Where better to try a Bordeaux Grand Cru than in its home town? Problem is pecuniary. Although restaurants around Bordeaux ask reasonable mark-ups, this still involves voluntary surgery. To keep my arms and legs intact, my cunning plan was to buy the wine from a local shop and take it to the restaurant which, for convenience, was Le Savoie, bang in the centre of Margaux.
Sometimes the seedy looking places turn out to be greatest. When walking along a Spanish seafront a good tip is to choose the place that has the most punters irrespective of decor or appearance. Xe Que Bó, Alicante Marina is just one of those places. It looks tackier than a Leeds nightclub carpet, but the food is fab.
I think I am addicted to capital haute cuisine. First I tried the 40th floor of the Gherkin.  Then the revolving 34th floor of the BT Tower. Recently I have stooped, metaphorically, to the 28th floor of one of the ugliest buildings in London: The Hilton, Park Lane, but probably the one with the finest, or at least poshest, view.
My day job takes me to some very ugly places. 1960’s office buildings in Longbridge, Liverpool and Lewisham. Soulless serviced office space in Southend, Slough and St Helens purporting to be “modern” but with more of a sense of Alcatraz than alacrity.
So it was an extremely pleasant surprise to be involved with an event at the BT Tower in London.
I have been taking the words haute cuisine a little too literally of late following a towering meal at 40:30 on the 39th floor of the gherkin last year, and this year (review yet to be published) Galvin @ Windows on the 28th floor of the Park Lane Hilton.
But there are few monuments, iconic buildings, national treasures, beautiful landmarks, and yet vital pieces of communication infrastructure that match this one.
Forgive the personal indulgence but this weblog is, in many ways, a record of my life, albeit told in the hazy after-mists of empty wine bottles. For a small portion of it, as a toddler in the 1960’s, I lived in a Surrey pub run by my grand-parents, Marjorie and Douglas. In those dim and distant days that I barely remember, it was called The Three Horseshoes – a fine pub name.
In more recent years it has passed through the hands of various do-wells including rock band managers and most latterly the self-proclaimed national alarm clock for the UK – fellow Mancunian* and Radio 2 DJ, Chris Evans.
Since my mum’s grave is just down the road in trendy (well in 1460 it was trendy) Lodsworth, where she is one of the most lively residents, I like to visit the Lickfold Inn occasionally, to keep an eye on the ghosts…and the food….and the wines….and the spirits.
Blimey. I travel all the way to London to meet up with a few EWBC fellows at Le Bouchon Breton for dinner and all I did was mention my controversial WART campaign…
Thanks to Daniel, the manager, for sharing a couple of super magnums of Châteauneuf-du-Pape with us.
The food at Le Bouchon was excellent and good value – much better than the “upmarket Café Rouge” it is accused of being, although the wine list seemed expensive (with due exception to the CdP!).
I realise I am risking treading on revered toes. Almost every food blogger within Patriot Missile range of London thinks that Hawsksmoor is legend. Esteemed mainstream critics from Jay Rayner to Giles Coren have extolled its fleshy virtues. I was recommended, no, TOLD to go there by cheese lover, Ramsay denier and beefy beefcake Chris Pople.
In short I expected great things. But whenever you set high expectations, it is inevitable that not everything lives up to the dream. And a few things fell short for me.
It was like stepping into a Victorian hunting odyssey. I almost expected a golden maned Aslan to stalk majestically through the lobby. Or the wardrobe door to open to reveal Mr Tumnus the fawn hanging butchered, ageing for 28 days, or whatever fawn meat hangs for.
Sunday Roast. Mmmmmmm. A weekend in London and it’s been a while since the last legendary Wino Sunday lunch. Time to make repairs but in a relaxed Sunday style. A quick flight at my favourite London wine bar. The Jubilee Line to London Bridge. A soupçon of jazz.
Anthony Flinn is a bit of a food legend in Leeds. His impressive CV includes a two year stint under Ferran Adrià at the world’s “best” restaurant, El Bulli. Flinn’s own flagship restaurant, Anthony’s, is perpetually tipped for a Michelin star. His latest project, Piazza, opened in late 2008, is situated in one of the most impressive, historically beautiful buildings in the North of England – Leeds Corn Exchange. Anthony’s footprint includes an impressive 125 seater brasserie, a patisserie, bakery, chocolatier and delicatessen. Wine, however, is another science.
My opening exchange with the waitress: Gevrey Chambertin Domaine Heresztyn 2005 please – what temperature would you serve that? “About two above room”. Ouch, no WART awards here. Please can I have an ice bucket? “Yes sir, no problem.” Things are starting to improve already. After all, the wine list looks well thought out, and superbly priced, and the menu looks bistro chic.
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