse, Dean Street, London The new, mature you didn’t drink so much that the mere smell of a beer garden makes you vom. If in fact, getting some booze back in your system seems rather tempting, check out Dean Street Townhouse’s Bloody Mary menu. There’s the classic, the ‘Hair of the Dog’ horseradish and mustard one, the ‘Scotch Bonnet Mary’ which is given its kick by the inclusion of bonnet pepper and paprika and then the ‘Rose-Mary’ made with rosemary infused voddy. All four types are Grey Goose based and all pack a punch so hunker down with the Sunday papers – it may take you a while to sup up.

Best for.......smoothies

Teacup, Thomas Street, Manchester After setting up tea bars at his ‘Keep It Unreal’ club nights, Manchester DJ Mr Scruff established Teacup in the city’s hipster Northern Quarter. Given the rich musical history of both Teacup’s founder and its location, it is only fitting that its smoothies should be named after crooning legends. The Iggy Pop is a lively combo of orange, strawberry, mango and red pepper while Aretha Franklin is a powerful blend of apple, raspberry, mango and banana. Teacup also boasts a superb eggs royale, dotted with capers and a few stems of cress, and some of the best service on the planet.

Best for.......coffee

Tamper Coffee, Westfield Terrace, Sheffield Incredible coffee brought to the folk of South Yorkshire by Kiwi barista Jonathan Perry. On offer for the thirsty brunch-seeker is Tamper’s house blend or a guest roast. They serve the standard stuff; flat whites, macchiatos and latte as well as ristrettos (a 15-20ml restricted shot) and affogato (vanilla ice cream topped with espresso. Dig in to a Kiwi-style brunch, available at the weekends only, of butter-fried mushrooms on spelt toast with zesty basil cream cheese.

TR

Table Manner – On the Coast Words: LAITH AL-KAISY Beyond the front garden, over the dusty earth, the azure sky meets pristine water. Tufts of emerald-green shrubs sporadically hug the terrain. A disused winding gear struggles to stand, weathered and terminal. I’m in Pendeen, where you’ll find nothing but deafening silence. Silence: that unmistakeable coastal dialect.

My only connection with Cornwall is a suitcase. Well, a suitcase and a girlfriend.

Cornwall is either one of the UK’s shouldhave-beens or yet-to-bes. It can’t quite decide; neither can I. It’s a thought that inquisitively tugs on my sleeve throughout the holiday.

For the people who live here, the rest of the world may as well not exist; Cornwall is the be-all and end-all. They work, they surf, they party, like a breed of inoffensive Australians.

“It’s rich, isn’t it?” says one of locals, as we discuss the aesthetics of Cape Cornwall. ‘Rich’ is Cornwall’s favourite adjective, simply because it’s a county blessed with the most fortuitous and prosperous environment in the UK. And not often does a place have streets so criminally crimeless that its jails are less busy than Christmas in Israel. Pendeen, in particular, is schizophrenically calm and pretty; a 500ishperson village located in the recumbent stretch between Land’s End and St Ives.

Here you’ll find Lil’s Chippy, a family-run fish and chip shop. I can see some of you now, turning to your partners and saying “Darling, this food hack from The Review has finally lost it. He’s gone from reviewing Michelinstarred restaurants to a local fish and chip shop”.

Well, if that’s what you think, you’re a mug, and I’ll tell you why: I’ve had better bags of fish and chips than plates of Michelin food.

And if you think about it, so have you.

Yes, fish and chips – cod, batter and spuds – the original national dish. Warmth from the cold, stodge for the soul, protein for providence. Fish and chips weren’t born through happiness or ingenuity, rather misery and necessity. The dish was the meal of miners and factotums, and is more synonymous with soot and smog than sun and shine. Fish and chips are the makeup of our collective gastronomic identity and help feed a million British memories. So, to ignore the places that make them best – proper chippies – would

be pretentiously insulting to my appetite and opinion. And probably yours too.

Spending my time between London and Bristol, I don’t often eat decent fish and chips. City chippies, on the whole, are dispassionate, overpriced and double up as kebab shops. Now, I’m not saying that Turks and Greeks can’t batter cod, but fish on a kebab shop menu is an afterthought, an annotation, a footnote, like omelettes at Chinese takeaways. More to the point, it’s seldom fresh.

Only two places make proper fish – the North and the coast – so my main goal was to pillage Cornwall for its best catches. Lil’s Chippy was the first stop – and also the best.

The cod is sea-fresh, firm and unctuous, encased in a crisp, dry batter with enough bite to withstand a liberal dousing of vinegar.

Chips are cut and fried to order with a light, fluffy interior and the right crunch in the right places. For me, a fish dinner isn’t complete without mushy peas and curry sauce.

Both here are historic, the former a perfect balance between crushed peas and puree.

Lil’s Chippy harks back to an era when fish and chips were made with diligence and love – as do its prices. And guess what: you’ll be served by a passionate and amiable husbandand-wife team too: Lil takes the orders whilst Terry fillets and fries.

Undoubtedly the best fish and chips I’ve had in years.

Next time you’re visiting the south-west coast, go out of your way to visit Lil’s Chippy. I certainly will be.

Fifteen minutes away is Sennen Cove, a small stretch of beach that is relentlessly “rich”.

Here you’ll find The Beach, a quaint shack of a restaurant, serving daily catches and a handful of seaside favourites. No matter where you eat around here, there’s no pretension or annoyingly abstract menus. The promise is simple: “The fish was caught fresh this morning and now it’s on your plate. Enjoy”.

The Beach benefits from the beach. It’s a lazy journalistic truism to point out, but the location is idyllic: a salty breeze, placidity and the elements.

The lady and I were only lunching, so decided to share a starter of mussels with copycat mains of hake, shrimp, radish, new potatoes and crème fraiche. The mussels still tasted

sweet from the sea, swimming in a tide of white wine cream, shallots and garlic. Being a meaty number, hake can easily be over or underdone; this was perfect, yielding to each bite and holding up to the radish and crème fraiche.

The Beach utterly defies expectation. Call me a cynic, but I don’t expect to visit a restaurant crawling with beach bums and find food like this. The fish is as good, if not better than anything you’ll find in a top-end London restaurant. It’ll cost you less too.

Ocean Grill in St Ives is a different story: a poorly-conceived and plotless mess. It takes a rare talent to botch fresh, local ingredients, but that’s what we’re dealing with here. Not remembering what the lady ordered, I just sent her a text to ask. The reply: “We both had poo on a plate for all courses”. Lamentably, she’s right.

I go with two starters instead of a main. The squid with chilli and lemon was tasteless and overdone, and would have been better served by a priest on a funeral pyre. The texture was pure rubber, like chewing on a condom. The chef was talented enough to leave that inedible film on too. The squid’s tentacles were missing, which really ticks me off, because they won’t be used anywhere else on the menu, so will have been unconscionably thrown into the bin. Haram.

The prawns were rigor-mortis stiff – the chef had evidently finger-banged the poor blighters beyond death. Tarragon butter wasn’t tarragon butter, but rather a pool of engine oil.

Obviously they realised that tarragon tastes shit with prawns, but it was too late to change the menu. Never mind – it still tasted like the person who made it hates me.

The lady’s sea bass wasn’t nearly as offensive, but still a challenge to eat. Her meal was the best of the bunch, in the same way Pol Pot was the best genocidist for only killing two million people. What did impress, however, was the wasabi mash – but it wasn’t enough to absolve the restaurant of its gastronomic sins.

Avoid this place like your appetite depended on it.

Not much can help a person recover from such trauma, but a double portion of scampi from Lil’s Chippy was just the thing I needed.

Rich, indeed.

TR

D I N I N G : TA B L E M A N N E R

SENNEN COVE

LILS CHIPPY

FISH DISH

HAKE

THE REVIEW 2013 111

T R AV E L : T U N E

Retuning the Budget Market Words: LAITH AL-KAISY

One of my favourite hotels is the Hans Brinker, Amsterdam, which advertises itself as the worst hotel in the world. I admire its honesty, its chutzpah, its suggestion to dry yourself with the curtains instead of the towels. This kind of marketing works for me – not Lenny Henry poncing around a Premier Inn with a stupid grin on his face, but unsolicited, virtuous transparency.

What I don’t like is hotels pretending to be something they’re not – especially budget hotels. You’re not fooling anyone. We all know budget doesn’t exist for luxury, indulgence, romance or pleasure. Budget is pure utilitarian convenience. There’s always that unanswered divide between concept and delivery, supply and demand.

So, imagine my surprise when I arrived at

Tune Hotel, Liverpool St, to find it defied all empirical wisdom about no-frills accommodation. Modern businesses are like 70s musicians: everything is a concept. The trouble is that most concepts are usually crap gimmicks that don’t offer customers any value. Tune proves otherwise, designed with only the customer in mind. By only providing the essentials, costs are kept low, but quality is not compromised. A double room starts at a basic rate (in this case, £45) with the option to ‘tune’ your stay with add-on amenities (for instance, towel and toilettes are £1.50 extra).

Everything about Tune turns economy on its head. I mean, who expects a five-star bed in a budget hotel? The room is without blemish: the design is a balance between

form and function, but most importantly, it’s faultlessly clean. The decor is charmingly minimalist, inoffensive and tasteful, unlike the garish purples and greens favoured by Tune’s more-famous-but-awful competition.

I was going to say that Tune isn’t for everyone – but it is. It’s for the traveller, the tourist, the student, the commuter who’s missed the last train, the adulterer, the businessperson who’s too drunk to get home. There comes a point in our lives where necessity takes precedence over luxury – but that shouldn’t mean we should settle for mediocrity. And with Tune hotels popping up across the country, we no longer have to.

TR

TR

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Red Pocket Words: PETER OVERTON

Guess where the best Chinese restaurant in the UK is? Swindon. Oh, I see, you’re sniggering. Well, don’t, because I’m serious. The Swindon Rendezvous serves the best Chinese I have ever eaten – and I’ve been to China.

I’ve been local too: Hakkasan, Hutong, Royal China, New Fook Lam Moon, Kai... the list goes on and on.

Every Chinese I eat is judged by the Swindon barometer: sizzling lamb with ginger and spring onion; deep fried shredded beef in

chilli sauce, where each piece of beef is individually quick-fried, producing a paradoxical and unrivalled texture of tender, chewy and crispy; fried noodles, which are thin and unctuous, not sluggish, wet and sloppy, and served simply with bean sprouts.

I hadn’t been to a new Chinese for ages when I heard about Red Pocket. What’s the point?

Unless I’m in Swindon, I always opt for an Indian over a Chinese. However, Red Pocket seemed sophisticated yet unpretentious;

traditional yet chic. I can never help but look at a menu before visiting a restaurant – Red Pocket’s blended classic with contemporary, without falling into the pointless conceit of places like Hakkasan.

The interior of Red Pocket mixes informal with classy: stools line a stunning, long bar, decorated with quaint Chinese relics and vivid paintings. The seating is well-spaced, which is good if you don’t like looking at people – which I don’t, especially English people using

TR

DINING : RED POCKET

chopsticks. But what sets this restaurant apart (except for the food, of course, but we’ll get to that in a minute) is the view: teeming miles of Thames with an ink-blot Chelsea in the background.

We started with salt and pepper squid, which was tender and spicy and fresh. Peking duck was as good as anything in Chinatown, with brittle skin, flavoursome fat and sweet flesh.

Grilled lamb cutlet came next, which was cooked to perfection: charred exterior with a

medium-pink interior, giving a unique flavour of western barbeque and oriental spice-rub.

Wok-fried beef fillet was equally memorable, soaking up the juices of black pepper sauce.

Singapore fried noodles were as they should be: thin, dry and hot.

Kiwi cheesecake with strawberry sauce wasn’t exactly classic Chinese, or modern Chinese for that matter, but a refreshing and light end to the meal nevertheless – especially because it was shared.

Red Pocket was never going to usurp Swindon Rendezvous as my favourite Chinese restaurant. However, as far as London goes, Red Pocket provides refined Chinese food without the pretention or high prices of its morefamous and less-pleasant counterparts. This is Chinese food prepared with top quality ingredients and cooked with knowledge and passion. And you can’t ask for more than that.

Highly recommended.

TR

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M-A-S-H Words: PETER ROBINSON I wouldn’t say that I’m a connoisseur of steak restaurants, but I know my T-bone from my tenderloin. Fifty years ago, the humble Steak Diane was the weapon of choice for the parachute pant wearing lothario. The Steak Diane was pretty simple: pan juices combined with butter, shallots, cream and stock, flambéed with brandy and poured over a freshly cooked steak prior to serving.

Add to that the faint waft of Kouros splashed liberally around your carcass and you were irresistible to the opposite sex.

This, however, is the teens. We have sailed through the noughties with sadly very few puns exacted. Dining habits have changed.

People are more conscious of what they happily stuff into their masticating cakeholes these days. This has people reaching for the macrobiotic and the lacto vegetarian guide whilst shopping. Trust me, there is not one person that doesn’t roll their eyes when you mention your abstract diet that involves eating food only cut from the vine on a Wednesday during lent by a shirtless eunuch.

If it wasn’t already painfully obvious, I am a foodie, so can appreciate anything that involves a smear, dollop or soupçon. I was however raised a vegetarian by a slightly ‘earth’ mother until my grandparents saw my continued vegetable induced illness as threatening and decided to feed me a roast one Sunday afternoon whilst in their care.

From that first juicy morsel of roast lamb, I never looked back. It wasn’t a generational aversion to vegetarianism, you understand.

My grandparents are pretty liberal people.

They were convinced that my pail complexion and occasional illness was down to a lack of iron. Red meat often gets a bad reputation in today’s world, but steak is a great source of protein and half the fat is monounsaturated.

Whilst vegetarians call meat murder, it is

tasty, tasty murder.

I don’t know why I’m justifying myself. The influx of steak restaurants into the UK in the last decade should speak for itself. Some six months ago, I sadly missed the launch of MASH (Modern American Steak House), run

by Francis Cardenau and Jesper Boelskifte.

The two already ran Le Sommelier and Umani (both highly successful) and decided to embark on their first UK venture with a gargantuan 350 cover restaurant. MASH is situated in the former Regent Palace Hotel, a venue which had recently undergone a £300m refurbishment that included having its wallpaper removed, catalogued and restored. There are people starving, but darling, the wallpaper.

Imagine, if you can, a tidal wave of art deco meets diner-style seating. I like a clean white tablecloth as much as the next man, but for me, MASH is the pinnacle of dinner seating.

Intimate and relaxed, but decorated in such a way that makes it feel like you could captain a cruise liner.

The sweeping spiral staircase at the entrance isn’t what I expected at all, mainly as the proofs from the concept artist showed people on the ground floor dining from the outside.

So, having conceptualised the experience in my head, I didn’t expect to descend two floors into the restaurant. I am a big fan of anything that is reminiscent of prohibition; anything with mahogany panelling gets my staunch vote.

As we sat and perused the menu, I became aware that this would be a very simple and quick choice. I will take the Danish long-bone ribeye, a bottle of the Bibbiano “Montornello” Chianti Classico and some macaroni and cheese. I will be honest, I did need some help with the sides menu; I just wasn’t convinced about ordering macaroni and cheese

in a restaurant. I feared that fellow diners might carry me out of the restaurant on their shoulders for disgracing the plate that the steak would later reside on.

According to our waiter, as MASH stood for Modern American Steak House, mac and cheese was completely acceptable and married with a steak really rather well. So we added some onion rings to boot.

I did also order a starter, despite some deeprooted part of me screaming, “You won’t have room, man, come on!”

So, I opted for the escargot, expecting a small light dish served in traditional cook wear and drowning in garlic oil. The reality was somewhat different: it tasted a lot like anise butter had been used. As I’m not a fan of aniseed in any form, this certainly wasn’t for me.

I had prepared myself accordingly for MASH by only eating breakfast and avoiding anything that would take up any serious gastric space. I was ready. Perhaps not ready for a steak the length of the plate though. The 500g long-bone ribeye was a meal fit for a king. Cooked to perfection. According to Francis, the perfect way to cook a steak is on a plain grill (MASH’s has a drawer with water underneath to provide natural moisture).

Perfect colour, perfect marbling and a flavour that stayed with me for some time. The quality of the beef was exceptional. It was the finest steak I have ever eaten. I don’t know how long it will have that accolade for, but I expect some time. As for the double fried onion rings, I am still trying to recreate them in my own kitchen.

MASH is a triumphant venue, preparing its meaty fair for a modern London restaurant scene that wants the simplicity of a mouthwatering steak, served with the finest wine in sumptuous surroundings.

TR

DINING OUT : MASH

MASH’s beautiful dining room

danish long bone rib-eye

a bar worthy of sinatra

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A Mouthful of Madrid Amy McNichol tells you where to spend your euros in the Spanish capital.* *Please note, most suggestions encourage binge consumption Words: AMY McNICHOL

T R AV E L : M A D R I D

I’d been to the Spanish capital before. It was the summer I graduated, I was twenty-one and me and my group of gal pals tagged it on the end of a honey rum-swigging, cheap, paellamunching trip to music festival Benicassim.

Madrid was essentially the last stop on a ten-day blow out before we all went back to our parents’ houses with decent degrees but without jobs. Naturally, the city didn’t hold the most brilliant of memories for me.

Six years on and with meaningful employment, I was back. My word, how differently I felt this time around.

Myself and The Boy had booked into Hotel

Prado, part of the Ibis Styles group. This turned out to be a masterstroke as the location was smack bang in the middle of the must-see stuff (the Prado Museum for the arty-farty folk) and within rolling-home distance of La Latina (for the foodies and winos). The hotel itself is officially a three-star place but was spacious, spotlessly clean and had a shower more powerful than a Ronaldo free kick. Quirky murals of wine and grapes grace both the private and communal areas. For anyone who wants to make the most of Madrid’s magic, as in, spend eight hours a day tops in their place of rest, this place is the perfect pick.

Eager to get stuck in to the Spanish cuisine, I booked on to a tapas and wine tasting tour for the first evening. In hindsight, this was a really good move too. Not only did we come away with stomachs fit to pop and blurred vision, Jaime Baeza, co-founder of Gourmet Madrid had given us a local’s insight into how to dine like a true Madrilenian. By the end of the night and thanks to his expert foodie knowledge, we had our breakfasts, lunches and dinners planned out for the remainder of our stay. We’d tried and tested five or six bars on the tour itself, but Jaime had suggested a boatload of other places to try too.

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BALLS

The tour visits five or six bars but begins in the Literacy Quarter where the bars are all old school. First on our hit list is Venencia, a 90-year-old establishment. Behind the bar are rows and rows of bottles, many of which look as if they’ve been here since time began. It’s quiet, but that’s not to say it’s not full of people. We are served two of the five or six types of sherry they sell and sip it. Jaime asks us to guess what the cured meat is served alongside it. The first is some rather agreeable tuna, the second a less-pleasant caviar, which similar to being smashed into be a wave and accidently swallowing a gobful of concentrated salt water.

Never fear, things get better.

Sticking with the ocean theme, the next bar, El

HOTEL P

Lacon, dishes up a plate of shark, marinated in salt, pepper and paprika. Before the group even know what it is we’re all declaring that it scores high on the yummilicious scale and then feel a little ashamed when Jaime reveals its origin. By this time we had maps of the Spanish wine regions in our mitts and we are given a dry white from the Cava area to sup up with the shark.

Another highlight is La Casa Del Abuelo, two tiny places specialising in gambas (prawns).

The scent of garlic pretty much connects these properties at either side of the road while meandering in and out of punters’ delighted nostrils. These prawns are up there on the list of the fleshiest and most tender seafood

I’ve tasted. They arrive in a shallow terracotta pot, still sizzling in oil, and honestly, there’s so much garlic in there BURNS – and we lap it up! These guys have vermouth on tap and serve it over ice, in receptacles that resemble tall shot glasses. Vermouth, sweet white wine infused with herbs and spices, is popular in Madrid and popular with our taste buds.

By the time we reach Fonda La Lechuga, the last place on Gourmet Madrid’s hit-list, the group’s collective belly is so full of tapas we are dangerously close to bursting point. We are also pretty sozzled by now, but what luck!

This place boasts a cavernous wine cellar and, well, it’d be rude not to, right? I ask Jaime how the bars decide which tapas to serve the

SALON PUERTA DEL SOL

“I would never have put the two together and never would have chosen black pudding, but yikes, it’s a dynamite combo.”

PASEO DEL PRADO

restaurant fonda le lechuga

punters – do they see which tipple you go for and match something to it? Apparently not.

It just depends on whether you’re a regular and what the kitchen has in stock. Perhaps it’s a lucky coincidence then that the glasses of white we are given is totally mind blowing with the plate of black pudding and almonds that appear shortly afterwards. I would never have put the two together and never would have chosen black pudding, but yikes, it’s a dynamite combo.

The eve drew to a close with me furiously scribbling down Jaime’s recommendations of where to eat on the infamous Cava Baja (Casa Lucas, Escaldon and Tempranillo all hit the spot apparently) and wondering whether we

could squeeze in one of his winery tours or cooking classes.

The following two days were chockablock with eating and boozing and trying to find ways of doing either or both of these things whilst taking in the city. Thankfully, live music venue La Riviera played host to Aussie band Tame Impala on the Saturday night, which allowed us to buy some cheap plonk and sit in the sun outside the venue with the crowds and then buy less than dainty litre cups of beer inside the palm tree infested venue.

An audio tour of Las Ventas, the impressive looking Neo-Moorish style bull fighting ring is really worth doing. The place seats almost 24,000 folk and, unbelievably considering

this modern, forward thinking society, it still gets packed out whenever a bull is about to be slain.

Slightly more wholesome venues to visit are the two football stadiums home to Real and Athletico Madrid. It might well be tempting to make the trip up to the north of the city to visit the Bernabeu and forget about the Vicente Calderon stadium but a little compare and contrast makes for interesting conversation. The whole operation at the former is clinical and hugely corporate with a high tech, interactive museum. You get the feeling this is another stream of income and they herd visitors through like cattle. The latter, however, is low key. There are real-life human guides at

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Athletico and the idea of this being a family club prevails.

To sweat out a bit of the cured meat, we embark on an easy going three hour bike tour of the city with Mad Bikes.

Sure, it’s an old cliché, but I’ll say it anyway: it is the best way to see a city.

Starting off at the vast and beautiful Retiro Park we bumble along, chatting and picking our way through the occasional busy patch. We get a good look at the old town; we ogle the Egyptian tem-

ple and the Almudema cathedral, and before stopping off for refreshments, we pass the Prado and the Royal Palace.

So, although Madrid held some frankly depressing memories for me, I sure am glad I let it worm its way back onto my ‘European foody cities I’d like to visit again now I’ve got slightly healthier funds to enjoy them’ list. Fun and thrilling, smart and sophisticated, this time round, Madrid was a delight.

TR

How to eat like a local, by Jaime Baeza, co-founder of Gourmet Madrid tours Avoid anywhere with a ‘Tapas’ sign “It’s like a bakery saying, ‘We make bread’ – well, of course you do!”

Never ask for sangria.

“If you want something refreshing go for tinto de verano.”

make bars work for your custom!

“Tapas comes free with your drink but if a bar just gives you olives, don’t ever go back!”

Be selective on party street Cava Baja.

“People who run these bars don’t really care. They are already in all of the guide books. There are 18,000 bars in Madrid so be choosey.”

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Rancho Valencia Resort & Spa

Way out west on the pacific coast is where you’ll find Southern California’s only Relais & Châteaux property. Tucked away in the hills of sunny San Diego, and having recently undergone a $30m renovation, Rancho Valencia resort and spa is where Mediterranean charm meets California cool.

Words: BOBBY REYES

T R AV E L : R A N C H O VA L E N C I A

Nestled in the tranquil hills of the Southern California enclave known as San Diego, Rancho Valencia is a resort that most people dream about. I had the pleasure staying here recently and decided to take my mother on this little getaway. From the moment we drove up to the entrance gate, we were given the star treatment from the Rancho Valencia staff. The greeting is one that will make you smile from the inside out – and the entrance gate is just the start. We passed through the gate, drove all the way up the hill until reaching the valet at reception. He opened the car doors and greeted me by name, then took us to check-in. In the reception office,

I was also greeted with a huge grin exclaiming “Mr. Reyes, so glad that you’ve made it.” The lines of communication and customer service here can only be described as excellent.

The resort offers a selection of suites with the casitas ranging from 900 to 1,300 square feet and up to one master bedroom. The private villas are three bedrooms and have full-service kitchens, and the biggest residence is a 5,000 square foot hacienda, which comes with its very own private pool. The concierge showed us to our room, 109, which is a Valencia suite, the largest of the suites/ casitas. Although the residences come in many shapes and sizes, they all exude a rustic Mediter-

ranean elegance, yet at the same time, deliver the modern luxuries of the 21st century. The decor is impeccably thought out, with unfinished wood floors, ceilings and columns. The residence is accentuated with touches of wrought iron, including well-crafted wrought iron chandeliers that look as if they were taken right out of a 17th century Spanish mansion. The furniture is so inviting that it will make you want to cosy up, turn on the fire and watch a film on the massive flat screen television. For the residences that come with separate bedrooms, you will find that the bedrooms also come with wall mounted flat screens. You can even find a small flat screen TV

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POOL

VELLA ARC

SPA FOUNTAIN in the bathroom, which can be watched from the soaking tub. The bath is just that – a great big tub to soak in. It’s not a jetted tub, but still nice.

The shower is a much more exciting feature. With a beautiful, patterned tile backsplash, marble sitting bar, and floor-to-ceiling glass walls, it’s to die for. It is tall enough for just about any NBA player, and large enough to fit about four grown adults all at once. The walk-in closet can be found to the side of the shower behind an aged wood door, and although it’s nothing to oooh and ahhh over, there is ample storage space and it does come with a safe to store all of your prized possessions.

The most impressive feature, in my opinion, has got to be the king of thrones, otherwise known as the toilet. I mentioned earlier that the accom-

modation is rustic with modern luxuries, and the toilet is hands down the best feature of all. Made

by Toto, it has a motion censored lid that opens upon your arrival, and the seat is always heated.

It truly is an experience, operated by a wallmounted panel that lets you control everything with the touch of a button. There are three bidet settings, a dryer, a flush button, and buttons that control the seat and lid.

But enough of that. Fortunately, I had one of the nicest casitas, which had higher patio walls for more privacy. The other patio features included an outdoor gas fireplace, a large seating area, and a hot tub. The adobe style fireplace, lined by colourful tiles around the opening, was easy for anyone to use as it turned off and on by the

flick of a switch. It’s beautiful when lit at night.

The patio furniture was classic – cream with orange vertical stripes and beyond comfortable.

Although we are a party of two, there’s enough patio furniture to seat five comfortably. Two lounge chairs sat nearer the hot tub and would be ideal for anyone wanting to catch a tan under the beautiful California sun. The hot tub is generally warm, but if you’re the type that likes it hot and bubbly, the heater and jets turn on with the touch of a button. One of my most cherished moments at Rancho Valencia was relaxing in the hot tub – jets on – with a nice glass of red wine while gazing at the stars in the open sky above.

I woke up in the morning to a call from the concierge telling me to check my e-mail for

BEDROOM SUITE PANO

CH TERRACE

PATIO an itinerary. First up was my facial at the spa. I absolutely have to recommend this exhilarating 90 minutes of pleasure that will leave your skin wanting more. Included is a massage of the head, shoulders, arms and hands. For a few days afterwards, people were telling me how good my skin looked.

Next, the fitness centre. I’m not a regular gym goer, but working out at this fitness centre was positively strange, as nearly all of us were motivating each another with nods, thumbs up, and small words of encouragement. One of the small yet very pleasing perks of the fitness centre is that the refrigerator comes fully stocked and everything is complimentary. Don’t worry about brining your own Gatorade, vitamin water, coconut water, etc.

– just grab one or three out of the fridge. You’ll also find a basket full of new earphones to use.

To top off the evening, the resort booked dinner reservations at the swanky Veladora. Executive Chef Eric Bauer cooked up a taste-tantalising feast, sourced from the freshest ingredients found in the San Diego region, giving the restaurant its coastal ranch feel. The service was superb, and to our surprise, our server for the night was originally from London. As mother ordered her cranberry and Grey Goose, I struggled to make up my mind. I asked the waiter for a recommendation and she suggested the whistling frog, which just so happened to be one of the options I had in mind. The drink – part wellness drink, part vodka – was named after the tiny frogs (na-

VELA ARCH SUNRISE ROOM tive to the resort’s land) that send out a charming whistle. Simply, the drink is green like the frogs.

Our dinner arrives – my plate is the sautéed wild salmon and hers the slow pan roasted filet mignon. To say it is good is an understatement! It is without question the best salmon I’ve ever eaten, due to fact that it’s cooked only to medium. I sampled the filet mignon – just thinking about it makes my mouth water. We barely had room for dessert, so we shared the torta di formaggio, which is made up of ricotta cheese, cookie crust, salted caramel ice cream, and roasted chestnuts.

Thank God I spent two hours in the fitness centre prior to dinner.

All that was left was one last sleep and a tennis lesson before check-out. The best activity to partake

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in is tennis. Rancho Valencia is highly regarded for its tennis courts and tennis pros (depending on your level of experience, of course). I’m glad I got to take advantage of playing on one of these much revered courts. My tennis pro was absolutely brilliant. By the end of my lesson, I felt that my knowledge and skills had been strengthened

tremendously. Time flies when you’re having fun and my one hour tennis lesson really only felt like a hot and sweaty twenty minutes. I’ve always enjoyed playing tennis, but now that I know how to grip the racquet properly for my front and back hand hits, I know that I’ll enjoy playing much more from now on.

Check out went smoothly and we were provided with a choice of refreshment for the road. Our experience at Rancho Valencia was great. It’s the type of place that allows you to be extremely active, or simply fall off the grid by relaxing in the confines of your luxury residence. I highly recommend visiting.

TR

VELLA ARCH WINE ROOM

VELA SALMON

VELADORA BY NIGHT

Portuguese Paradise Three distinct and unique hotels in northern Portugal: the city, the country retreat and the castle.

Words: ROBB PRITCHARD Photography: ROBB PRITCHARD

HOTEL TEATRO LOBBY

Welcome to Hotel Teatro.

Built on the site of a famous theatre that burned down a hundred years ago, the design pays homage to its history and a theme is evident as soon as you make your powerful entrance to reception; the guests are the stars of the show. That impression continues as the period spotlights illuminated the darkened corridors ahead, as my girlfriend Valentina and I walked to our room. A far cry from a soulless luxury chain, this – my first thought was it’s a place with a real soul!

Centre stage, though, are the rooms themselves. The full-wall mirror behind the bed added a lot of depth, the bath seen through the smoked window was wonderfully intimate and the obvious thought gone into the

alcove in the corner created a lovely cosy space to read and snuggle. Much more than a hotel room, this is a sumptuous sanctuary of the highest order. The bed sucks you in like a good movie, although one word of warning: if you’ve had a long day’s travelling or sight-seeing and lay down for what you think will be a couple of minutes… you won’t easily get back up again!

But there is more to get up for, as the inhouse restaurant is an essential side act. Each dish is called an act but this isn’t just a glib advertising gimmick, as effervescent manager Susana Tavares explains, “We focus on traditional Portuguese flavours but present them in a contemporary way and we have such a reputation now that it’s not only locals who come here to dine but also people visit-

ing Porto who have heard about Restaurante Palco.” The food is as close to art as I have ever experienced. The wine is fine and local.

By the time the divine dessert is presented, I feel like I have been part of a performance given by a master. It’s not a tip I want to give, but a round of applause.

What type of guest does Teatro attract, I ask Susana. “They are people who are interested in culture and lifestyle, those who come for the arts, museums and who aren’t just looking for somewhere to stay and sleep, but want an atmosphere and an experience,” she smiles.

Centrally located, just a few metres form the main square in Porto, Hotel Teatro has 74 rooms on 6 floors. www.hotelteatro.pt TR

T R AV E L : P O R T U G A L

GOURMEt DINING AT PALCO

BAR PLATEIA

DOUBLE ROOM

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day bed tranquility

Carmo’s Boutique Hotel

Driving nine hours behind the wheel of a Land Rover with 400,000km on the clock is hard to describe to someone who’s never gone through it. But as soon as we arrived at Carmo’s, all the day’s hardships were forgotten. Whisked into reception, we weren’t just checked in, we were looked after… and not just out of hospitality, but with real kindness.

The welcome included fruit-infused champagne and a decanter of port, but only to pass the time, as the bath at the foot of the four poster bed was being filled with herbs and oils. The horse and cart ride along the river was truly romantic and the massage so divine that I actually fell asleep, the first time I’ve done that in my life. “Emotional luxury,” the elegant and focused director Raquel says, perfectly summing up how we felt. “People want to be pampered every now and again and that’s what we like to do here for our guests.” And she doesn’t mean guests in the sense of people booking a room, she honestly means the people that come into her life and stay for a while.

Contrasts abound, but the eclectic mix of art nouveau, antique and rustic charm all work well together; a splash of ostentation, like the zebra skin rugs in our room, go with the home-spun table clothes. A conservative interior designer or a feng shui master might have something to say, but my initial hunch that they were personal turned out to be right – they are all from the houses of the owners. “The silver was my grandmother’s,” Raquel smiles proudly. And sipping a breakfast tea on delicate china, surrounded by someone’s family air looms really does give

an unrivalled sense of hospitality. At Carmo’s you are a guest in the truest sense of the word.

Outside a perfect, lazy and romantic afternoon can be spent on the real beds that they have in the garden by the pool. A polite request and the wonderful staff will go out of their way to provide almost anything you can wish for, like they did for our little picnic up in the mottled shade of the vines. It’s not actively promoted as a retreat, but the downstairs spa and indoor pool is a lovely place to relax when the sun has gone down and if the standard massage somehow isn’t enough for you then maybe the face massage while bathing in a tub of goats milk will do.

The evenings being served local treats and fine wines on the old wood table with the dripping wax candle sticks while traditional fado music plays in the background is also a special experience. A brazier crackles near by and every now and again a soft breeze carries the earthy aroma of woodsmoke. It’s an incredible atmosphere and you could easily become a hater of time here, simply because you won’t want to leave.

A true experience is not about the ornamentation or decoration in the rooms, it’s about how you feel. Words like ‘premier’ and ‘exclusive’ do no justice to Carmo’s – the five stars are irrelevant, an afterthought, because how can you rate a place that makes you feel so unbelievably special?

Situated in the rolling hills near the first town of Portugal, Ponte de Lima Carmo’s Boutique Hotel is just an hour’s drive from Porto. www.carmosboutiquehotel.com TR

Valentina enjoying the view

Valentina poolside

dining on the terrace

suite

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Rural Tranquillity You’re going to love Solar Dos Anjos before you even get there. The road from Braga gets narrower and twistier, the villages you pass through get smaller and older, and then the tarmac runs out completely as you park under the crenulations thinking ‘Wow!’ It’s almost dusk as we arrive and we spend a speechless few minutes staring at the view, listening… cow bells from one side of the valley, church bells from the other, and from a balcony in a house in the next village someone plays an accordion to serenade the sunset. Rural tranquillity in perfection.

But the Solar is a lot more than just its setting. With the ornate mirror and red velvet chairs the reception is straight out of a National Trust manor house. We’re in the tower suite and if you were ever looking for the perfect romantic getaway, you’ve just found it. The setting sun catches the rough granite walls and makes the golden bedstead glow above the deep purple cover. Valentina exclaims in wonder at the chandelier in the bathroom and it really is

a place fit for a princess. Up a wrought iron spiral staircase, there’s a mezzanine complete with a couple of throne-like chairs and another set of stairs protruding from the wall. The room is three storeys high. It’s not just a tower room, it is the tower. The top floor is open to the stars and feet up next to the crenulations, glass of port wine in hand, watching the sunset together is an absolute dream.

But early morning is also a very special time of day. Breakfast on the terrace, watching the sun creeping around through the vines while enjoying the orange juice, fresh bread and homemade jam in front of the view is incredible. Owners Luis and Christine are also understandably in love with it.

“We spent ten years looking for the perfect place to create a rural retreat and as soon as we came across this place knew it was going to be here,” Christine tells me. “The idea was to have a home that we could share with people and for us this is the best place on Earth, a real hidden gem.” Luis adds, “I don’t really believe in that sort of thing but quite a few of our guests have mentioned what a positive energy there is here. And I

feel it too.”

Five years ago the cosy courtyard we are chatting in was a ruin, just the three-hundred year old walls were standing, but the labour of love has created a place that at times borders on fantasy, a feeling perhaps heightened by the fact that it is situated in such a frozen-in-time landscape. And time is key here. Life seems slow because time runs with nature here. There is no 9 to 5 in the villages, only the turning of the seasons, and after a couple of days you’ll find that slowing down to such a bio-rhythm is deeply relaxing.

There is plenty of history to explore in the local region and the stunning city of Braga is just a 40-minute drive away, but alternatively you can stay where you are, and once you’ve soaked in your fill of the incredible view, you can go back inside and enjoy treating your lady like a princess.

It might seem like Solar Dos Anjos is at the end of the world, or even in another world, but it’s actually only 30km from the historical town of Braga and 85km from Porto. www.solardosanjos.eu TR

Valentina poolside

fit for a king

THE REVIEW 2013 135

Lucknam Park Words: TAYA PANG “Would you pack for a weekend away?” my wonderful partner muttered from behind his computer screen. It’s rare for us to spend quality time together amidst the work schedules, the phones ringing and the frantic tapping of the computer keyboard, as we work to the early hours to meet deadlines.

I refrained from asking too many questions about the trip and decided to do my own research. To my surprise, I found a picturesque Palladian mansion, set in 500 acres of private land. My partner had mentioned a “day’s activity” being planned; something I’d forgotten about until I saw the on-site cookery school. Judging by the heavy promotion of the school, I gathered it was a big deal and something we would definitely enjoy. I imagine a MasterChef style competition, as we do like to compete with each other (the lady always wins of course).

I mentioned the cookery school to a few friends, who all said it didn’t sound like much of a break to be cooking from 9am – 3pm.

This got me contemplating my partner’s motives for signing us up. Does he want me to learn how to cook? Does he not like my humble home food?

In the morning, we hopped onto the motorway and some 45 minutes later arrived. The porter kindly took our car, but not before personally escorting us to the cookery school, whilst we pondered our excuse for arriving late. We’re handed to the secretary of the cookery school who gave us our fresh, crisp whites with grey apron to complete the look.

Introductions complete and rested heartbeat reached, the class began.

Lead by Hrishikesh Desai, the culinary

award-winning chef of the prestigious Roux Scholarship and National Chef of the Year exclaimed: “Cumin! Rosemary! These are the two ingredients you can see in front of you”. We took notes in our cookery folders and caught up with the class’ education of Indian Street Food.

“Your turn,” Chef Desai beckoned. Having watched how it’s done, we approached our cooking island to attempted vegetable samosas. Having mastered the art of the traditional triangle we headed back to chef’s island to learn the next skill.

By the end of class, we found ourselves eager to learn the schools itinerary for other classes, engulfed by chef’s infectious passion and enthusiasm for fusing flavours. We’d cooked samosas, potato cakes, dumplings and traditional Kaathi kebab.

Feeling satisfied with the day’s achievements, we were led to the dining table, where we were presented with our food in banquet style. After congratulating the group’s talents and of course the culinary excellence of Chef Desai, we accepted our ‘goody bags’ and checked into our room.

“All signed in, let me give you a tour” said one of the staff in a subtly soft French accent, setting the tone for our romantic getaway. We could have been in the French Riviera – but true to English form, the rain made an appearance to remind us we were in pure picturesque grounds of English Heritage. The staff gave us a personal tour of the grounds, finishing with our abode for the evening. Inside our grand suite, we were greeted with a handwritten note for our stay, chocolate and champagne. Ordinarily we

T R AV E L : L U C K NA M PA R K

DELUX SUITE

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Hrishikesh Desai

samosa, potato cake chickpea curry

would have welcomed the opening of such a beverage, but with our bodies full from the days cooking and eating, we refrained from indulgence, deciding instead to walk to the onsite stables.

Walking around the stables we got to know each horse, pony, calf individually by their aptly written bios. The rain did not deprive us of enjoyment, as we continued to search the grounds. We came across a children’s playground – that’s right, you got it, two weathered adults decide to recapture being 12 years old again, tackling the obstacle course, the playhouse, the slide and the fire-

taya cooking up a storm

man’s pole.

“Can I get you something to drink?” asked the waiter. We tucked into homemade rosemary and thyme bread whilst deciding what to order. Choices placed, we enjoyed a glass of wine. Pea and asparagus risotto, chorizo and gnocchi decorated the table with pure sophistication. There was a moment of silence whilst we embraced the elegance of the chef’s dedication, having learned earlier how much skill is required to produce such fine dishes.

Hats off to the chef: the starter alone was worth the travel! Duck, silky smooth creamed

mashed potato, fried cauliflower and spinach dressing; hake and salsa dressing; and mouth-watering dessert of homemade strawberry and chocolate ice cream topped with raspberry sorbet. My partner dived into a never-experienced indulgence. Not for the faint or weak hearted, but scrumptious Latin influenced dessert all the same.

Completely satisfied, we left to the main building through the courtyard, stopping to appreciate the clear night with stars glistening in the elegant surroundings.

We approached the library, where we found our love for Scrabble that night, playing

garden spa area

equestrian centre

under the low-lit Seventeenth Century art displayed on the walls. We found ourselves unwinding in the restored drawing room of a past era.

After a night cap delivered by the night porter from their fine selection of cognacs and other spirits, we make our way to our turned down room. We led our heads in the finest of linen; a perfect end to the day and a most rewarding sleep!

Morning came. We decided to dine in The Park: the retreat’s main restaurant. Our table overlooked the grounds and stables with the doors left ajar to get the morning

personal touches

breeze and aroma of freshly cut flowers.

Living in the city, it is rare experience such a pleasant, relaxing morning. After a pot of seasonal fresh fruit and yoghurt I indulged in a traditional full English breakfast, whilst my partner went for eggs Benedict. Perhaps not the best thing to eat when we were expected in the spa momentarily.

I had almost forgotten the relaxation of the spa. With my mind fully engaged, excitement soared through my every muscle. We took a quick look at the facilities and had a swim, before I left my partner in the relaxation pods and headed to the treatment rooms

in secluded serenity. My beauty therapist calmed me with warm oil scents and heart of Reiki music. A few minutes to recover from my massage with some herbal tea, whilst taking advantage of the exclusive outdoor pool, and then back to the main spa to join the loved one in the outdoor and indoor swimming pools, along with Jacuzzi, Japanese salt room, steam room and sauna.

The stay was pure, divine indulgence. From arrival to departure, being in a warm Palladian home was bliss. Lucknam is a gem of a spa and a truly memorable experience.

TR

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D I N I N G O U T : G AU C H O T O W E R B R I D G E

Gaucho Tower Bridge I think that, sadly, it might be time to get off my soapbox. I have pontificated over the health benefits of red meat for some months now and perhaps my electoral candidate sermonising is becoming tiresome to our weary readership. Well, tough I say to the honourable gentleman (waves countryside alliance membership card in the air).

Words: PETER J ROBINSON Firstly, let’s clear something up: I do not have membership to the CA, not because I don’t support what they stand for, but because I don’t live in the countryside.

Having returned some months ago from a central London restaurant review, I decided to do the unthinkable; I posted some snaps of my meal on a social networking site. Remember when you used to take a photo of your food, get it developed, wait 48 hours, pick up the snaps, then go to your friends’ homes to show them… NO. There was a time when food was simply consumed and not interrupted by people asking you to put your fork down so they could take a shot. I, myself, take shots of well-laid plates and drinks only occasionally for the benefit of the magazine, but subtly, in the hope that absolutely no one notices. The flash is always off, and on the one occasion that I accidentally took a picture with it switched on, it may as well have been a nuclear test blast. Of course, I stood up, apologised to my fellow diners and immediately drowned myself in the Thames.

My gripe with people illuminating my plate in small restaurants aside, the post I put up had comments ranging from ‘You lucky bastard’ to simply ‘Nice’. However, one person did comment and mentioned that, if I was in central London and doing

a restaurant review, I owed it to the readership to try Gaucho. I asked where it was.

“There are loads,” James replied. Well, actually there are fifteen, which means it is either so successful that it needs citywide coverage, or it is that most gruesome of establishments – a chain.

To be a restaurant reviewer, you need to be able to disguise the pitiable gaps in your gastronomic knowledge by the copious use of cheap jokes and gratuitous insults. In my opinion, you also need a dining partner, otherwise you run the risk of sitting in a restaurant alone. I don’t care what the retro kids say, it isn’t cool. The bastion of intelligence that is WikiHow suggests that your spinster meal for one can be revelled in by ‘enjoying your meal’ and ‘people-watching’. Well then, we’re set, I will just make sure that whatever I eat I enjoy, regardless, whilst manically staring at the couple on their first date adjacent to me.

Luckily, I did have company that night – my beautiful girlfriend – the downside being that she was 45 minutes late and smelt like a pissed seaside donkey. She also had the balance of a four-year-old, given her intoxication. No matter, I thought. I had starved myself all day in preparation for this meal, so would persevere by dragging her onto the tube and into the restaurant

THE REVIEW 2013 141

at Tower Bridge. After all, it was in the heart of City-boy country; the home of the functioning alcoholic.

Gaucho Tower Bridge is on South Bank and has views of Tower Bridge and the Tower of London. The styling of the restaurant is my idea of a perfect venue; it feels like a modern steak restaurant. It’s masculine and dark, without making you feel that you’re in a butcher’s fifty-shades-of-grey pastiche.

We started off with drinks at the bar. As we were 45 minutes late, I had called ahead to move the reservation, of course. The Gaucho Bloody Mary is a formidable beverage. More like a Gazpacho Mary, it hit the palate like a bullfighter. Despite my partner not being a huge Bloody Mary fan, she insisted on a sip, didn’t like it, waited twenty minutes, then repeated.

It was highly likely that we were deliberately given the veteran waitress, Renata. I have no idea why she wasn’t running the place (probably because middle management isn’t

fun and the tips are pitiful). She guided us through the wine menu and suggested a punchy Argentinean red, and then helped me decide if I had the minerals to tackle the steak selection. My partner had sobered a little, but was in no position to eat a steak, so opted for the risotto. This rendered her opinion on anything during the meal null and void. I thought the fellow diners would think her a vegetarian and suggest a lynching, but luckily there would be no retribution for the Falklands today.

The sausage platter arrived, by which point my nil by mouth approach was starting to grate. A board arrived with Argentine chorizo, chorizo picante, pinches and mozilla sausage. It was something else: succulent and well spiced.

‘Meaty’ is the term I would use, but I agree, it doesn’t do the dish a morsel of justice.

With the sausage selection put away, I realised that the steak platter would soon be making its way to the table. Had I made a grave mistake?

Would the sausage platter take a back seat and allow the gastric gape needed for the steak to

sit comfortably in my already bulbous stomach?

The Gaucho sampling platter arrived: a cut of chorizo, vacío and entraña fina. I think I had ten seconds to take a picture before diving in wholeheartedly. James was right: they certainly know how to cook a steak.

All the Gaucho beef comes from Argentina.

The cattle is only fed on the rich pampas of carefully-selected farms. Well-marbled, seared on the edges to ensure a caramel effect, but never burnt. As I had been concerned for my stomach prior to ordering, Renata had kindly brought out the cuts of beef to show me. This is as close to cow pornography as I wish to go.

We decided to skip dessert, as there didn’t appear to be anything on the menu containing meat. Such was my marathon meat romance, I honestly didn’t have the space. The steak at Gaucho Tower Bridge was seraphic, the interior manly and brooding (not unlike myself), and the service silver-level and first-class.

Thank god there are fourteen more for me to make my way through next year.

TR

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The Wines of Argentina – An Ongoing Story of Improvement Words: ANNA VON BERTELE

W I N E : A R G E N T I NA

The Past Most people who work in wine have that epiphany moment when they realise that wine is the path they want to take in life. Mine happened to be when I was travelling in Argentina before going to university. I visited Mendoza - beautiful vineyards surrounded by mountains, small windy roads to cycle along, and bright sunshine – it was perfect. Ever since this discovery of Argentinian wines, they have been some of my favourites and sometimes I am amazed that they are not more popular (and expensive). There are several reasons why Argentinean wines are so great (other than the fact that they are delicious!). With a wide range of regions, growing conditions, and grape varieties, there is huge diversity across the wines.

Mendoza, in central Argentina is the largest and most famous, though Salta in the north and Rio Negro and Patagonia in the south are also producing some good quality wines. Argentina is fortunate to have all the right environmental factors for winemaking: good soil, well-drained slopes, lots of sunshine and the high altitudes that ensure overnight temperatures are low, helping the grapes to ripen slowly and develop lots of flavour.

The Present Another reason I love Argentina is because of the pace of change and the diversity

that it is bringing to wine. At the moment it is one of the most exciting New World countries. It was slow to develop a strong reputation, as the best wines were made in small quantities and sold to the domestic market, while bulk wines without much complexity or interest were made across the region for sale in supermarkets.

However, over the past 10 years there has been an influx of investment and enthusiasm as people realise that Argentina is capable of producing extremely good wines. Old wineries have been rejuvenated and new vineyards and varieties have been planted. Without the restrictions that many Old World countries face, for example what vine treatments are allowed and which grape varieties may be grown, Argentinian wine is just getting better and better. But they still tend to offer good value for money, especially when eating out. It is well known that restaurants often mark up the prices of well-known wines to a greater extent, so choosing a Bordeaux or Sancerre on a wine list isn’t always the wisest of course of action. I always look out for the more obscure regions and perhaps an unusual variety like the floral white grape torrontés, or an up-and-coming Argentinian producer.

The Future As for the future of Argentina, the potential is huge and exciting. Argentina

is most well known for producing Malbec – it is the country that has made the grape famous, even though it originally comes from Cahors in France (they used to call it Cot, though with the success in Argentina, even they now refer to it as Malbec). But producers are cautious about being seen as one trick ponies, and are now showing that they can also produce other varieties, for example Cabernet, Bonarda and Pinot Noir. As well as experimenting with these varieties, they are working hard to increase the quality of their Malbec and make it one of the world’s top wines. More boutique wineries are now labelling wine from sub-regions and even individual sites, rather than Mendoza – after all Mendoza is a large region, with varying soils, altitude and climate.

The future lies in people recognising these sub-regions, in the same way people might recognise that a Bordeaux is different if it is from Medoc or Pomerol. The wines have different personalities depending on where they are from and there is no reason why producers shouldn’t reflect this in their labelling. One area, Lujan de Cuyo has its own appellation. All of this means that hopefully the it won’t be too long before you’ll be choosing your regional Malbec to go with a specific cut of meat (another great Argentinian product). You will be pleasantly surprised!

TR

THE REVIEW 2013 145

Move Over, Sauvignon. Try New Zealand Riesling Words: ANNA VON BERTELE

Last weekend I was flicking through a second-hand wine encyclopaedia that was published in 1994. My attention was grabbed by the section on New Zealand. I couldn’t believe that all it contained was one map, two pages of text and no differentiation of regions, just a simple description of the country and emphasis on the fact that their main grape of production is Sauvignon Blanc. This made me start thinking about the change that New Zealand has seen in the past ten years. Ever since Cloudy Bay came in to the spotlight, people fell in love with the fresh, crisp, citrus and gooseberry characteristics of the Sauvignon grape, creating a huge demand and expansion of vineyards and producers across New Zealand. This has been great for the country and with this expansion has come the possibility to experiment with other varieties too, one of which I am finding particularly interesting at the moment – Riesling.

Dare to be Different Riesling is going through a revival. Originally from Germany, it has only recently started to be grown in New World countries.

It developed an unjustly poor reputation due to the fact that it was associated with a lot of sub-standard German wine which flooded the market in the 80s, but the truth is that when it’s treated well it is one of the greatest varieties in the world. The wine can vary hugely from dry to much sweeter styles.

The reason that people love Sauvignon – it is inexpensive, reliable and predictable in flavour – throws light on Riesling’s marketing problem – its character varies hugely depending on the where it is grown and how it is treated in the winery, so it is difficult to be certain what of exactly what you are buying. It also tends to be slightly more expensive because it is grown in the more marginal northerly regions of Europe.

Why New Zealand?

Don’t let these factors put you off. It is definitely a more challenging grape to try, but also much more rewarding. New Zealand has only recently realised the potential that their climate and terroir has for more aromatic varieties. Today, the country grows 2,666 acres of Riesling, up from 1,218 acres in 2001 - a huge increase

in ten years. Most comes from the South Island, from the regions of Nelson, Marlborough, Canterbury and Central Otago, where the climate is cool, with a strong maritime influence producing a sharp and thrilling style. The cooler nights help Riesling develop great acidity, though there is enough daytime sunshine to bring out the ripe fruit aromas. The conditions are so favourable for developing high acidity that the producers tend to harvest the grapes with residual sugar, to avoid the style being too austere. This means the wine is off-dry, but has strong aromatic qualities, typically with flavours of lychee and tropical fruits, and strong acidity to balance the wine. If this hasn’t made you want to try this interesting grape, then also bear in mind, that Riesling is typically low alcohol, so great for those times that you want to avoid drinking too much!

Next time you are standing in a shop trying to choose a bottle of wine, maybe don’t reach for the familiar Sauvignon, but instead browse the shelves and try the wonders of a New Zealand Riesling.

TR

WINE : RIESLING

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K West Hotel & Spa Words: PETER J ROBINSON Paris, Milan, New York, Shepherds Bush.

Yes, Shepherds Bush: the pinnacle of retail therapy and home to the first building ever put up solely for the production of film, Lime Grove Studios.

K West Spa is housed in a former BBC office block on Richmond Way. It is the self-styled media meeting place for minions and moguls alike. See what we did there.

Given its proximity to the old BBC building and Shepherds Bush Empire, is it any wonder that it is the first choice for celebrities and their entourages alike. Its 220 guest rooms are designed to provide a safe haven from bustling London. The beds are gargantuan, almost like they are willing you to experiment.

The K-West suites are BOSE to the eyeballs, Egyptian cotton, plasmas everywhere and glass walls. Forgive me for being a prude, but when having my ablutions, I want a solid steel or wooden door. It might be modern to have glass doors here and there, but not the bathroom.

The bar and lounge area is a cool hang out.

There were four people shooting an interview in the Mac area. A library filled with free iMacs. I talked with the director about his equipment, work and general outlook on modern cinematography. A cool vibe, indeed. We were interrupted by a Spanish girl asking if we knew how to use the computers.

We set her up, only to find out that she was in some show that night at the Empire and was logging onto her 400,000 fans on Twitter. I still have no idea who she was. Every Friday and Saturday night the K Lounge has live DJs play sets to the cool clique. The place was filled with media types, so I was as ‘at home’ as a weekend warrior could be.

K West Spa is probably the reason that most people matriculate to the establishment.

They offer a range of treatments from sun meadow to tread SAD people a flotation tank, herbal steam room and a decent gym.

The highlight for me was the snow room; a room that, from the outside, appears to be a simple sauna. However, through a process known to spa engineers as ‘magic’, the room was filled with pure white snow, or powder if you will. As a keen skier, I only wished it could have been at a jaunty angle. Rub, freeze, run to the hot tub, repeat. The process is supposed to invigorate the skin and get the blood pumping. It certainly did that much.

Breakfast was also spot on. Eggs benedict are a tough act to get right, in my opinion. The poaching is easy enough, but making a good hollandaise is an art form. The chef nailed it.

All in all, K-West is a worthwhile retreat in a bustling part of London. My only tip: arrange parking somewhere before you go.

TR

T R AV E L : K W E S T H O T E L & S PA

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S h a d e So what if it isn’t summer in the UK anymore.

It is summer somewhere.

STYLE : IN THE SHADE

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THE REVIEW 2013 153

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THE REVIEW 2013 155

TAILO WA

In 2013 a tailored look is th Off the peg is a thi

Stylist: Aisha

Photographers: Roberto McC

Models: Edward Ha

Makeup: Martyn

Hair: Regin

Green Cords:- Hackette Pink Shirt:- Gucci Tie:- Bugatti Watch:- PANERAI Shoes:- GUCCI

ORS ALK

FA S H I O N : B O B B Y R E Y E S

he only acceptable style. ing of the past

a Paparella

Cormick / Margarita Lievano

Haynes & AndrĂŠ Mckie

na Parniewsak

na Meessen

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Navy Blue 2 Piece Suit:- Paul Smith Polka dot Shirt:- BLK DNM NYC Belt:- Gucci Cufflinks:- Paul Smith Boots:- Paul Smith

2 Piece Gray Suit:- Kenneth Cole White Shirt:- Gucci Belt:- Paul Smith Shoes:- Paul Smith

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Tweed Suit:- Amin Phillips LOVE AND BE LOVED Gillet:- Amin Phillips LOVE AND BE LOVED Shoes:- Gucci

PAGES, L & r JEWELLERY BY GOTROXX DRESS BY BeBE

3 Piece Suit:- VAN GILS Tie:- William Hunt Belt:- Paul Smith Coat:- Amin Phillips LOVE AND BE LOVED Shoes:- GUCCI

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White Trouser:- HACKETTE Black & White Trim Jacket:- Amin Phillips LOVE AND BE LOVED Whit Shirt:- Spencer Hart Bow Tie:- Moss Bros Belt:- Models own Shoes:- Gucci Watch:- Breitling

Highbrow Make-up Our beauty editor Gemma Phelan discusses semi-permanent make-up.

Words: GEMMA PHELAN Whether you’re the victim of overzealous plucking, Alopecia, or, like me, you were simply not blessed with Cara Delevingneesqe brows to mould and shape as you please, semi-permanent make-up may be just the ticket. I have spent the last decade pencilling in my eyebrows and although I had perfected the art, the thought of being free of this daily chore is something that’s excited me for years.

Undergoing any kind of permanent makeup procedure is daunting. The result is going to be on your face for 2-5 years, so choosing the right consultant is paramount. Be warned, there are hundreds of shysters out there willing to take your money in return for a bodge job. After months of research and asking around, a beauty blogger friend of mine referred me to ‘Brow Queen’ Belinda Hayle and, boy, I’m glad she did.

Belinda’s clinic, based in Chertsy, Surrey, is a purpose-built annex with all the bells and whistles of a Harley Street facility.

My welcome was warm and Belinda took

the time to explain the procedure and understand my expectations. I showed Belinda a couple of pictures of how I’d traditionally drawn my eyebrows in and she went about pencilling the base shape.

Before looking in the mirror, Belinda warned me that the shape was not what I was used to, but was more in alignment with my brow bone and natural arch.

It took a bit of persuading, but the trust Belinda had built in the initial consultation had me confident in her opinion.

Belinda, like me, is a perfectionist, so had no qualms spending over an hour getting the shape of each brow absolutely perfect before the final application.

The method Belinda uses is quite unique: one single needle being used to implant the cosmetic pigment in to the skin. This ensures a clean line and gives the effect of individual hairs rather than a blocky outcome. The PureBeau machine truly is the Rolls Royce of German permanent make-up engineering.

The procedure was quite painless, al-

though it did make me want to sneeze.

In all honesty, the wurr of the machine combined with Magic Radio playing in the background almost sent me off to sleep.

On leaving the clinic, Belinda armed me with an oily ointment, which she advised I apply three times a day for a week. Over the next couple of weeks I experienced a slight itchiness and the pigment faded a little as the skin flaked and settled. If the procedure has been carried out correctly, there should be no real scabbing of the skin and the slight flaking shouldn’t be noticeable.

Any slight inconsistencies were corrected on my second appointment and I am now the proud owner of two flawlessly-sculpted, natural-looking brows. Belinda’s approach is a perfect blend of professionalism, compassion and empathy, and I really could not have wished for a better result.

Prices start at £495 for High Def Hairstroke Brows. For more information, visit belindahayle.com Follow Gemma on Twitter: @GemmaPhelan TR

BEFORE

AFTER

100% SHERRY CASKS 100% NATURAL COLOUR 100% THE MACALLAN

THE MACALLAN GOLD The Macallan 1824 Series has been created to showcase the beautiful range of natural colour found in our whiskies – each expression becoming darker and more complex.

The Macallan Whisky Maker, Bob Dalgarno, has handpicked 100% sherry casks to deliver the rich, 100% natural colour and the full bodied aromas and flavours for which The Macallan is recognised and famed.

THE MACALLAN GOLD, A SINGLE MALT OF EXEMPLARY CHARACTER AND FLAVOUR

DI SCOV ER THE M ACA LL A N 1 8 2 4 SERIE S AT THEM ACA LL A N .COM P L E A SE SAVOUR RE SP ON SIBLY

THE REVIEW 2013 3

.BLT. THE

The formidably styled and fiercely sartorial Lord of the Trad Clan, David The formidably styled and Minns fiercelylooks sartorial, of the Trad Frost’s clan, David Minns.

This issue, Minns. This issue, backLord at Sir David sartorial savvy.

David talks about his man crush on Sir Michael Caine.

Pictures: MANY Photography: MANY

Words: DAVID MINNS

B LT : F R O S T

To say that Sir David Frost was merely a presenter would be missing the point. He was a household name. And rightly so, given his involvement in such popular franchises as LWT and TV-am, not to mention the show which gave him his lucky break, ‘That Was The Week That Was’.

And perhaps most famously, he was the man who caused former US President Richard Nixon to apologise on global television.

But none of these things, great though they are, are what left an indelible mark on Bristol’s Local Tailor. Nor was it his unmistakable voice, which rings in my head as I type: “Hello, good evening and welcome”. No, it was the fact that, come rain or shine, whether presenting, hosting or starring, David Frost ALWAYS wore a suit and tie – an accolade, indeed, when you consider that since his first appearance on television, we have born witness to the demise of, first, the tie, then the jacket, to the point where we had presenters wearing tracksuits. I shall mention no names, but I think we realise the folly now.

Sir David was a stalwart of sartorial correctness – even if he did wear his jacket unfastened from time to time – and a figure that I for one will mourn, as he disappears from the public eye to rub shoulders with the gentry of the sky.

And selfishly, I mourn the lost opportunity I was presented some years ago, when Sir David invited me and my editor to interview him at his offices, with the opportunity to measure him for a suit – can you imagine!?

Alas, Mr Frost had omitted to inform his PA, who in turn made no such omission when informing us that Sir David was booked on that day. But at least we were asked.

And pawing through the obituaries, tributes and homages, I find my sunken heart again lifted by the wardrobe of one of our most enigmatic broadcasting legends. Here are some of my favourites.

Black 2pc suit, white shirt and black sock tie: worn to interview the Beatles in 1965. Very much a look of the time, which still cuts a dash to this day and made famous a second time by Quentin Tarantino in Reservoir Dogs.

Dark 2pc suit with wide lapel worn with broad tie: worn to interview Richard Nixon in 1977. The adoption of the Kipper tie, made famous by irreverent tailor Tommy Nutter, showed Frost’s ability to keep up with the times (or on-trend, as they say), something his peers failed at miserably.

Navy suit worn with a pale blue shirt with contrasting white collars and cuffs: a style that is oft attributed to Michael Douglas as Gordon Gekko, and which I am wearing as I write.

If the presenters of today could at least dress as well as David Frost, never mind share his ability, it would be a start. But to leave us without so much as a contender is a sorry state of affairs.

Goodbye, goodnight and sayonara, Sir David. You will be sorely missed.

landing at lhr

TR

sir david for dunhill

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BEST DRESSED

Words: Chiara Thomas

WHO: Gwen Stefani WHERE: Beverly Hills, California Let’s be honest – it’s not every day you see a mother of two in her mid-forties looking this good. Stefani effortlessly struts her stuff through Beverly Hills here giving any twentysomething newbie a run for their money.

Showing off statement white skinny jeans accentuated with eye-catching geometric prints and black caged booties, Stefani proves that rock ‘n’ roll really is the way to stroll this season. She finishes off the look with her trademark bright red lipstick and retroinspired wooden-framed glasses, serving to add extra ‘edge’.

WHO: Kate Moss WHERE: Loulou’s private members club, London There’s probably only one thing more difficult to pull off in this day and age than wideflared palazzo trousers: green wide-flared palazzo trousers. However once again Kate Moss proves the whole world wrong by stepping out in London looking every inch the femme sophistiquée in a high-waisted pair of emerald palazzos. She pairs them with an elegant black fitted jacket, black leather whip belt and a glitzy chain mail silver clutch for an overall balanced ensemble. When it comes to getting the London look, Moss is Boss.

FA S H I O N : B E S T D R E S S E D

WHO: Dianne Agron WHERE: Miu Miu show, Paris Fashion Week Agron was looking Paris-perfect at the French capital’s hugely-popular Miu Miu show, beautifully showcasing autumnal city chic through a variety of navy shades. Dressed in Miu Miu, here the Glee star parades a delicate chiffon wrap dress in navy with a heavy, sequin-collared overcoat in a darker, imperial navy shade. Adding a lighter, more youthful edge to the look is Agron’s turquoise clutch, keeping true to the blue tones of the outfit but maintaining alive a sense of spring at the same time. Bravo.

WHO: Jenson Button WHERE: Rush Premiere, London Never mind racing cars, this look gets women’s hearts racing the world over. Dressed head-totoe in Hugo Boss, Button’s peak lapel grey suit, gun metal tie, light grey shirt and black lace shoes make him every inch the dapper gentleman. Furthermore, we never thought we’d say it but the male equivalent of a lady’s handbag might just be a racing helmet. Could there be anything sleeker than combining high fashion with a fast and dangerous sport à la James Bond? We think not. Va va voom.

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WHO: Russell Brand WHERE: GQ Men of the Year Awards Russell Brand was looking suave at the GQ Awards in a shiny textured navy jacket, an open white shirt and black and white knitted scarf – not to mention, of course, the stand-out silver boots. The open white shirt lends the look a casual, Middle-Eastern twist coupled with the detailed black leather belt. However, Brand manages to get the casual-couture balance just right through the juxtaposition of shiny, statement garments appropriate for the occasion with the informal choice of shirt and jeans. A mélange of cultures in one outfit – a fascinating overall look.

WHO: David Beckham WHERE: Out and about in London David Beckham: the one man who finds it physically impossible to go wrong in the fashion stakes. Ever. This is another classic example of Beckham’s effortless daytime style as he takes a stroll through London in a quilted leather jacket, faded navy jeans and a quintessentially-British baker boy hat that one naively thought would never make a fashion comeback from beyond the farm. With Beckham back in the country showcasing looks like this, we’re all in for a treat.

FA S H I O N : E L I E S A A B

Middle Eastern Promise Words: ARNELLE PATERSON

The Arab world’s most successful designer showcased his Autumn/Winter 2013-2014 Paris Haute Couture collection’s sartorial elegance – every little girl’s dream.

Undoubtedly, the 49-year-old Elie Saab has emblazoned his mark on the fashion industry with celebrity clients including Katy Perry, Mila Kunis, Rihanna, Christina Aguilera and Bollywood actress Aishwarya Rai. Impressively, Saab had dressed 102 international celebrities by 2010. Additionally, he is an established designer amongst royalty with habitué, including Queen Rania of Jordan, Princess Madeleine of Sweden and Princess Beatrice of York.

This collection would not have been made possible without his atelier of 500 seamstresses. The models graced the stage with perfectly sleeked hair and sweeping fringes. Arabs are famed for their expertise with eye makeup application and this was evident with the blend of dark, smoky eye on the outer corners of the eye lid, while iridescent silver lined the tear ducts of the models for added prominence. An absence of elaborate jewellery and flowing hair

meant the dresses were the main focus of the show. The first piece that adorned the runway, worn by statuesque model Catherine McNeil, vividly echoes the burgundy gown worn by actress Halle Berry in 2002 at the Academy Awards. This very dress catapulted Saab into mainstream success overnight.

He explained “I tried to present a collection this time around a royal occasion, but in a very modern way, for a modern princess, who likes to treat her realm in a modern way, and the colours are from precious stones, and from this all the collection is embroidered in a way to show it as though its jewellery.”

A significant aura of royalty seeped through the rich nuances of burgundy, dove, navy blue, turquoise green and metallic silver, which were amongst the Lebanese-born designer’s latest collection. Saab’s style is the perfect fusion of western and eastern culture, with a mixture of conservative hemlines, asymmetric cuts, prom dresses and off-the-shoulder pieces, alongside sensuous deep, plunging neckline that

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conjures mind stimulation. Despite this, Elie has stayed true to his roots by incorporating the modesty of the Middle Eastern woman within the conservative nature of the majority of his line, replacing bare skin with demure necklines and delicate sheer embroidered organza.

Alanood Al-Sabah, co-founder of Octium Jewellery, expressed this view, saying “Elie Saab understands the way Arab women live now. His creations carry a message of subliminal freedom and luxury. His success is the result of merging the values of the Middle East with the modern standards of the West, to produce a fusion of the two in wearable works of art.” The regal inspired dresses truly are an exhibition of prolific creativity.

Saab’s influences are not only from his high profile customers, but his very own experiences. Saab began in 1982 with 15 employees specialising in bridal wear – wedding dresses and gowns using rich fabrics, lace, detailed embroidery, pearls, crystals and silk threads. All of which I love.

This attracted high society women who soon began sporting his designs.

His noble designs have such a idiosyncratic quality, because of his use of fabrics such as taffeta and satin paired with lighter fabrics – bridal finesse.

The bridal gown finale wowed the crowd with an impressive train that two models had to hold. With its layers of tulle created into a very impressivefluid train, this was the epitome of unique bridal couture – made to fit unique with hours of beautiful craftsmanship speaking volumes.

With more than 60 retail outlets across the world, including his native Beirut, Paris and London and designs sold in 22 countries, Mr Elie Saab is undoubtedly a success story. The launch of his fragrance, Le Parfum, in 2011, which became a bestseller in the UAE and 15 countries, this man has no intentions of slowing down. Arguably, the contrast between this line and his first haute collection in Paris, July 2003, suggests Saab is ameliorating and I strongly expect him to do so.

He is a bona fide designer: the time, effort and overall finesse shines through his craftsmanship, resulting in apparel that makes women look and feel beautiful and sophisticated – and in this case, like royalty.

Saab has stated “We look to celebrities who represent femininity – in all shapes and sizes. Doing this gives me great satisfaction.” Well, admiring Elie Saab’s work gives me the greatest visual gratification, not because of my penchant for Arab designers or my part-Syrian heritage, but because his clothes glorify the female anatomy.

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30s Romanticism Words: Arnelle Paterson

FA S H I O N : PA L Z I L E R I

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Suave, sophisticated, wealthy and authoritative: the characteristics of the alpha male that men strive for and women desire. Such adjectives have been metaphorically sewn into the fabric of Italian fashion house Pal Zileri’s Autumn/Winter 2013-2014 collection. Creative director Yvan Benbanaste’s muse was the character Major Jim Whittaker, an upper middle class male from British romantic comedy Easy Virtue, portrayed by actor Colin Firth. The aura of the 1930s Englishman surrounds this collection with the abundance of tailor fitted, exquisite coats. Portuguese model Ricardo Guedes is the perfect embodiment of the chic

era, photographed by Alistair Taylor-Young enjoying the mountainous setting. I cannot help but think of classic villas and 19th century Romanticism influences within an idyllic English countryside, evoking subtle undertones of liberation and expression.Pal Zileri’s collaboration with famous Italian woollen mill Fratelli Tallia di Delfino has proven to be a synergistic success, with the production of exclusive suits and blazers of supreme quality. The ‘Super 130’ yarn provides comfortable movement with superb waterproof, crease-resistance and anti-bacterial properties. The colour scheme of anthracite and lighter greys, deep red, lilac,

shades of brown and cream places this Italian line at the forefront of contemporary fashion trends catered to the ultra-masculine man.

Gruppo Forall has stayed true to his house style with short jackets (although 2cm longer than his LAB Autumn/Winter range, created with younger clientele in mind) designed with rich fabrics of heavy merino wool, fine silk, cashmere and hand woven tweed. The wider, higher lapels with 7mm stitching featured on selected jackets offers versatility, whilst flattering all body types, it can be worn for business, as a wardrobe staple or a dinner date. A deep v-neckline creates the illusion of height and

slimmer frame.

Alternatively, the pointed lapel on the doublebreasted suit jackets are essential staple items for drawing attention at weddings, black tie events and formal dinners. As the top of the lapels make a sharp point across the shoulder, the eyes of admirers are drawn primarily to this region emphasising broad shoulders. An added value within the jackets are displayed within the rich lining and “silk touch” labelling, the tartan pattern of one piece suggests that Forall has been influenced by the return of 90s fashion. I highly recommend purchasing the velvet checked blazer; the luxurious

nature of velvet instantaneously adds style to any outfit, while the print binds a show-stopping, unique quality to the apparel, setting you apart from the crowd.

I’m not a fan of polo necks, but the combination of the paisley print scarf and precious textiles yak and mohair used within the knitwear complement each other splendidly.

The amalgamation of the knitwear, scarf and jacket allow absolute insulation with a classy aesthetic, while the slight hint of purple brightens up the outfit, albeit slightly.

‘Made in Biella’ truly applies to this conceptual collection with its advanced, elaborate

crafting techniques. Gruppo Forall has successfully joined the likes of Armani, Prada and Dolce and Gabbana as an exquisite Italian designer with excellent workmanship and an ambassador for sublime, elegant menswear.

Whether you’re a businessman who travels abroad searching for impeccable ski wear for a weekend in the Swiss Alps, or simply the epitome of the urbane male, you cannot go wrong with this collection. It is the perfect concoction of au courant with a vintage twist for the dapper, modern day man and pieces I can assure you will remain classic for a lifetime.

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Musa En Oto単o Stylist: Margarita Lievano

Hair: Lisia Elliott

MUA: Natasha J Wright

Photographer: Margarita Lievano Models: Onya Nwokedi at OXYGEN MODELS and Marina Borozna at BODY LONDON

FA S H I O N : B O B B Y R E Y E S

D&G- White Ruched Bodice sleeveless Silk satin Dress Cutler and Gross- Glasses Marc by Marc Jacobs- Karlie textured-leather mini bag

L’Agence Crepe Jersey Jumpsuit Alberta Ferreti Silver Shoes Alexander McQueen- Black Belt

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Red Valentino-Silk georgette shirt Gucci- Matte Satin trouser Tara Jarmon- wool black Blazer Jimmy Choo- Black stilettos

Red Valentino-Silk georgette shirt Tara Jarmon- wool black Blazer Jimmy Choo- Black stilettos

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BRUSSELS The (Fashion) Capital of Europe Words: CHIARA THOMAS Brussels. Home to renowned Belgian chocolate, barrels of beer, and a little thing called European politics. With foreigners making up nearly 70% of its population, Brussels’ cultural and artistic diversity does not go unnoticed; the city embraces its status as a podium for innovative ideas with a heavy emphasis on individuality. With this in mind, Brussels’ fashion scene finds itself pulsing for recognition, ready to pounce on the international stage at any moment with a firm desire to cement itself upon the fashion map.

Within this cultural cauldron is some material magic – and it’s been brewing a while.

Being the capital of the European Union, Brussels offers its heart and soul to the continent in more ways than one. For instance, in February of this year, the Vice President of the European Commission, Antonio Tajani, heightened the concentration of fashion discourse in the Belgian capital like never before. In his true native-Italian style, Tajani interweaved Brussels’ political scene with that of European fashion, raising the idea that the reinforcement of growth and competitiveness of the European fashion industries be the key to a successful future for European industry as a whole – after all, Europe’s fashion and high-end industries account for 10% of European exports, thus making them global leaders.

Tajani’s intensification of the fashion subject within his political commitments was voiced before an array of CEOs of fashion and high-end industries including Harrods,

Chanel and LVMH. In declaring Brussels open to all things fashion, dressed in a sharp Italian-tailored suit and navy blue Marinella tie from the comfort of his chic office on the twelfth floor of the Berlaymont building at the European Commission headquarters, Tajani’s invitation to the European fashion market to accept Brussels as an aid to its future has made Brussels a fashion term worth mentioning. Not only is it currently common to rub shoulders with European designers such as Spain’s Agatha Ruiz de la Prada and Italy’s Paolo Zegna along the corridors of the Berlaymont, but 2013 has given the Belgian capital and its talent the push they need to rise amongst neighbouring fashion superpowers, London and Paris. For the first time, fashion lenses across the continent are zooming in on Brussels with a curious eye; it is very difficult to transform politics into a chic affair – but it appears that Brussels has smashed it.

Although the Belgian capital may not boast the historical style files of its geographical neighbours in the form of figures such as Marie Antoinette or Queen Elizabeth I, Brussels does hold a secret style weapon in the form of local girl and international style icon, Audrey Hepburn. Known best for influencing the incorporation of Wayfarer sunglasses, white pearls and the little black dress into the wardrobes of women across the globe during the 1950s and beyond, Hepburn was in fact born and raised in Brussels during early childhood. It goes sans dire, therefore, that

FA S H I O N : B R U S S E L S

DIOR HAUTE COUTURE 2013 SPring summer - raf simons

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Anaïs Lalu

the Hepburn heritage of Brussels’ fashion scene boasts potential for the future.

What really makes Flanders fashion stand out today, however, is the genuine universal drive to be different. Belgium’s young designers are realists; they are perfectly aware that they are not in the running to becoming the next iconic Yves Saint Laurent or Coco Chanel fashion house – but they do want the world to enjoy and indulge in the carnival of avantgarde creations that they showcase along the way to being the best they can be. It is the profound modesty in the aura of Belgian designers and their collections that makes them that much more appreciable and that much more respectable. One of Belgium’s most famous examples is Dries Van Noten, a Flemish designer who owns five stores worldwide, but does not advertise the brand. With

this in mind, Van Noten’s rich, imaginative and eccentric designs have led to him being hailed as “one of fashion’s most cerebral designers” by the New York Times, as well as winning the International Award of the Council of Fashion Designers of America in 2008, and dressing Hollywood royalty in the form of Cate Blanchett for the Academy Awards in that same year.

Furthermore, international super house, Christian Dior, also benefits from a sprinkle of sought-after Belgian talent in the form of Raf Simons – the brand’s recently-appointed general Creative Director hailing from Flanders – and Kris Van Assche, yet another Belgian designer appointed as Creative Director of the Dior Homme collections, specifically. With this much Belgian blood running through the veins of the international

fashion industry, creative minds the world over are curious as to what more the heart of Europe has to offer.

In terms of Belgium’s emerging talent, upand-coming designers hoping to clasp just an element of Van Noten’s success benefit from a vast array of support systems offered by the city of Brussels in order to enhance the fashion presence within the metropolis.

On the whole, Brussels offers one of the most promising of European platforms for nascent labels. Boasting one of Europe’s most competitive and respected design institutions in La Cambre fashion school, the city invests in the annual promotion of emerging Belgian brands through exhibitions, workshops and regular catwalk shows. One example of which is Madifesto, the first festival dedicated to the fashion industry in Belgium offering

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showrooms and presentations, as well as welcoming the presence of important figures in the francophone fashion world such as Didier Grumbach, the President of the French Federation of Couture. The ten-day festival organised by Mad Brussels – the city’s own organisation catering specifically to the development of Brussels on the international fashion map – hopes to become, over time, a highlight event on the wider fashion agenda, turning Brussels into “a centre for fashion in Europe.”

This June brought Madifesto’s highlight event in the La Cambre graduate show sponsored once again by the previously-mentioned Belgian talent enthusiast, Christian Dior. The event boasted big potential for the future of fashion sourced from Brussels with this year’s one to watch being Anaïs Lalu (below im-

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ages), a fifth-year La Cambre student whose mastery of the rich jewel-fabric relationship demonstrated in her new collection is predicted to catapult onto the international stage within the next few years. Undeniably, Brussels has got talent – and 2013 is here to prove it.

Brussels demonstrates quality over quantity like very few other European cities trying their luck at the highly-competetive fashion industry, holding such solid foundations in cities such as London, Paris and Milan.

With a portion of high-quality talent, a dose of investment and a sprinkle of recognition, Brussels has all the ingredients to become an effective fashion capital. To quote Tajani: “Brussels is open for business”. And that business is fashion.

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PAIN & GAIN Exercise is hard work. It’s a life choice, more than anything. The choice is: do you want a longer life?

Words: PETER ROBINSON Photography: DAVID LLOYD LEISURE

H E A LT H : PA I N A N D G A I N

PAIN

Let’s move away from big is beautiful. Yes, the fifteenth century saw an art movement when big was beautiful. Heart failure and death in your forties was also commonplace.

Over the last decade, life expectancy has increased by around ten years for men and eight years for women. This huge increase is down to quality of life, sanitation, immunisation and, of course, diet and exercise.

As I turn thirty this issue, I am ever more aware of my own mortality. I can’t say I feel any older – so age is indeed just a number. In my early twenties, I was a standard 9.5 stone, give or take, which given my medium stature was acceptable BMI-wise. As the scales turned in my mid twenties, I, like many male friends, became locked into the relationship cycle. I would lose weight in order to mate, then gain weight during the courtship. This cycle continued for a number of years.

I was never athlete-level or a fitness model, but I could fit into a small Dolce and Gabbana shirt, put it that way. The same shirt now sits in the wardrobe, motionless, resenting me for not working harder to fit into it.

The shirt, of course, is the end goal. And with the help of the trainers at David Lloyd Leisure, I will get there – or die trying.

I was told during my formative years that taking a while to sort my hair out in the morning and having a pre and post shave regime that involved ‘products’ made me a metrosexual. Utter bollocks. Taking care of your appearance and fitness shows good breeding and depth of character. In an ever more competitive world, the strong survive.

They get up in the morning and dress for success, god damn it. Manifest destiny.

Having made a conscious decision to shelve the extra weight for good, I needed somewhere that could offer me more than a room of machines and weights. Of course

the weight area and machines have their place in my routine, but I needed more. I wanted to get back to swimming, and playing squash and badminton. In an ideal world, I would join a country club, but this isn’t New England in the 1950s. Having done my research, I opted for David Lloyd Leisure, a well regarded organisation in my circle.

It has been about three months and now a firm morning fixture: a wave, smile and hello from Dean, then a 40-minute cardio session followed by a series of stomachcurdling floor exercises. And if my shoulder isn’t acting up, as much weight as possible.

This is followed by a steam, jacuzzi and swim (indoor or outdoor). But that’s just my average regime. There is more to do at my David Lloyd Leisure branch than I can fit into one session. A plethora of courses are available, from tai chi to yoga to Pilates. Don’t jump on the alternative-exercise-scorning bandwagon; the restorative benefits of yoga and Pilates are longstanding. Flexibility and core strength is a must for any long-term weight-loss programme. Check out the full list of courses online.

Whilst my current workout regime is geared towards losing weight and toning up, I do seem to have added a half-a-stone of muscle to my shoulders. This results in people saying “You’re looking bulky” – something that I am more-than-happy to take credit for.

The goal is not hit yet, though, people. Not by a long shot.

The Christmas period is almost here. Now I fully expect to be sat around with my family this year, stuffing all manner of delicious gravy-soaked carbs into my mouth, but that doesn’t mean that I need to return to the working populous in 2014 with an extra two inches on the waist. Not at all.

My regime is geared around hitting the gym

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every other day, so 3-4 times a week. Obviously there are people that find time for the gym every day. If you work as a model or have zero social life, then you are more than welcome to hit two a day. Exercise is geared towards your own personal needs and time constraints. If you want to take a quick dip in the pool, play a game of tennis or run a marathon, it is up to you. It doesn’t matter how you use the gym, as long as you do use it.

One of the most high-impact, cardio-centric racket sports is squash. I often remember my lithe mother soundly beating me at our local squash centre in straight sets. I was quite a skinny child, so perhaps I couldn’t get the power behind the ball. Things are

very different now. After three games I am shattered. That forms the central warm-up to my workout: pain and gain.

Working out and exercising to fit in those jeans or just feel better about yourself is no picnic. It takes discipline and a solid work ethic. If you don’t think you have the concentration, then book one of the David Lloyd Leisure trainers to start carving you out of stone. It is perfectly respectable to have a personal trainer there to motivate you and get every last drop of energy out of those muscles.

But moving away from the options available, the fact is that people who walk 75 minutes a week are likely to live an extra 1.8 years. You cannot argue with the facts: healthy people

who exercise live longer. I would love to sugar coat it for you and say that you should just exercise when you want to, if you want to. The reality, though, is that some people just need the brutal truth. Of course, if you don’t respond well to shock tactics, exercise releases endorphins, the same chemical the pituitary gland releases during orgasm and love. Exercise: more cost effective and less jail time than meeting that shady character at the back of the pub.

As this is only my second column on the subject of exercise, let’s see whether my body weight reduces over Christmas or if I come back to the office festively plump via a winch through a skylight.

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Meet The Eyewear Stylists We talk to eyewear stylist Alistair Benson about Eyesite Privé – the future of luxury eyewear shopping.

They come to your home and they come to your workplace. In an age where time is valuable, the high-class eyewear stylists have provided their clients with a fresh way to shop for eyewear. Their CV boasts over forty years industry experience, three successive National Eyewear Awards, three luxury eyewear boutiques, department store concessions, and one very impressive client base to their name.

Eyesite have become the premier name associated with Luxury Eyewear in the UK, this year being crowned the UK’s No.1 Luxury Eyewear Retailer. Eyesite’s latest venture, ‘Eyesite Privé’, sees the eyewear experts launch an exclusive personal eyewear styling service, designed to meet the needs of the UK’s most discerning clientele.

“Our company ethos and business goals have not altered that much since receiving our national awards,” says Alistair. “Delivering first class service and pairing the perfect eyewear with our members has always been at the forefront of our make-up. With the evolution of Eyesite Privé, our wish is simply to take this experience to the next level. Many people are looking for so much more than what the traditional eyewear shopping experience can possibly offer. This is where Eyesite Privé specialise.”

Eyewear is now, of course, a major fashion necessity, with most leading fashion labels

(such as Tom Ford, Celine, Dior, Chopard and Chanel) now carrying extensive optical and sunglasses lines in their collections. The Eyesite Privé concept works to minimise the stresses of shopping for eyewear, whilst maximising the tailored choice on offer for each client.

“Choosing eyewear is a very intimate occasion,” continues Alistair, “and we want our clients to enjoy unrivalled private attention and a bespoke selection, edited down from the overwhelming mass available across the globe; all in the comfort and privacy of their own homes.”

It is this exclusive appeal that has attracted elite clients from many well-publicised professions to utilise Eyesite Privé’s products and services, including stars from the music, sport and film.

“We’ve had the pleasure of styling some very high-profile clients, whose image is an essential element of their public profiles. It is understandable that these clients appearing in the public eye want to make the right choices in this department.”

As well as providing fittings for the more well-known faces, the Eyesite Privé blue print (although an exclusive service) strikes a chord for many more people, and for many different reasons.

“When you consider that eyewear may be the

most prominent accessory you will ever own, you can then understand why our client base is so varied. For example, we’ve assisted clients who are new to wearing glasses and a touch apprehensive about where to start. We source styles for avid collectors who dislike trawling the shops in search of their next pair. We accommodate busy investors at their homes where time is very precious. And we cater for small holidaying groups who have a fetish for exclusive luxury sunglasses. Whatever the client’s motivation, Eyesite Privé can be a very useful number to have in your phone book.”

Eyesite Privé have built a reputation for having their fingers on the pulse, ensuring their clients remain ahead of the pack in the style stakes. Holding strong links with the very best in luxury brands, whilst also doing the ground work to discover the best upcoming labels, has certified their authenticity and ability to offer objective solutions to any client brief.

“It’s not always easy for individuals to shop for eyewear on the high street, because it’s impossible for stores to create a collection solely for your visit. That’s what makes this concept so definitive. You’re in your own peaceful environment, with your personal eyewear collection. No onlookers and no overwhelming mass. Just you and your eyewear.”

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Website: eyesiteprive.co.uk | Twitter: @eyesiteprive | Contact: (+44)1482 844875

STYLE : EYESITE PRIVE

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Bilderberg 2013: Big Data, Africa’s Challenges and Cyber Warfare Words: Dr ILEANA JOHNSON PAUGH The Bilderbergs met on June 6-9, 2013 at the Grove Hotel in Watford. The secretive society of ministers, CEOs, financiers, heads of state and politicians are hiding behind the Great Wall of Watford, “a concrete-andwire security fence encircling the hotel.”

The locals showed little concern about the content of the conference or the fact that elite powers shape the world without any input from the global masses whose lives are fundamentally altered by the decisions of a few billionaires interested only in their power, control and financial gain.

The Bilderberg summit was attended by 140 people from 21 countries and included the head of the IMF, the president and a vicepresident of the European Commission, the prime minister of Holland, a dozen other ministers, any number of transnational CEOs and bank bosses, the chairmen of the Swiss and Dutch national banks, and our own chancellor of the exchequer.

Sadly, it is a summit of policy discussions for the entire planet, yet it does not have the blessing, knowledge or benefit of the voters and taxpayers, who will be affected by these secret discussions, later translated into national and international policies.

The residents were not concerned about the globalist agenda; on the contrary, they were worried about a strip of grass alongside A41 that could have been disturbed by parked vehicles. They relaxed after being told that the conference was “cost-neutral” to Hertfordshire.

The Bilderberg Association, registered as a UK charity, had received donations from Goldman Sachs and BP to defray the police costs and any damages. If the high fence failed, the Herts police were eager to keep any inquisitive journalists away from the hotel.

The MSM in the U.S. ignores the Bilderbergs, but European newspapers are exposing more and more these meetings of the most influential elites. The 59-year-old society’s main topic this time was ‘Africa’s challenges’. The entire guest list and additional topics of discussion were published by the Telegraph: Can the US and Europe grow faster and create jobs; Jobs, entitlement and debt; How big data is changing almost everything; Nationalism and populism; US foreign policy;

POLITICS : BILDERBERG Africa’s challenges; Cyber warfare and the proliferation of asymmetric threats; Major trends in medical research; Online education: promise and impacts; Politics of the

“The puppet masters decide monetary policy, fiscal policy, shape conflicts, and determine the size of the military industrial complex” European Union; Developments in the Middle East; Current affairs.

Was it coincidental that the liberal-touted “Arab Spring” turned into an “Arab Winter” that is destabilising the entire Middle East and North Africa, allowing the Muslim Brotherhood to take over and Sharia Law to become the law of the land? Was it coincidental that all Muslim-dominated countries are now in turmoil and civil war, making strides toward that long-sought after caliphate?

Maybe the shale boom had distressed and inconvenienced OPEC members. Perhaps global elites are ready to address the injustice in Darfur and the piracy in Somalia.

Maybe they discussed the tyrannical third world countries in Africa that keep populations poor, uneducated, hungry and driven TR

off ancestral lands. Maybe they addressed the atrocious treatment of women, the rapes, murders and mutilations in predominantly Muslim countries in Africa.

It is not coincidental that the euro zone is now an “economic prison, with Germany as the jailer, and the common currency as the bars,” as Ross Douthat of the New York Times so aptly described it.

Global elites influenced the Cyprus lawmakers to steal $17.1 billion of savings deposits from hapless depositors who were so brainwashed and bribed into the liberal/ socialist democratic consensus nonsense that they can no longer see how the elites, via government mismanagement, manipulate the population into blind compliance and austerity measures.

Global elites, ‘the puppet masters’, decide monetary policy, fiscal policy, shape conflicts, and determine the size of the military industrial complex and voting outcomes, choosing candidates who eventually become presidents and/or prime ministers.

Is it coincidental that the ‘Post-2015 Development Agenda’ report, outlining the five transformational shifts, applicable to both developed and developing countries, including a new Global Partnership, as a single, universal agenda based on the vision of the elites at the U.N., was just released on May 30, 2013? This Post-2015 Development Agenda is the new version of U.N.’s 1992 Agenda 21 transformation of the

globe, based on Sustainable Development, an alarmist consensus vision concocted to “save” a declining planet plagued by manufactured man-made global warming.

Is it coincidental that America has lost 40-50 percent of its wealth, redistributed aggressively in the last five years in the on-going effort to fundamentally transform our society into the vision of our leftist administration empowered by globalists?

In light of the recent revelations from the NSA data collection, Maxine Waters’ statement from February 3, 2013 on the Roland Martin Show should give us pause. “Some people are missing something here. The President has put in place an organisation that contains the kind of database that no one has ever seen before. That’s going to be very, very powerful. That database will have information about everything, on every individual in ways that’s never been done before.”

It is troublesome when public officials from various countries attend the secret Bilderberg meetings without any public disclosure. The shadow global government is tightening its grip.

Dr. Ileana Johnson Paugh is a freelance writer, author, radio commentator and speaker. Her most recent book, U.N. Agenda 21: Environmental Piracy, has been on the bestseller list on Amazon since October, 2012.

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“A horse gallops with his lungs, perseveres with his heart, and wins with his character” — Tesio Words: PETER ROBINSON Photography: HENNESSY

EVENT : HENNESSY GOLD CUP

JOCKEY BAR

The first recorded racing at Newbury took place in 1805 with ‘Newbury Races’, an annual two-day race meeting at Enborne Heath. The meeting lasted until 1811, when it transferred to Woodhay Heath until 1815.

Newbury Racecourse didn’t come into existence for another 90 years when Kingsclere trainer John Porter proposed a new racecourse at Newbury. The Jockey Club had laid down strict qualifications for new racecourses, and after Porter’s plans were rejected several times, a chance meeting with King Edward VII brought about a further application, which with the King’s support was approved by the Jockey Club.

In April 1904, the Newbury Racecourse Company was formed and purchased the land and construction began of the buildings and stables at a cost of £57,240. The prize of the Hennessy Gold Cup this year is three times that of the original price to build the course itself.

This November, the Hennessy Heritage Festival will take place at The Racecourse Newbury on 28, 29 and 30 November.

The three-day meet is one of the most fashionable social events on the calendar and will no doubt attract a host of celebrities and style icons, drenched in Chanel and draped in tweed. One of my favourite reasons for attending races held in the colder months is the opportunity to really dress for the occasion.

Last year saw attendance from Elizabeth Hurley, Amanda Holden, Hugh Bonneville and George Lamb, to name but a few.

Stephen Higgins, Managing Director at The Racecourse Newbury, said: “The Hennessy Gold Cup day is one of the biggest events in the social calendar. The racing is always fantastic and we’re looking forward to the biggest Hennessy Heritage Festival yet this November.”

The Hennessy Gold Cup has been won by some top-class horses over the decades, and last year’s victor, Bobs Worth, went on to triumph in the Cheltenham Gold Cup in March. The opening two days include the Bet365 Hurdle, The RSA Novices’ Chase, The Fuller’s Pride Novices’ Steeple Chase

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and Sportingbet Long Walk Hurdle, won in recent years by the greatest stayer of all time, Big Buck’s. Total prize money of £570,000 is up for grabs over the three days, an increase of 20% on 2012.

The Hennessy Heritage Festival is about much more than just the first-class racing.

The Racecourse Newbury offers exceptional restaurant and private box options. The Hennessy restaurant features panoramic views of the whole racecourse and a perfect location to see all of the action.

Ticket prices start from £20 for Grandstand, £30 for Premier Enclosure, and the three-

THE 2:30

day Premier Enclosure ticket is £75 and includes a collectable limited edition badge.

For booking and more information, visit racecoursenewbury.co.uk.

The Review team will be in attendance at this year’s pedigree racing fixture: tweed, cigars and bin.

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THE 3:30

THE 4:30

Making the Most of Family Time

By John Bird, Managing Director, Ashton Rose Concierge It’s a simple fact that successful people are busier than ever. The stresses of modern life have grown as lifestyles become increasingly global and 24/7. These pressures are not confined only to the workplace, but inevitably spill over into personal and family life as well. One of the rewards for working hard should be spending quality time with your family. However, trying to achieve this can often seem like yet another daunting task on an endless list of to-dos.

The difference is between planning time with your family and actually spending time with your family.

For example, a family holiday or outing sounds like a great idea – but in reality, how many hours will it take to organise? In my experience, once the hours are added up, it can take days. This is time which could be spent with your children, instead of in front of a computer, desperately trying to hunt down the perfect accommodation.

This is why concierge services for families are so important and so popular. We do all the planning.

The whole point of a holiday is to relax – and so we take the stress out of organisation. Most of our clients have been with us for so long that all we need is a short conversation with the family member to get a sense of what everyone wants. (Sun? Snow? Somewhere off the beaten track? Somewhere familiar?) But even with new clients, it doesn’t take long to get a sense of what will and won’t work.

Once this basic understanding is in place, we present the family with multiple options based on previous client experiences. After this, we’ve got a good idea of what is wanted and (for us) the hard work begins to arrange

concrete options – accommodation, flights, sight-seeing, everything. We take care of every detail.

By the time the family leaves for their holiday, not only has the organisation process been stress-free (and maybe even fun) for them, the holiday itself feels like it should: fun, relaxing family time.

Of course, the stresses of family life extend well beyond just planning holidays, as do the services of a modern family concierge. For many of our families, we do everything from managing individual itineraries to buying Christmas gifts.

For example, one family who has been with us for years divides their time between London and Switzerland. We know them so well that we purchase school uniforms for the coming term and arrange the children’s birthday parties (including invitations, venue, entertainment, catering and birthday gifts). In fact, arranging these sorts of parties is one of our most requested services. We offer everything from horse rides to performances by famous singers or bands.

For other families, we manage the general running of the house, such as paying utility bills and arranging general maintenance, and interviewing and appointing housekeepers or nannies. We also purchase vehicles for families, and often get requests to try and secure some latest model which is not yet available to the general public (we usually can). We’ve even offered advice on the best tumble-dryer to buy!

It’s often the simplest things which can be worth the most. One family was expecting an important delivery to their London home but

couldn’t be there to receive it – so we popped over and waited for the courier to arrive. Like I said, a simple thing, but one phone call to us relieved a huge amount of potential stress!

After working with a family for many years, you build up a tremendous level of trust and understanding, which makes the concierge service even more valuable and rewarding.

For many of our families, we can predict their needs before they even say a word. This makes a huge difference to their quality of life.

As you might expect, many of our families are high-net-worth or ultra-high-net-worth. They often have a particular set of requirements to better manage what can be an extremely busy lifestyle, ranging from securing private jets at short notice to finding a berth for their yacht.

However, we apply the same high standards to everyone we work with. We also charge the same flat family-concierge annual retainer. So using our service will likely be less expensive than you might think. This is why a parent we work with once said to me: “I’d much rather have a concierge service than a gym membership!”

My one tip for selecting a concierge service for your family would be: give it time. As I hope this article has made clear, getting the most out of such a service requires trust and understanding, and these things aren’t built overnight. Once you’ve signed up, you’ll almost certainly be pleased you did, but there will be the occasional, inevitable hiccup in the first two or three months. Don’t let this put you off. I guarantee that after a year, you will look back and think ‘how did I ever survive without this?’

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SEA BREAC Words: PETER ROBINSON We are not delving into the realms of fantasy here. In the interest of keeping wish-lists worldwide stocked with the unobtainable, how about owning your own submersible?

Jet skis have their place and super yachts are somewhat pricy for entry level. What every Champagne Charlie needs is a Seabreacher X Watercraft. Not only is the Seabreacher shaped like a shark, it has a top speed of 50mph above the water and 25mph below.

That’s right – below. You have to consider how you would feel captaining it underwater, though. Imagine rolling up to the Lake District and backing a 260hp shark into the murky depths. The Breacher is US coastguard-inspected, although we doubt it will be long before some adventurous playboy orders one as a tender and rolls up to the Côte d’Azur.

The Seabreacher’s power and manoeuvrability is achieved by way of a fully vectored thrust system that mimics the tail articulation of sharks and dolphins. In fact, it’s so powerful it can even leap clean out of the water.

The transparent cockpit features additional mouth-shaped viewports to provide amazing visibility. What’s more a snorkelmounted vidcam transmits live images to LCD screens for the pilot and passenger during dives.

You also get GPS navigation and an onboard stereo system with iPod docking.

T O Y S : S E A B R E AC H E R

CHER

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Debut Contemporary

T. Raymonzrek, ‘Sunflower’, 2013, Mixed media, 115 x 115cm, £3,500

C U LT U R E : D E B U T C O N T E M P O R A RY

The Review sits down with Samir Ceric to discuss London’s top art business for talented and emerging artists.

Can you explain Debut Contemporary and how it started?

Debut Contemporary is a professional development platform designed to assist talented artists to turn their practice into a viable business. It mentors and professionally develops all members, equipping them with the business knowhow, teaching them that knowledge and relationships are worth investing in and will pay off, providing they showcase determination, commitment, resilience and vision.

It started when I was approached by two of my collectors with the idea of launching a fashion retail space for designers and jewellers. Before we knew it, my wife and I had co-founded Wolf & Badger with the Graham brothers, which became an award-winning business within a few months of its launch.

The idea is to help design talent to take their business to the next level and gain the necessary exposure to get noticed and succeed. Today, Wolf & Badger has stores on Ledbury Road, Dover Street and the Savoy Hotel. In November 2010, we applied this model to the art world and Debut Contemporary was born, launching for public in our Notting Hill gallery space in March 2011.

Are there particular types of art forms you deal with?

We deal with all types of art forms. Of course, a vast majority of works on display are paintings, photography, mixed media and sculpture.

How do you pick the artists you work?

We get a great deal of recommendations and I think, by end of the year, Debut might become a closed call and mostly attract recommendations and referrals.

At present our collectors, gallerists, curators, artists tell us who to check out or

tell their artists friends to apply and join the Debut programme. We regularly scout too, vising exhibitions, open studios, end of year degree shows, and just continue keeping our ear close to the ground, so we don’t miss out on great talent hiding out there.

How does an artist go about working with Debut Contemporary?

Artists go through a very rigorous process, but after that, the fun and serious work starts. We work very closely with each artist. Our ambition is to pass on our knowledge and knowhow, so when artists leave the programme after 12 or 18 months, they are more confident, more knowledgeable, more informed, better networked and fully understanding how the art system operates and who makes it in the art world and why. We place a great importance on getting to know their collectors and supporters, forging long term relationships with these people, who are often very influential and successful in their own right.

Do you have a favourite piece of art currently on display in the gallery?

If pushed, I would probably say Tony Raymonzrek’s Sunflower.

How can investors and people interested in artists connect with/buy their works?

We have launched a state-of-the-art e-commerce platform and have redesigned our website, which showcases artists and their work. I wanted to create a very experiential brand where both first-time buyers and experienced collectors felt comfortable to browse and buy art based on their preferences.

When asked what to buy, my advice is to buy what you fall in love with; buy what you connect with; buy art that evokes emotion in you. As for investment value,

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Ben Levy, ‘Sponsor Me’, 2011, Mixed media on paper, 42 x 59cm, £2,500

there is an element of investment in every artwork created by a talented emerging artist. However, if you want to speculate and invest, go for blue chip artists, which will cost you upwards of £100,000.

What are some current and forthcoming exhibitions/events you are excited about?

We have an exhibition coming up in Dubai, opening on 21st November at The Mine Dubai. Apart from just selling art to very powerful and influential Dubai collectors, gallerists and curators, the aim is to ensure that many Debut artists earn gallery representation in the Emerati and Middle Eastern markets I am also excited about our collaboration with the luxury chess set company Purling London, which launches on 30 October at Debut Contemporary. Ten Debut artists have been commissioned to create original artworks using chess

Alexandre Piacsek, ‘The Trackers I’, 2013, Mixed media, 106 x 146cm, edition of 8, £1,000

set pieces as a blank canvas. The results have been mind-blowing and it’s no surprise that Harrods has decided to stock it.

“When asked what to buy, my advice is to buy what you fall in love with; buy what you connect with; buy art that evokes emotion in you.”

Last but not least, our Christmas Show, Part I, launches on 6 November and we will have some special artwork premiering on that night.

What trends are you seeing emerging in the art world looking forward to 2014?

Crossovers between art and fashion, art and design, art and interior, art and food are getting stronger and stronger. It’s great being a part of this evolution of the art market. Technology is really helping to destroy barriers of entry, creating a non-intimidating art environment.

At Debut, we are very excited to play our part in making the art market a lot more democratic and a lot more artists centric and about their audience too. It’s never been more exciting to be an artist and or art collector, which directly supports young creative enterprises and ensures that artists stay in business and continue creating groundbreaking work.

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Thomas William Dowdeswell, ‘Neon Gods’, 2013, Oil on Canvas, 105 x 145cm (framed), £3,500

Paul Bennett, ‘Fool Yourself’, 2013, Oil on canvas, 76cm x 101cm, £1,000

Francesco Jacobello, ‘On Fire’, 2013, 54 x 74cm, Pencil and pencil pastels on paper, £1200£1200.

Carne Griffiths, ‘The Miracle’, 2013, Giclee print, 55 x 72cm, edition of 50, £300

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Some companies are allowed to choose from all the investment options out there.

Some companies aren’t allowed to choose from all the investment options out there.

There, that should help you choose.

At Brewin Dolphin, we don’t have anyone telling us what to do. We’re independently owned, and have none of the restrictions that can be associated with the big banks. Our investment managers are free to search the whole of the market to find the most suitable investments for their clients.

So if you’re looking for impartial, expert investment advice, make Brewin Dolphin your choice. You’ll find that the first thing we earn is your trust.

The value of your investment may fall and you may get back less than you invested.

0207 246 1000 brewin.co.uk/250 follow us on Twitter @BrewinDolphin Brewin Dolphin is a member of the London Stock Exchange and is authorised and regulated by the Financial Services Authority No.124444