Belle Paris

I could probably split this blog up into any number of categories – landmarks, art galleries, food, wine – and spread it out through weekly installments for the next few months. Paris is indisputably the most tourist-visited city in the world and there is a lot to justify this, from the art, the history, the parks and the architecture. Its landmarks – le Tour Eiffel, Notre Dame Cathedral, L’Arc de Triomphe and Basilica Sacre Coeur – are among the most recognizable in the world.

But this is meant to be a blog about London so I will keep to the most important parts of Paris: the espressos, the red wine and the decadent, decadent food.

Some context first: I caught the Eurostar from St. Pancras after work on Thursday 21 October. Two hours later I was at Paris de Nord. The day turned out to be fitting on two fronts. For one, my very first glimpse of Paris was on the very same day in 2004 while backpacking with my sister, and Paul moved to the city on the same day in 2009.

Paul is a friend from Queen’s who made a similar life change to mine last autumn – we both followed our dreams to the Continent. Mine was to be a journalist in London and his was to be a chef in Paris. He has spent the last year working in a Michelin-star restaurant near L’Arc de Triomphe. But, luckily for me, he quit his job recently in anticipation of a move home to Toronto, so I had a well-versed, French-fluent tour guide to take me around.

We spent three days and nights in and around the standard Paris destinations – le Tour Eiffel, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre, Musee L’Orangerie, the Seine, Jardin des Tuilleries, Montmartre and Basilica Sacre Coeur, Musee Dali, L’Ile de la Cite, le Marais and Places des Vosges, Musee Rodin, Jardin Luxembourg, the Sorbonne, the Pantheon and the Latin Quarter, and L’Arc de Triomphe.

I have been to Paris before and have also been to most of the above landmarks, parks and galleries. This Paris visit was unique, however, because I got to have Paul take me around to the cobbled streets, cafes, restaurants, and arrondisements that he has come to love over the past year. And introduce me to the best croissants, espresso alongees, wines, and food that I have ever had.

It strikes me that French food is not necessarily any more elaborate or complicated than the food produced by any other nation. So why is it quite rightly the most unbelievable, delicious and mind-blowing cuisine in the world? I think it is because they do simple things very, very well. Every single bite of every single thing I tried was quite literally a life-changing experience. And it was just cheese, bread, wine and meat. I am not exaggerating.

First of all, only dull people are brilliant at breakfast. (That’s an Oscar Wilde quote that he likely coined while he was living in Paris – he now resides eternally in Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, close to Proust and Jim Morrison.) Paul and I avoided this adage each morning, sitting outside with croissants, pain chocolat and pain raisin, along with an espresso noire (for Paul) and espresso alongee (for me).

Breakfast (and this is not in any way a complaint) took the same form every morning. But lunch and dinner came in a variety of delicious entrees and plats, some of the most adventurous meals I have ever eaten. Over three days I ate: escargots, boeuf tartare, bone marrow, confit de canard, baguettes, cheeses, a poached egg in blue cheese (maybe the best thing I have ever put in my mouth), a crepe, a croque madame, and a hot dog wrapped with a baguette and melted cheese.

As much as I like to think I have a way with words, I don’t think I can aptly describe the way I felt in tasting each of these delicacies. I think I murmured “Oh my god” every time I tasted anything which is trite and what I say when words just won’t cut it. But I will do my best to explain how I felt at each of the meals I mentioned, even though I don’t believe I can do the actual experience any justice at all.

Paul took me out on Friday night in Chatelet to a typical French restaurant. For appetizers, I chose (or was coaxed into ordering) 12 snails and Paul had the bone marrow. First of all, I believe that when people describe food as orgasmic they are referring to a glob of bone marrow on a piece of toasted baguette. Seriously, I can’t think of much in life that is better than this. Then there were my escargots, which were challenging to evacuate from their shells – an activity level much like eating lobster – but I surprised myself by thoroughly enjoying their little curled bodies soaked in butter, garlic and parsley. The main course for me was raw beef – boeuf tartare – and it was sublime. Tender like sushi but more fulfilling, if that makes sense. Paul had l’ongler of pig, if I remember correctly, but I think he was jealous of my choice.

So the next day he remedied that at lunch by ordering the tartare himself. I had confit de canard (duck), which was blissful, but neither could compare to the appetizers that we chose. I am still not completely sure what the proper name of it was, but imagine a poached egg settled into a melted pot of blue cheese. Then pierce the egg and, as the yolk mixes with the cheese, scoop it up with pieces of baguette. Again, to quote a very wise man, this is the stuff that dreams are make of. The meal had other elements too – a delicious vin en pot, capped off with an espresso alongee – but I have still been thinking about that poached egg and blue cheese ever since I consumed it.

Other titillating delicacies, and perhaps simpler, were a croque madame and a crepe. A croque madame, compared to a croque monsieur, is a toasted cheese and ham sandwich with a fried egg on top (the monsieur has no egg, so just use the ova to differentiate). Simple but delicious. The crepe was something I was on the lookout for all weekend and finally discovered outside Gare de Nord while waiting for my train home. I had cheese and egg. Again, so simple yet so unbelievable mind-blowing. The taste carried me all the way back to London.

Paul also took me to the marche at La Motte Piquette Grenelle on Sunday morning, where every cheese, bread, fruit, vegetable, seafood and meat you can imagine stretches the length of two metro stops. As you might have seen in my Facebook photos, I captured the early lives of figs, artichokes, oranges, cow tongues, mussels, baguettes, croissants, cheeses of all kinds, chickens, tomatoes and fish. While Borough Market by London Bridge in London is a much more posh Sunday food market, this Parisian marche was more fluid and simple and real.

I hope that everything above does some justice to how I feel about my trip to Paris. If you know me, you know it is not hard to please me – especially when it comes to food and wine. And the food and wine and history and art and experiences that I consumed during my three days in Paris have been both simple and complex. I can still taste the bone marrow, the escargots, the tartare and the poached egg in blue cheese. I do love London, don’t get me wrong, but I came back thinking that if I could write in French I would be in Paris.

Work Perks

I apologize for the large gap since my last blog entry. Summer ended rather insistently, swinging into a very hectic September, and it has been non-stop ever since. Besides all sorts of fun activities outside the office – markets, a rugby game, high tea, a day at the amusement park, a housewarming party at the new flat and decadent dinners out – I have also got to take advantage of some amazing work-related London experiences as well.

Though it wasn’t the hat-donning Royal Ascot, I spent my first day at the races – and confirmed my suspicion that I could easily slip into a serious gambling addiction. It was race day at Ascot and I got to join my editor Debi and my deputy editor Debbie in a box. We were hosted by NorthingateArinso, an HR services provider, for a day of free-flowing wine, a lovely country lunch, and seven races. I was shown the ropes on the first race, where I put £5 each way on a horse named Tazahum. The “each way” bet means your horse can either win or place and you still make your money back and then some. Tazahum came in a respectable second place and, as the bookie counted back my bet and change, I was hooked.

After this promising start I stuck with conservative betting, placing £2 each way on two horses per race. In the 2nd, 4th and 7th races I randomly picked the winners – Electric Waves, Vulcanite and Humidor. I just liked their names. In all but one other race I picked the second place winners, and finished the day £35 richer than when I started. On a gambling and wine-fueled high, I cruised into my Saturday night.

During this past week I was treated to a couple of other work events that also served as spectacular London experiences. On Wednesday, health insurer Aviva hosted a spa morning at the Park Lane InterContinental Hotel. Along with a few other female journalists I spent the morning getting pampered with a manicure, a 30-minute back massage and a refreshing steam that ended with a tropical shower. The absolutely blissful morning ended with canapés and champagne, before I returned to the office to chase my deadlines.

The next evening I attended a party hosted by New Look Business Solutions, as they were pushing their new motivation and incentive vouchers. We congregated at their offices for a presentation, some autumn/winter clothes browsing, along with some snacks and drinks. Then we were all given £50 New Look vouchers, herded onto buses and dropped off at one of their flagship stores to shop to our hearts’ content. Back on the buses with new sweaters, boots, tights and handbags, we were told that we were being taken to a spectacular venue for dinner and drinks. Driving through the City, I was convinced we were en route to the Gherkin, but then the bus pulled up to the north side of Tower Bridge and we disembarked.

Next thing I knew we were packed into the lift of the Tower Bridge’s exhibition and soon soaring above the Thames in the high-level walkways. On the west walkway we enjoyed champagne and canapés, and then we were split into teams for the corporate games. On the east walkway we played a rifle range game, mini-putt, Wii tennis, foosball, car racing and horse racing. All the while we sipped champagne and gazed out across the stunning lit-up city as it borders the Thames.

So, yes, it was a really good week. All amazing experiences to add to all the other reasons that I love my job. In November, I will be heading up north to Manchester to cover the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development (CIPD) conference. Since we will be profiling the Manchester City Football Club in our December issue, I am also getting a free ticket to a Manchester United versus Manchester City match. Not too bad for my first-ever football game. I can hardly wait. But first I am back in the office tomorrow morning for news week as we chase news stories and wrap up the November issue.

Moving House

That is what they say over here – I’m moving house. I moved house this past weekend. The year-long tenancy agreement at 15A Ecclesbourne was coming up for either renewal or abandon, my flatmates Justin and Arthur had finished school and were moving on, so I decided to do the same. I was notified of all this rather late in the game so early August turned into a stressful scramble for accommodations.

Luckily for me, a fellow expat friend was also in the market for a new flat. Lauren’s rent was getting a severe bump come 1 September so we decided to live together. The prospect was exciting for me, since I had not lived with a girlfriend since the glory days of the Jenn/Leslie arrangement at Queen’s six years ago. As comfortable as my house was at 15A Ecclesbourne with the young lads, the chance to live with a great friend – and my surrogate twin in London at that – was an opportunity I could not pass up. The timing was perfect so we shook on it.

The London flat search, as I probably mentioned back when I moved here last year, is a tricky game. The market is dominated by the estate agent, a two-faced specimen who up-sells and racks in a truly obscene deposit that they have no intention of ever returning to you. But this is the game and you have to play it, so Lauren and I signed up with as many as we could along our high street and then started the flat visits.

Lauren took the brunt of this activity while I was up in Scotland but on my return we took it on full steam together with some viewings around Islington with the granddaddy of all estate agents, Foxtons. The three flats we saw were staggeringly disparate, the first a dump with stained walls and dirty carpets, the second a gorgeous family house with a backyard to die for, and the third a typical fourth-storey flat down Essex Road. When we learned that Foxtons takes a £350 admin fee we quickly decided none of these places were for us, despite the charming Leo who took us around in his mini coop.

Mid-week, midway through the month, Lauren had an appointment to see a flat that sounded too good to be true. It was a day-viewing because the place had just come on the market. Lauren arranged to work from home so she could be the first to see it and I waited by my mobile in anticipation as lunchtime neared. Basically, upon walking through the door, she knew this was it. She texted that it was amazing and was heading back to the estate agents to put in an offer. By 3pm the flat was ours.

Though our estate agents have already not been the easiest to deal with – the tenancy agreement has been printed off and signed four times now – we are happily ensconced in our new home. It is a truly adorable and large basement flat in a Georgian house right off Upper Street. We are both still in our beloved Angel neighbourhood, on our familiar tube and bus routes. We have large bedrooms, an expansive living and kitchen space, and a private backyard that, according to Dani, you could play a game of rounders in.

Within walking distance are the range of bars and restaurants along Upper Street, and we have already formed a first-name friendship with the landlord at our local, The Florence. Last night the adorable Ian brought us free wine and regaled us with stories of the band he plays bass for (we may or may not be going to their gig in a couple of weeks) and the organisation he is involved with that brings rugby to children in Africa.

If this set-up sounds too good to be true, you are probably right. I have been waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop. But so far it has been smooth sailing – besides the difficulty with the contract and the fact that, when the tenants above us are doing laundry, it sounds like a helicopter is taking off from the roof. There is also an abnormally sized cat that believes it owns the backyard but these are small sacrifices for a great roomie, amazing bed, outdoor space and a cozy local pub. I do hope this is the last time I have to move house for a while.

The Isle of Tiree

I’m sure my Dad won’t mind me sharing an excerpt from an email he sent me while I was traveling around Europe in 2004. My Dad is a very talented writer, especially when conjuring up memories and transferring them onto paper. While my sister and I were traveling those six months through various destinations, we received emails from him that chronicled his first impressions, in 1972, of the places we were about to visit, whether it was communist Czechoslovakia, ancient Greece or beerhaus-ed Germany.

As we were approaching Scotland, he sent us an email that included some of what you will read below. It begins on a train from London’s Paddington station to Glasgow, where he was obeying his grandmother and getting in touch with Scottish relatives he had never met before.

“… The train was old and the compartments were wooden enclosures with sliding doors. We were fortunate to have one all to ourselves which allowed us to sleep on the bench seats. At dawn I awoke to the sound and rhythmic shaking of the train and gazed out the window. Gone was the flat English countryside with the old dingy brick buildings. Before me the upland hills filled the window, steep and lined with stone fences. I could not see the sky. I had to get close to the window to look up to see the tops of it. I felt that I had been transported into another world.

We were met in Glasgow by Uncle John Brown [Pearl and Mary’s father] who insisted that, the first thing the next day, we accompany him to some place called Tiree to close down their cottage. Connie [Pearl and Mary’s mother] had gone to Ottawa to visit grandmother so we were bachelor-ing it. He claimed he needed 'hunger-as-hunter' young men to eat the food there. He flew us both over and I assumed that, since it was the Highlands and Isles and that the flight was short, it was relatively inexpensive. Later, I found out quite the opposite. I had just encountered John's brand of Highland hospitality.

My first encounter with Uncle John in Tiree 'clashing-the-pan’ opened up a new world, and vocabulary, for me. Not just Scotland but his Scotland. He would talk about the past, his past, and what it was like. Both the information and context one cannot get from history books. I learned to better appreciate oral history - history that must be told by the people who lived it and that will die with them. I found out about my family, including my grandfather, someone who I never knew except through my grandmother. From John, and later Aunt Pearl, he became more alive to me; my grandmother made him seem god-like …

… I gazed down at the clouds over the Atlantic realizing that despite all the wonderful and wondrous experiences, it was the contact with the older Scottish relatives that was the most important to me. This surprised me because, at the onset of the trip, visiting them was a mild inconvenience to satisfy my grandmother. At the end, it was one of the highlights resulting in life-long relationships.”

The way that my Dad describes learning about his grandfather is exactly how I feel when Pearl talks about my great-grandmother Bessie. She died when I was still quite young, though I do remember her. But when I hear about various episodes from her visits back to her homeland over the years, I feel like I am getting to know her a little bit better. And that amazing Highland hospitality has been passed down through the generations as well.

I’m jealous that my Dad’s very first impressions of Scotland and Tiree were at the age of 22, when he could remember it, appreciate it and eloquently describe it. I don’t really have that first memory, since I was 16 months old when I first visited. From my visit as a four-year-old, I do remember John and Connie, and that familiar Tiree scent that combines heather, the sea, sheep shit and burning peat. Strangely, it still moves me every time. Until you have smelt it yourself, you can’t imagine the unique and blissful flavour of Tiree. I also remember Lochan Ban, as the cottage is known, though it has seen many renovations in the last 14 years since my last visit.

So Lyl and I embarked from Oban on a four-hour ferry ride through the straight between the Isle of Mull and the mainland, joining rain and bumpy waters as we dropped passengers off at the small (population 65) island of Coll before docking in Scarinish, the port town of Tiree (population 700). Four (Pearl, Molly, Colin and Naomi) family members greeted us at the rainy dock, while 21 more (from London, Oxfordshire, Manchester, Yorkshire and even Norway) were back at the cottage, preparing a curry feast and a proper Scottish ceilidh (kay-lee).

We would all be living between three cottages for the next few days, a somewhat regular family reunion that Lyl and I were able to be a part of this year. While Tiree maintains the Scottish tradition of offering up a lot of rain, it is also known as the sunniest spot in the UK because of vast beaches all along its perimeter and westerly-facing views out to the sea. Also known for its windiness – it hosts surfers, kite-sailors, kite-boarders and even an international wind-surfing competition every year – the gusts can mean that the weather can change dramatically in a manner of minutes.

During our three days there we saw it all: downpours, clear blue skies, gusting winds and t-shirt weather. We spent our days hiking up Ben Hough, accompanying the kids to the beach for boogie-boarding, learning how to kite, painting finger and toenails, reading in the sunroom, drinking pints of Tennants and drams of whiskey, and spending the evenings with a family ceilidh band that had a changing cast of talented musicians.

It was a truly memorable visit, one that I could appreciate that much more because of both my previous summers here and because I am at an age now that contributes to experiencing family and places from my own perspective. I did yearn to have my parents there with me, because I know how much Tiree means to them as well, but it was enlightening to familiarize myself with the Isle with as few preconceived versions of visits to draw from.

I am grateful that the family let us gate-crash for those three days and allowed us to be a part of the reunion, sampling that Highland hospitality that my Dad described in his letters. I hope this is not the only Tiree visit I fit in while I’m living in the UK. Back in the city and back at work already more than a week, I am still craving that heathered, sea-strong Tiree scent.

England Forever, Scotland A Wee Bit Longer

I have decided to make this blog a two-parter because I have so much to say about my beloved homeland. Today's will cover the mainland of Scotland and next week the stunning and unpredictable isle of Tiree off the west coast.

With a visit from my sister Lyl came also the quintessential visit to the land of our ancestors. I can hardly believe that I have lived in the UK for 11 months and have only just now taken the journey up to Scotland. The northern tip of the UK is probably my favourite place on the planet, filled with brisk weather, greasy food, hilly terrain, and whiskey. Besides all the typical stereotypes of Scotland I also love it because it is where, in some very small way, I come from.

There's something about Scotland that warms my spirit every time (may be that's the whiskey). My relation to the land is a few generations removed, but the textures of history here mean more to me than in any other country that I have ever visited because it is connected to my history and the history of my father, grandfather and so on.

Back in 1923 Robert Kerr Paterson (my great-grandfather) married his second cousin who was 19 years younger than him, Elizabeth McBride Holmes (my great-grandmother), in Gourock, Scotland. Robert was already residing in Canada, and had received a medical degree from Queen's University (this is where the legacy began). He had moved from Renfrew, Scotland to Renfrew, Ontario, and later Bob returned to Scotland and fallen in love. Later, Bessie gave birth to a daughter named Mary, and twins Robert Kerr (my beloved grandfather) and Elizabeth. That is how the lineage traces back and, despite the three generations passed, I still feel an intense pull to the place.

My first two trips to Scotland was as a youngster – first when I had just turned one and then when I was about four. Though I cannot say for sure that I remember these trips in detail, whether from hazy memories and photographs, I do remember bits and pieces. At 15 I remember more clearly being stuffed into a station wagon with my Mom, Dad, sister and brother, and driven all over the country, visiting castle ruins, Scottish cities and lochs, as well as the westernmost of the Inner Hebride islands where cousins Pearl and Mary maintain their parents' cottage – a later full-time home – on a heather-capped, sheep-strewn and remote island called Tiree.

Though being fined countless pounds for fighting with my siblings and dragged to countless castles, I have to thank my Mom and Dad now for instilling such passionate pride in me for this gorgeous country. There was a lapse in my grandfather’s generation when there was not a lot of connection to Scotland. A combination, I think, of a distancing from the previous generation and my grandparents absolute worship of their second-home and cottage at Norway Bay.

When Dad visited Scotland during a 10-month backpacking trip in 1972, he got in touch with unknown relatives to appease his grandmother (the aforementioned Bessie) and discovered instead lasting relationships and a deep love for the country. Dad maintains the Scottish pride continually with an insistent celebration of Robbie Burns' Day each 25 January, his homemade shortbread during the holiday season, and his fervent desire to one day learn to play the bagpipes.

Lyl and I counted Edinburgh and Glasgow among our must-visit destinations during the great backpacking adventure of 2004. Though Glasgow was too bustling a city for me at the time (this is before I ever imagined Toronto and London would be my homes), we were in love with Edinburgh, its studded volcanic hills, perched on the southern edge of the Firth of Forth, with an old and new town that is separated by a valley that holds up the towering Edinburgh Castle. We stayed at Brodies' Backpackers, facing the cobblestoned Royal Mile, which leads east to Palace of Holyroodhouse and west to the Castle. We bundled up in the day and visited landmarks such as the war memorial and tower to Lord Nelson overlooking the city from Calton Hill, then listened to bagpipers along Princes Street while eating chips and haggis wrapped in paper, before returning to our hostel to nap beneath large tartaned comforters. We visited the Writer's Museum, learning more about Scottish legends Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson; the graveyard where economist Adam Smith and poet Robert Fergusson are buried; the National Portrait Gallery to see paintings from Mary Queen of Scots to Sean Connery to a possible relative called Robert Kerr Paterson; the imposing Palace of Holyroodhouse and the magnificent castle.

For this latest journey to Scotland, Lyl and I had Tiree as our ultimate destination, a trip we had not made for almost 15 years. First we arrived in Edinburgh to meet Ottawa friends Jill and Noel, who have been on the road for over two months. As usual, Scotland greeted us in a misty rain and, as a result, that first day was spent along the Royal Mile, pub-crawling to avoid the downpour. There were pints of Tennants and McEwan, drams of whiskey, a delicious pile of haggis, tatties and neaps, then later deep-fried Mars bars and fish and chips. By the end of the day we were all feeling a little worse for wear and vowed tomorrow to indulge in some vegetables.

We did even better. Though Noel was feeling under the weather (which I have been blamed for thanks to a never-ending cold I’ve been nursing), Lyl, Jill and I spent the day hiking up to the summit of Arthur’s Seat. Since Edinburgh is placed within a 350 million year old volcano, the surrounding terrain offers casual (and often strenuous) walks with stunning views of the city below. We started off on a slight incline along the Salisbury Craggs and, with prodding from Jill, traversed the heather- and thistle-strewn hill to the top, known as Arthur’s Seat. It was brutal at times since, as usual, I was not wearing proper footwear, and the remnants of yesterday’s binge drinking and eating were barely settled in my stomach. But despite all the whining (sorry ladies), the view from above was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. (You will have to wait for me to upload my photos to see what I mean.)

Back down the hill we lunched on mussels from the Isle of Mull (so much for the veggies plan) and then embarked on the informative Scotch Whiskey tour. We learned about the five whiskey-producing regions and chose our favourite to sample at the end. Though fond of the floral highlands, light lowlands and even the peaty smokiness of Islay, I discovered that the fruity Speyside whiskies are my dram of choice.

Lyl and I said goodbye to Jill and Noel, who returned to Canada a few days later, and equipped with a brand new knowledge of whiskey, the rugged countryside around Edinburgh and the wish that we had never tasted a deep-fried Mars bar, we boarded a train the next morning to Oban, a small fishing village on the west coast that provides ferry passage to the Hebride islands.

Tiree is such a blissful and heavenly place, and was this journey filled with amazing family members, great food and Scottish music, that I will have to break off now and return to a Tiree-only blog next week. Until then, mar sin leibh.

Writing Irish

One of my favourite things about living in London – a reason I listed in my very first blog entry – is treading the same ground as my beloved writers, like Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf and Charles Dickens. Ireland, and Dublin specifically, is heaven for someone like me. A person can (literally) not walk a block of the city without stumbling upon a statue of Oscar Wilde, pass by the house where George Bernard Shaw was born or see landmarks from within the pages of James Joyce’s novels.

This past weekend I flew to Dublin. Ostensibly, I was there to spend the Saturday with Adrian, my 17-year-old next-door-neighbour in Ottawa, non-biological little sister, who I helped raised since she was one (at least I like to think I did). She has been in Ireland for the whole month with a group called the Irish Experience, visiting Cork, Galway and Dublin, and gaining an English credit for high school. I was thrilled to fly in for 48 hours and spend time with her, but she had a strict itinerary and could only see me on the Saturday.

Fair enough. We had a lovely (based on companionship, not weather) Dublin day: wandering Trinity College campus, shopping on Grafton Street, strolling along the Liffey, drinking the freshest pints of Guinness on the planet (me, not Adrian). Newly lit up by the words of Irish writers thanks to her course, Adrian was even keen to stroll quite a distance along the Liffey to visit the house where Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ was based. Thrilling for me, of course, that someone else wanted to visit sites from my favourite novels, short stories and poems. (The next day’s literary obstacle course around the city would have been strenuous for even the most Guinness-fortified companion, however, so I was glad to be on my own for that one.)

Luckily for me, Adrian’s group leader had a couple of extra theatre tickets (resulting, most likely, from the fact that two kids had already been sent home for various forms of bad behaviour) so I got to prolong my visit with my girl for a few more hours. Since the kids had just read it in their Irish playwright class, we saw Sean O’Casey’s ‘The Plough and the Stars’ in the Abbey Theatre off O’Connell Street, the very theatre where it was controversially staged for the first time in 1926.

The title of the pacifist play comes from the flag of the Irish Citizen Army. “Plough” refers to the symbol on the flag that in Northern America is known as the big dipper. The show was stunning, perfectly cast and acted, and even moving for me – despite the fact that I was the only one who hadn’t read it. Based during the months leading up to the infamous Easter Uprising of 1916, it chronicles the unextraordinary lives of Irish tenement-inhabitants who are each affected by those extraordinary nationalistic events in their own way.

Equipped with this very poignant Irish experience, I spent Sunday cramming in as much of Dublin’s rich literary history and culture. I walked out to the house where Nobel-prize winner George Bernard Shaw was born in 1856 (he wrote Pygmalion which is perhaps more widely known as the film My Fair Lady); saw the Dublin Millennium Literary Parade in the park beside St. Patrick’s Cathedral (which includes Wilde, O’Casey, Yeats, Beckett and Joyce); visited, for the first time, the James Joyce Centre, a rather unspectacular timeline of the writer’s life with a few spectacular artifacts (his death mask and the actual door of 7 Eccles Street where his most well-known character, Leo Bloom, fictionally resided); and wandered through St. Stephen’s Green to see the commemorative statues to Yeats and Joyce.

Another stop in Dublin that I count as one of my must-sees is the Writer’s Museum. You wear a headset spouting out all sorts of facts about Ireland’s great writers – Swift (the father of satire), Yeats, Wilde, Joyce, Beckett and Synge (both phenomenal playwrights), among others. It is a really great museum with so much fascinating information in the ornately decorated rooms of a beautiful old house. Among the old artifacts on display are: a 1685 Old Testament, the first one translated into Gaelic; an original copy of Ulysses signed by Joyce; and a program from the first performance of Synge’s most famous play, Playboy of the Western World.

I had a truly wonderful visit with Adrian and thoroughly enjoyed my solo literary day. I made the kind of stops (and did the amount of walking) that not everyone would have the stamina for, especially since the landmarks I checked out were all related in some way or another to Ireland’s great literary geniuses. Now I'm back in London, hanging out with my latest visitor, my sister Lindsay,and getting really excited about this weekend's trip up to Scotland, the homeland.

The (Perhaps Surprising) Joys of English Food

England may have history and it may have culture, but there is a general consensus around the world that English food is just not good. There are bangers and mash (sausage and potatoes), tatties and neaps (potatoes and turnips), English breakfast, fish and chips, Cornish pasties, and all sorts of filled pies.

Despite the stereotype, I am quite fond of all of the above.

Some of my favourite (English) writers characterized the label best, like Virginia Woolf in ‘To the Lighthouse’ with: “What passes for cookery in England is an abomination … It is putting cabbages in water. It is roasting meat till it is like leather. It is cutting off delicious skins of vegetables … A whole French family could live on what an English cook throws away," and W. Somerset Maugham who said: "To eat well in England you should have breakfast three times a day."


Well, I agree about the breakfast. While I do miss real Canadian bacon and maple syrup (not necessarily in combination) along with my favourite weekend brunch spots in Toronto, I am also rather fond of the spread that counts as a proper English breakfast here: bacon, sausage, eggs, cooked tomatoes, baked beans (I could take or leave these), toast, and sometimes black (also known as blood) pudding.

The latter is probably the most disturbing, but actually quite tasty when it is done well. It is a type of sausage that is made by cooking blood with a filler – typically oatmeal, barley, bread or suet – until it is thick enough to congeal when cooled. According to my father, it originated during bitter-cold famines in northern Scotland when peasants simply bled their farm animals and mixed it with whatever was lying around so that they could infuse some protein into their diet. Yes, it sounds gross but is not at all bad. Not quite as tasty as haggis – my favourite Scottish dish – but I will break down that one once I return from my homeland in mid-August.

I think I could write a weekly blog on food over here, because I am constantly discovering weird combinations, flavours and names for things. I have had prawn cocktail crisps, curry on my chips, the delicious Branston pickle in ploughman sandwiches, more malt vinegar than any person needs, and squash (which is essentially concentrated juice that you dilute with water).

Besides the weird and the wonderful, there are also amazing cheeses, cured meats and outstanding beers, proper English tea, and all sorts of delicious fish and game birds (At my cousin’s one evening, I ate a pheasant that was so freshly killed that I got a little shot in my mouth). For me, Borough Market is the best place to find all these cheeses and meats, plus amazing beer-battered fish and chips, the best cup of coffee in the city, falafels, raclette, fresh fruit and veg, and a selection of curries one could only dream of.

It is my favourite Saturday excursion and, this past weekend while my friend Paul was visiting, I had my most learned outsider tour of the market. You see, Paul is currently working as a chef at a Michelin-star restaurant in Paris and knows more about food – where it comes from, how to cook it – then anyone really needs to. Saturday morning at Borough Market was just the opening of my culinary education that spanned the six days he was in London.

Part of living in an amazing city like London is dining out at amazing restaurants. I have been to some truly outstanding Thai, Japanese, Indian, French, Cuban, Spanish, Turkish and Greek establishments in my 10 months here. When Paul arrived he had a few choice spots he wanted to check out as well but he also wanted to cook a little something up for us. So, after spending far too long at Tesco’s, we returned to Marge’s flat one night, laden with grocery bags and watched the magic happen.

The homemade burgers – consisting of ground beef and pork, chopped parsley, shallots, eggs, and more – were about to hit the hob when suddenly the power went out. Gathering on the stoop with neighbours and multiple bottles of wine we waited out the blackout. We started off very hungry, then rather drunk, and ended up having a hilarious evening with local West Kensingtonians, the culmination of which was a spectacular 1:30 am feast of homemade Shropshire cheese burgers and a delicious, simple, salad of rocket, tomatoes, parmesan, lemon and E.E.V.O. Thanks Paul!

I was unable to partake in the big feast out that week because I had a work dinner with my editorial team, hosted by a company that specializes in the communication of employee benefits and pension schemes. It actually turned into two big feasts out. My work dinner was at the Coq D’Argent, a gorgeous French rooftop restaurant at 1 Poultry Street. It started with cocktails on the gardened terrace followed by, for me, my first oyster, a sumptuous piece of foie gras, duck confit and crème brulee, interspersed with multiple bottles of superb French wine. It was gluttonous and incredible. The rather large oyster went down smoothly, the foie gras blew my mind, the duck melted in my mouth, and the crème brulee was perfection. The only complaint was that the service was slow and kind of discourteous. It was just like being in France.

Around 11 pm I hopped in a cab and headed up to Smithfield where I found Paul and Marge, plus Michelle and Dom, at St. John’s, a truly English restaurant (especially when compared to the French restaurant I had just dined at) that celebrates eating the animal from head to tail. My friends had eaten all sorts of delicacies – Marge even ate ox heart! I showed up for the best part of the night: dessert. I snagged a few bites of Paul’s crème brulee ice cream and some of the freshest madeleines ever (literally made while we waited). It was the climax of a week of absolutely great food.

I could write much more in this blog about all the interesting food in England. Even if some of it is not technically English food, the melting pot of ethnic flavours in this country is enough to rebuff the stereotypes of eating in England. And then there are the standard staples that I mentioned above. I mean, if you really think about it, at least England has defining foods – even it they are fish and chips or steak and kidney pie. In Canada, we don’t really have a cross-country standard dish, just a favourite in each province. (Poutine in Quebec, beef in Alberta, salmon in BC or lobster in PEI). Even if it might be in a mocking tone, at least people talk about the food in England.