Welcome to London 2012

Unless you’ve been living under a rock somewhere, you’re likely aware by now that London is currently hosting the 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games. I mean, even the last country on earth to get television (Bhutan in 1999) brought a team for the archery, so this thing kind of has a global reach. And, during last night’s spectacular Opening Ceremonies, there were nations I had never even heard of (Comoros, Kiribati, Palau), so you can bet that televisions were on in even the most remote islands dotted around the Pacific. 

The five Olympic rings represent the five continents – Africa, Asia, the Americas, Europe and Oceania – and 204 nations are expected to be represented. And that, to me, is what makes the Olympics so awe-inspiring; the sense of nationalistic pride and, if only temporarily, a little global unity. Countries like Afghanistan and Libya have brought teams, which gives me a bit of hope around peaceful coexistence and, at least for a few weeks, a shared common goal.

I know not everyone gives a shit. I mean, I’m not really that bothered about the actual sport (if it was the Winter Olympics, I’d be a bit more into the actual events). And I’m aware of the contradictions evident in the fact that war-torn countries are attending this billion-pound extravaganza, while civilians back home are struggling for food, water and a day without guaranteed safety. There is also the exorbitant costs (which I do prefer not to think about), but you would do well to keep in mind that Beijing spent $300 million on its Opening Ceremonies in 2008, so London’s £27 million for last night’s impressive display barely registers.

From my, admittedly, very cushy vantage point, it sure is interesting to watch my city turn into host, something that’s been coming for seven years. Long before I even dreamed of moving here, a bid headed by former Olympic champion Sebastian Coe and then mayor Ken Livingstone in July 2005 was selected. It makes London the first city to officially host the modern Olympic Games three times, having previously done so in 1908 and 1948. And it has been truly amazing to watch the preparations unfold over the past three years, all culminating in the next few weeks of sport and cultural events around London.

So, let’s get into the Opening Ceremonies. While I was watching, I did wonder whether much of what was happening at the Olympic Stadium last night made any sense to the rest of the world. Honestly, if I hadn’t been living here for the past three years, soaking up British idiosyncrasies on a daily basis, a lot of it would have gone right over my head. But I think that’s kind of the point of the Opening Ceremonies; to showcase the host nation in all its historical and cultural contexts, demonstrating to the rest of the world what makes the UK unique.

The presence of the Chelsea pensioners, Pearly kings and queens, subtle soundbites from East Enders and The Archers, a performance by local rap star Dizzie Rascal, and the entire segment celebrating the National Health Service (NHS) would have meant nothing to be three years ago. But I think the bits with Queen E and James Bond, Mr Bean’s accompaniment of the London Symphony Orchestra, the children’s choirs in England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, and the shout-out to British film, music and literature, are generally known around the world.

While I thought the whole ceremony was phenomenal, there were three parts that I truly loved. The entire first segment, which traced British history from a tableau of rural English life in the 18th century, through to the vast chimneys and steelworkers of the Industrial Revolution, then to a moment of silence for the World Wars, onwards to the transformative, Beatles-driven 1960s (complete with a queue of Sgt Peppers), and closing with the five iconic rings rising into the pitch-black, cloudy London sky, was an inventive timeline that displayed why its creator Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, 28 Days Later, Slumdog Millionaire) is one of the greatest directors around.

I also loved the incandescent insects that circled the track on bicycles later in the show, glowing against the darkness of the stadium. And, at the end, when five past Olympic heroes literally passed the flame to five of the next generation of British athletes, I couldn’t help but feel a little emotional. The cauldron, a complex structure of 204 moving steel rods and copper petal-like elements representing the nations taking part in the Games, was probably the absolute highlight for me. It was stunning to see the fiery rods slowly rise into the sky to unite in one flame. A fitting analogy for the whole concept of the Olympics. Then the fireworks, exploding in the sky in East London, which we could hear from home in Islington.

It has all made me feel a bit sad that I didn’t get involved much in the last Winter Olympics, when Vancouver hosted the world (I was already living here, after all). But I am thrilled to be an adopted Briton this time around. The world is watching, and I will be able to one day tell my grandchildren that I had a front-row seat.

Switzerland’s identity crisis (and a bit of cheese fondue)

Switzerland is known worldwide for its chocolate, cheese fondue, mountains and neutrality. 

But what I notice most, each time I visit, is the way that it encroaches into the culture of its bordering countries, whether Austria, Germany, France, Italy or Liechtenstein. I’m not saying the country doesn’t have an identity of its own. Well, maybe I am. There are definitely truly Swiss markers that the traveler crosses off the list, but most of these are heavily influenced by another European nation.

Even Wiki basically says the same thing: “Switzerland comprises three main linguistic and cultural regions: German, French and Italian. The Swiss, therefore, do not form a nation in the sense of a common ethnic or linguistic identity. The strong sense of belonging to the country is founded on the common historical background, shared values and Alpine symbolism.”

I’ve managed to travel to Switzerland three times, to each of the three main linguistic and cultural regions. Firstly, the southern part that borders Italy, followed by the north-eastern German part and lastly, the Western French-speaking part.

The first time I saw Switzerland I was 20 (God, I’m old). I landed in Zurich and was soon on the southeastern road to Italy, watching the Alps rise and fall around me. I can’t say that I remember much of the Swiss part of this experience, as I was en route to a villa in Tuscany, the beautiful memories of which have managed to overwhelm any part of the journey there. What I do remember is the striking landscape, traveling through tunnels in the midst of the Alps, coming out into Italy and, shortly after, the terracotta-roofed, sunflower-laden hills of the Tuscan countryside. So, fair enough, I can’t be a good judge of the Italian border of Switzerland.

My second visit was during the Lyl-and-Jenn-backpacking-adventure-of-2004, and this time I was in the northeastern part of the country, close to the German border. This time I properly saw Zurich, then traveled centrally to Lucerne and Interlaken. I do remember, distinctly, that the language spoken was mostly Swiss-German, but I also remember that I got to use my French a bit, particularly as we traveled southwest towards the mountainous town of Interlaken.

I recall that Zurich was small and charming, with Gothic architecture clustered on cobblestones along the Limmat River; that Lucernce was a picturesque town, where we spent a couple of rainy days below the towering peaks of Mount Pilatus and Mount Rigi; and that Interlaken, after a stunning train ride through some adorable alpine villages, green lakes and snowcapped mountains, was a bit of a kitschy, tourist-filled town within yodeling distance of the Jungrau peaks. I do know we ate a lot of chocolate, found the Swiss Franc far too much for our modest backpacking budget, and did some beautiful hiking around the lakes.

This past weekend I was in the Western part of Switzerland, which is basically France. Did you know that 95% of Geneva is bordered by France? Every once and awhile, you accidentally cross the border, just walking from the arrivals lounge to the car rental area at the airport. It’s kind of amazing – for a girl who loves France (except when you’re only currency is Swiss Francs, or bits of British sterling.)

I was in Geneva to visit one of my oldest and best friends, Jill, who is doing an internship at the World Health Organization (WHO) as part of her Masters in global health. The city – though the second most populous in Switzerland, a world-leading financial centre, a worldwide base for diplomacy (headquarters of the United Nations and the Red Cross) – is also the fifth most expensive city in the world and just doesn’t really appeal to the traveler in me. So, we rented an adorable Fiat Panda, and embarked on a nearly 15-hour adventure around the circumference of Lake Geneva. It was one of my Top 10 days of all time!

I won’t get into too much detail, but we headed east, trying to follow country roads in view of the gorgeous lake, through Coppet, Nyon, Rolle and Morges, before we stopped mid-morning in Lausanne. We visited the Parc Olympique, which is under construction and housed in a boat. Then onward, through the more bustling lakeside towns of Vevey and Montreux, before we headed north and into the mountains. With Gruyères our end goal (cheese!), we drove through some adorable Swiss villages, imagining their beauty in the snowy winter months.

Later, we left Switzerland quite effortlessly for France, which basically touches the entire south border of the lake. We found ourselves in Yvoire, a medieval town about 45 minutes from Geneva, where a local Bastille Day celebration was kicking off. Drank some lovely cold bière, ate frites and sausage de veau, and watched the sun set over the lake, as it dyed the white caps of the Swiss Alps a pastel pink. We got back on the road as the fireworks started (the French love their fireworks) and, barring a bit of a detour due to a Roots concert on the lake, we eventually made it back to the Geneva airport to return our rental.

Clearly, my latest visit to Switzerland is foremost in my memory (since it was last weekend and I feel I’ve got a bit more life perception than I did when I was 20 or 23), but I have to say that the Swiss-French linguistics and culture is definitely my favourite. To be completely fair, I could have easily been in France last weekend, which is probably the main reason I loved the western part of the country.

All that to say, after three trips to Switzerland, I still don’t really feel that it has its own identity, or maybe I just haven’t experienced that identity yet. Our hours driving into the mountains were my favourite, the most typically Swiss, I guess. But all the pieces of Italy in the southeast, the German/Austrian influences of the north, and the amazing Frenchness of the west, still feel much more like those other countries than they do Switzerland. I guess I’ll just have to visit again and do some more research.

Ode to a Dram of Whisky

I love whisky. Love, love, love. And I love Scotland. So, it’s no surprise that my visit this past weekend to Glasgow ended up pretty much fueled by the liquid gold. My first dram of the weekend was at a local distillery within a few hours of my 8am arrival in the homeland, while my last was at the airport in the final hour before my flight back to London. There were many others in between.

No one knows exactly when Scotch whisky (very different – and superior, in my opinion – to Irish or American whiskey) was first distilled. It is said that the Ancient Celts practised distilling and that the liquid produced was known in Gaelic as uisge beatha (water of life), which later evolved into Scotch whisky.

Its production was first taxed in 1644, causing a rise in illicit whisky distilling. In 1780, there were 400 distilleries in Scotland, only eight of which were actually legal. In 1823, Parliament eased restrictions on licensed distilleries, while at the same time making it harder for the illegal stills to operate, ushering in the modern era of Scotch production.

To be classified as a real single malt Scotch whisky the liquid must be aged in an oak barrel for three years and one day. It also must be made from only three core ingredients: barley, water and yeast.

It comes from five different regions, each of which has its own distinct taste. Covering the largest area of Scotland are two regions: Highland and Speyside. The prior region, which includes Dalmore, Glenmorangie and Oban, has the most variance in character, from dry to florally. The latter region, which includes Glenfiddich, Glenlivet and Macallan, is home to approximately half of the country’s malt whisky distilleries. It is often described as mellow, sweet and fruity.

Lowland whiskies are regarded as the most light-bodied of the single malts. Situated south of an imaginary line drawn from the Clyde estuary to the Tay estuary, the region can only claim three working distilleries, including Auchentoshan, which I tasted for only the second time on this past trip. These whiskies are malty and grassy, with subtle aromas.

Islay whiskies – my favourite region – are heavily peated, oily and smoky. Islay is one of the Inner Hebride islands, on the west coast of Scotland, and also the name of my future daughter. The rest of the island whiskies are often classed in with the Islays, but some argue that the taste of Arran, Jura and Talisker really do deserve consideration for their own region.

Campbeltown is home to my absolutely favourite single whisky, Springbank, which is usually found at 10 years of age. The town, which lies by Campbeltown Loch on the Kintyre peninsula, was once home to more than 30 distilleries, but now there are just three: Springbank, Glen Gyle and Glen Scotia. These have a peaty and salty taste to them, and are more full-bodied then the other regions.

Though I can’t state this unequivocally (due to experimentation in my teens with whatever I could steal from my parents’ liquor cabinet), my first taste of Scotch whisky was Campbeltown’s Springbank. It is my parents’ favourite and is always in the house. While it may have not been the very first taste I had, it is certainly the one I remember and the one that made me actually begin to fall in love with whisky.

I’ve been on the Scotch Whisky Experience in Edinburgh twice, once in my teens on a family holiday, and two years ago while visiting Scotland with my sister Lyl and friend Jill. It is a fun way to learn about the history of the drink and, since it is not affiliated with any one brand or distillery, a great way to learn about the subtle differences of the various regions.

This past weekend, I trekked to the Auchentoshan Distillery, on the outskirts of Glasgow, to learn a bit more about the Lowland region. Favouring the Campbeltown, Islay and Speyside whiskies, I had never tried a Lowland (except a small sip on my Scotch Whisky Experience), but I had been to a whisky tasting event for work a few months back, run by Milroy’s in Soho, and I found myself immediately fond of the unpronounceable (Ock-in-tosh-in) brand. Planning my trip up north, I Googled ‘whisky distillery’ and ‘Glasgow’, and organized a trip to Auchentoshan, the only distillery in Scotland that triple distils its whiskies.

Founded in 1823 and literally translating to “the corner of the field”, Auchentoshan starts with malted optic barley, which is ground up for the tun. The milled barley is fed, along with pure Scottish lake water, into the lauter tun. It is fed through three times then fermented in pine washbacks. The three distillations take the fermented liquid from around 8% alcohol by volume (ABV) up to 81% (double distillation usually reaches 70% ABV). Next comes maturation, and Auchentoshan uses three different types of oak casks for this – bourbon, sherry or wine – each lending its own unique flavour. During maturation, a tiny percentage of alcohol evaporates from the casks – this is known mythically as the “angels’ share”.

It was a very informative tour and I found the whole process fascinating. Best of all, it ended in the bar, where we got to taste the Auchentoshan 12, an easy-to-drink, malty Scotch, perfect for a noon drink on a sunny day.

A couple of days later, I was in for a different type of whisky tour. I had come up to Scotland for work, interviewing the reward team at the whisky distillery William Grant and Sons for our monthly employer profile. The distillery was founded in 1887, when William Grant first distilled the world-famous Glenfiddich. It now has six core brands – Glenfiddich, Balvenie, Grant’s (a blend of the first two), Tullamore Dew (an Irish whiskey), as well as Sailor Jerry’s rum and Hendrick’s gin.

The whiskies here are actually Speyside, and so are distilled up north in Dufftown, where Grant was born in 1839. He worked as a shoemaker, a lime works clerk and then a bookkeeper before he was the manager at Mortlach distillery, but was keen to start his own distillery. Grant and five of his sons virtually built the distillery from start to finish. By the time of his death in 1923, his own blended whiskies were selling in more than 30 countries. Today, the company exports its products to 200 countries and produces 14 million cases of alcohol at its bottling plant in Bellshill, Scotland, which is where I spent the day.

My photographer and I got to tour the bottling plant, learn all about the history of William Grant and Sons, and about the production of some of the most famous alcohol brands in the world. Later, we did a photo shoot with the head of reward and then I interviewed him for the profile. I spent the afternoon working on the feature in the company’s boardroom, complemented with a fully stocked liquor cabinet, but I didn’t get to taste a single drop.

I remedied this later on, when I arrived at the airport. Ordered one of my favourites – Talisker – at the airport bar, along with one last traditional dinner of haggis, tatties, neeps and whisky sauce. Overall, it was a really wonderful weekend. I get so nostalgic in Scotland, owing to my heritage in the country, and that is probably one of the reasons I love whisky. It reminds me of this heritage, of my feisty great-grandmother Bessie (who I like to think I’m very much like) who always carried a flask of whisky wherever she went, and it makes me feel at home.

London vs. Manhattan: A Food-Off

Let me first preface the following culinary diatribe with a qualification. For nearly three years now, I have been eating my way around London, so admittedly I have a slight bias to the British restaurant scene. But, despite this, and despite my innate competitive spirit, I went to New York City last week with an open mind (and an open mouth).

However, compared to the myriad of restaurants I’ve been to in London, you might think that five days and 11 restaurants in NYC is not a fair match-up. But I think I was as diverse as possible in my picks: from urban Asian fusion to European fine dining to American comfort food. And – I can admit it – I did some damn good eating.

Now I’ve been to New York a few times before, but not since my taste buds began to control my life. I put out a call for recommendations of things to do in NYC and, not surprisingly, the lists that came back were dominated by places to appease and delight said taste buds. I barely broke the back of the recommendations list, but I planned my days in the city quite carefully around my various dining choices.

I want to start off with my favourite of those 11 meals, probably not surprisingly, at a British-inspired gastropub: The Spotted Pig in the West Village. I’d been reading about April Bloomfield, the girl from the Midlands who has been taking the Manhattan restaurant scene by storm, and I had to check it out for myself. Forget that I’ve been to my share of superb gastropubs in the UK, from trendy The Garrison in Bermondsey to Gordon Ramsay’s The Narrow in the depths of East London; it was a pleasure to see such an authentic one in the middle of Manhattan.

Obviously, the chef is a Brit, so she knows what she’s doing. She’s also got two Michelin stars and has been written up in Vanity Fair, so I’m not the only one who thinks so. I started my meal with a lovely pint of bitter, The Spotted Pig’s own brew, while my Mom was quite pleased with her pinot grigio (placated after a 45-minute wait to sit down to eat at 11pm). And those were just the beverages.

Both of our mains were heavenly – and at $32 a plate, very well priced for a Michelin-starred dining experience. I freely admit that my pork belly with salsa rossa and polenta was the best I’ve ever had (and I’ve had a lot!) while Mom could not stop talking about her pan-seared sea bass with cauliflower and hazelnuts.

If I had to pick a favourite country for food, I would not hesitate to choose France. And when I ate at Pastis last week, I nearly forgot that I was in New York and not in Paris. While the food was really lovely, I was more enamoured with the atmosphere and décor, a little French café in the midst of the Meatpacking District.

I also dined at August, a small pan-European restaurant on the edge of Greenwhich Village, which my friend Danni chose for her birthday dinner. The restaurant’s version of foie gras – with a roasted quince puree and toasted challah – was definitely in my top five. If you know me, you know foie gras (that endlessly controversial delicacy) is my absolute favourite, so being in my top five is not a small feat.

While in New York, I was also keen to eat at one of the Top 50 Best Restaurants in the World, as ranked annually by 800 international food experts. Unfortunately, the 2012 list wasn’t published until 30 April, which didn’t leave me a lot of time to make reservations. I was especially dedicated to dining at one of American-Korean chef David Chang’s Momofuko restaurants (this was before I learned he is planning to open one in Toronto later this year!). Chang’s Ssam Bar made 37 and his Ko made 79 on the list this year, but I couldn’t get a table at either. So I opted for his Noodle Bar, one of which is in New York’s East Village.

Hyped as Asian comfort food, the restaurant lived up to the build-up. Mom and I shared a pair of sensational pork buns, with hoisin, scallion and cucumber. I also had a noodle bowl (as you do at the Noodle Bar) of chilled spicy noodles with Sichuan spiced sausage, spinach and cashews, while Mom had the chilled crab noodles with lemon, scallion and asparagus. It was the perfect lunch after a day of trekking from the West to East Village.

Still in mind of comfort food, I decided to next try the American version, at hip restaurant Cafeteria in Chelsea. Mindful of the adage ‘When in Rome’, we took a break from European and Asian dining to eat some proper American cuisine. Still rather full from the day’s dining thus far, I tried to keep it light (as light as you can at a restaurant known for its comfort food) with two starters: mac & cheese spring rolls with smoked gouda dipping sauce and truffle parmesan fries. My god! There aren’t even any words. You might say calorific or gluttonous, but I would opt for blissful instead.

Stereotypical American dining was my theme for my last full day in New York too. I had started off the week with an enormous pastrami on rye that nearly killed me, and finished it off with a sublime burger and pizza. The last two bites were courtesy of Danni, my Brit friend recently moved to New York. Growing up in London, she is fully aware of the truly tragic fact that you just can’t get a proper burger or pizza in the UK, so her two choices were testament to her newly found appreciation of these American delicacies.

The former was from the Burger Joint, a tiny but bustling spot hidden behind a curtain in the atrium lobby of the Parker Meridien Hotel on 57th Street. You join a queue that snakes across the lobby, prepared with your order (because they don’t take kindly to indecision), then dig into a greasy brown bag of the most amazing burgers and fries I have tasted in a long time.

The latter was from a New York institution, Lombardi’s Pizza in Little Italy, which was the first pizzeria opened in the city in 1905. We were already deep into a sunny afternoon of lager, so our pizza with homemade meatballs, sautéed garlic spinach and ricotta was the ideal antidote for soaking up the beer. Probably the biggest pie I have ever had the pleasure to meet and served, as is New York tradition, on a raised, silver dish. It was the perfect ending to a week of truly phenomenal cuisine.

So, who’s the winner: Manhattan or London? I’m aware of the fact that I barely scratched the surface of New York City’s culinary masterpieces, so I don’t think it was a very fair fight. But I also don’t think I did badly in achieving a representative New York dining experience. I’m still going to pick London nine times out of ten, though I will admit I fell a little bit in love with the idea of living, and eating, in NYC one day.

Food glorious food

It might have been a mistake to purchase some key staples for my new autumn wardrobe the weekend before the London Restaurant Festival. But at least elastic waistbands and stretchy trousers are on trend for the season, because I can certainly fill my new clothes out.

It had also been a rather decadent and gluttonous month approaching October, plus my body has taken the change of season as a sign to welcome additional insulation, but I really don’t care. Michelin-star meals, losing my Gordon Ramsay virginity and dining in some of the world’s best restaurants are all worth putting on a few extra pounds.

I’ve been meaning to write a general foodie-in-London blog for a while now, sharing my love of the television program Masterchef, British celebrity chefs like Heston Blumenthal and Jamie Oliver, and the truly revolutionary world of British cooking that is swirling around me. But I’ll get on to that on another day. Instead, I want to keep it strictly about London restaurants.

My cousin Pearl says I have champagne taste on a beer budget, which pretty much sums me up perfectly. I can’t help that my tummy loves the finer things in life – the foie gras, truffle oil, cavier and basically anything tartare. Luckily for me, I am also a master at finding restaurant deals, so that my beer budget can actually afford to support my champagne tastes.

The first great deal that I found this autumn was a fixed-price five-course lunch deal at Gordon Ramsay’s two Michelin star Petrus. The second incarnation of Petrus (the first, in the Berkeley Hotel, was the victim of an acrimonious split in 2008 between Ramsay and his former friend and protégé Marcus Wareing, who now runs an acclaimed restaurant under his own name there) is in Knightsbridge, seats 40 around a semi-circled floor-to-ceiling glass tower that houses a wine cellar of 1,500 vintage bottles of Chateau Petrus.

My friend Donna and I dressed up for a Saturday afternoon lunch, pairing our five courses with some lovely wines. It was ridiculously delicious and decadent, and it was the beginning of a very foodie month. The meal started with an amuse bouche of watercress mousse, potato salad and salmon tartare, then onto a starter of ravioli of quail leg and wild mushrooms with cep sauce. My main was braised neck of Devon lamb with baby vegetables and a thyme jus, while Donna had a roasted breast of poussin and leg stuffed with wild mushroom and Madeira sauce. Next we had Gould’s cheddar with apricot chutney and toasted hazelnuts, and then British strawberries, fromage frais and rose water meringue. And it was finished with a final snack of vanilla ice cream covered in white chocolate. Needless to say, we were pleasantly sated and drunk with pleasure (and maybe from the wine) when we wandered out into the early September sunshine.

I was lucky enough to have another Gordon Ramsay meal only four days later, meeting my friend Paul’s Mom Baiba and aunt Terrie at The Savoy Grill on the Strand. The meal was superb, and made even more special by the fact that Ramsay was there, dining three tables away, looking stereotypical in all black with a shock of blonde hair. We were also offered a tour of the kitchen, where we got to meet the adorable head chef Andy Cook (appropriate name for his choice of vocation). Andy returned from Los Angeles, where he got a Michelin star at Ramsay’s London Hotel in West Hollywood, to re-open the refurbished Savoy Grill in late December last year. The restaurant has been a London icon since 1889, but has been closed for three years as part of a £220-million renovation of the hotel.

So it was quite a treat to get to dine here, and a great way to meet Baiba and Terrie, who would be my constant companions for two more fun weeks.For my starter I had a heritage tomato salad with burrata mozzarella, wild rocket pesto and a shallot dressing. All three of us chose the same main – an amazing stuffed loin and confit partridge with liver paté. We all went traditional British with our desserts: I had a burnt English cream (obviously an anglo crème brulé) with rosemary shortbread.

Into October now and the London Restaurant Festival, which is basically like Summerlicious in Toronto. It gives poor plebes like myself the opportunity to dine in some truly posh and decadent restaurants. The menus range from £15, £20, £25 and £30 fixed-price arrangements, depending on the restaurant. I booked two spots at L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, Suka at the Sanderson, Roast and Roux at the Landau, and then opened up some invites to my London foodie friends.

First up was L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, a two Michelin star restaurant near Covent Garden. The French chef said: “For me, London is the gastronomic capital of Europe. It’s the most modern, most innovative, city where new things are happening.” Kind of a big deal from a world-renowned chef who was named Chef of the Century in 1989, and has 26 Michelin stars across his 12 international restaurants.

I met my friend Belle there on a Saturday evening. We were seated along the bar where we had a front-row view of all the action in the kitchen. After a smoked sardine amuse bouche, I started with cocotte à la crème legère de champignons des sous-bois and Belle started with pollack en brandade froide au jus de persil et ses croutons. We both had the same main and it was truly one of the most delicious dishes I have ever had: Caille (quail) avec une timbale de macaroni aux champignons et parmesan.

To cap off the lovely meal, we took our last glasses of wine up to the rooftop bar where we were equally adventurous with the cocktail menu. I had a green tea martini with herbs sorbet and Belle tried Fire + Ice, a ginger-infused Snowqueen vodka with fresh carrot juice, dash of lemon juice and perfumed with orange bitter topped with chocolate shavings. By the end of the night, we might have spent more on the cocktails than we did on the food.

Later that week, I had reservations at Suka at The Sanderson, the Malaysian restaurant that is part of the trendy Soho hotel. Donna met up with me after work and we made our way through a series of dishes, including nasi goreng, tuna tartare, a thick tofu soup, barbecue chicken, vegetable curry and braised beef. Such a yummy selection in a lovely candlelit al fresco setting.

That weekend I finally went to Roast, a restaurant perched above Borough Market that I have been meaning to come to for about two years now. The restaurant is known for its locally sourced ingredients and superb classical British cooking, with immaculate views over the market. Head chef Lawrence Keogh, formerly of The Ritz, The Avenue and The Goring, works his culinary magic on what is called the best breakfast in London but, on this occasion, Michelle and I were here for dinner.

I kept it as traditional as possible, starting with a Lorne sausage Scotch egg with piccalilli, and Mich had Laverstock park buffalo mozzarella with Lincolnshire beets and pea shoots. My main was the house recipe pork sausage with Roast’s homemade brown sauce and chips, while Mich had Goosnargh chicken legs with creamed baked potato and Scottish girolles. We were so happily full at the end of it, we had to walk all the way into Shoreditch for our night out.

The grand finale of my London Restaurant Festival experiences was Roux at the Landau, a new collaboration from father and son Albert and Michel Roux Jr at the Langham Hotel, where chef de cuisine is Roux protégé Chris King. I dined with Jenny and we were both totally blown away by the food, the immaculate dining room, and the wonderful service.

We both started with the Saucisson Lyonnais Maison with Dijon mustard and herb salad. My main was grilled flat iron steak with Vacherin glazed cauliflower gratin and sauce Bordelaise. Jenny had Cotswold white chicken with orzo pasta carbonara and Alsace bacon. The orzo carbonara was, in Jenny’s words, “sex on a plate”. It was truly sublime.

So now you probably understand why I am struggling to fit into my new fall wardrobe. This is not the way I normally eat, but every once and a while I love to retire my beer budget and entertain my champagne tastes. I really don’t think there is any better way to spend what little money I do have.

Journalism Porn

It wasn’t the first time I heard the News of the World phone hacking scandal compared to Watergate. But when Carl Bernstein draws the parallel the words ring very true.
I had the good luck to be among an audience on a panel, titled ‘After Hacking: How can the press restore trust?’, organized by The Guardian newspaper. It consisted of Carl Bernstein (Pulitzer-prize winner journalist who broke Watergate along with his colleague Bob Woodward), Sylvie Kaufmann (former editor of Le Monde in Paris), Alan Rusbridger (current editor-in-chief of The Guardian), George Eustice (MP and former press secretary for Prime Minister David Cameron), and chaired by Krishnan Guru-Murthy (anchor/presenter on Channel 4 News).

It was a night of serious journalism porn.

After a general review of how the phone hacking scandal leaked out into the world and culminated in the printing of the very final issue of News of the World this summer, Bernstein was the first to share his opinion on the matter. In making the Watergate comparison, he said the two events were “shattering cultural moments of huge consequence that are going to be with us for generations”, and that they were both “about corruption at the highest levels, about the corruption of the process of a free society”.

In the case of the phone hacking scandal, Berstein said the actions helped “drive the ever descending lowest common denominator of journalism that resulted in a diminution of reporting standards” across the British press. Like the British press really needed one more reason for people to hate it.

I was home in July, right after the scandal really broke across the world. When I met new people or was catching up with old friends, I was constantly reminded about that stereotypical negative that comes with being a journalist, especially in the UK. Even my Dad said that, as a journalist working in London, on that particular July day, I was automatically one of the most hated people anywhere. What’s really interesting to me is that Britian has the most trusted broadcasting media in the world (the BBC) and yet probably the least trusted print media.

Anyways, while the parallels to Watergate were interesting to hear about, it was not the central topic of the panel discussion. Turning to the restoration of trust between the British public and its press, Eustice, the Conservative MP, argued that the press needed tighter regulation. He said “journalists shouldn’t fear regulation” and that there was “not much wrong” with the existing Press Complaints Commission (PCC) code, apart from the fact that it is not really enforced. Bernstein responded that he was horrified at the idea of introducing more severe regulations on the press. He said: “We are headed towards a truth commission if we are going to go down this road.”

Channel 4’s Guru-Murthy polled the audience to find out who was in favour and against stricter legislation for journalists, and the majority of those in attendance, including myself, raised their hands for the latter. Predictably, he next asked any journalists in the audience to raise their hands and, amid an outbreak of laughter, nearly all of us did so. About two-thirds of us were also in our late-20s/early-30s (and Tweeting as the panel discussed), which made me feel a warm glow about my profession and this next generation of brilliant journalists, and the fascinating ways that the industry is growing.

I don’t think I’ve written about this before, but I am coordinating all the social media at my magazine. It is no secret that print, as a medium, is in drastic trouble with newspapers going the way of the dinosaurs, many publications moving online, and the blogosphere giving any random person with a computer the opportunity to become a citizen journalist. At Employee Benefits magazine, I coordinate our daily online news, our Facebook page and our Twitter account. And the leaps and bounds that this medium is growing make me feel very proud to be a part of it.

The issue that is growing, though, is that there is no regulation, and no way to regulate, bloggers and Tweeters. Bernstein pointed to these bloggers and Tweeters and other new forms of media as the clear way forward for journalism. He said: “You’re listening to a bunch of old dinosaurs. People aren’t getting their news from us anymore.” I feel kind of thrilled to be a part of the new generation, wherever it takes us.

And the entire evening made me really proud of my profession, after a long onslaught of negative slant on print media in Britain. Berstein said: “We are not saints in this business. Every day we are faced with the question of privacy and the dissemination of that information. How we answer that question shows what kind of journalists we are.”

The Guardian’s Rusbridger closed the discussion by asserting that we need to achieve the right balance in transparency, and that all journalists need to be in charge of their own transparency. He also referred to the idea of an impending extinction for our industry. “Reporters are like bees,” he said. “Once we lose them we are all fucked.”

Moving day and the quest to win back my deposit

Following up my last post about the challenges of flatshare hunting in London, I think it’s only fitting that I whinge on a bit about that other nightmare of the moving-house experience: Dealing with estate agents on move-out, or the pursuit of the deposit.

So, you might have noticed that one of the striking differences between living in London and basically anywhere else is the whole process of flat-hunting, flat-finding, flat-moving-in, and then, later, flat-moving-out. While I’ve spent the last month on the super-stressful path towards a new flat, I have also been dealing with the equal anxiety of making sure that, when I leave One Florence Street, I get my whole deposit back.

You see, the estate agent in London is one of the most hated creatures on the earth. And rightfully so. Honestly, if I met a guy in a bar and found out he was an estate agent, I would promptly turn on my heel and run away. It seems to me their only purpose is to be as difficult as possible through the entire experience, from moving in right through to moving out.

To be fair, my experience with apartment hunting back in Canada is limited. When I moved to Toronto, I found my adorable little bachelorette pad after only two or three other viewings, and I set up shop for four years. I had it real good: my landlord/building manager lived across the hall and was literally available 24-7 for any situation that arose.

In London, the landlords do not really factor into the process. Instead, their identities are shrouded in darkness and they put all the power into the hands of the estate agents, who shoddily manage their properties, making life for the tenant as difficult and disorganized as possible.

By estate agents I am referring to the likes of Foxtons, Savills, Ludlow Thompson, Winkworths and the incompetent crew over at Thomson Currie, which I have had the painful pleasure to deal with for the past 12 months.

In searching for a flat, you must inevitably sign up with these estate agents, registering your requirements and then waiting for that elusive match. For the privilege of arranging viewings for the tenant and putting together a tenancy agreement, the estate agent takes at least £100, not to mention whatever exorbitant fees they charge the property owner. At move-in, they also take a hefty deposit, which is a guarantee that the tenant is not going to trash the flat during their time there.

I do think that the general principal of a deposit is fair enough. But, what happens here is a far cry from the Canadian tradition of forking over first and last month’s rent. Back home, you pay for those beginning and ending months, but nothing else is on the line. And there isn’t some ridiculous administrative fee for literally changing names and dates on a contract.

When Lauren and I moved in last year, we had to have the contract redone about three times, due to the complete disregard of a few of our very clear requests, not to mention the fact that the agreement was made out for Lauren Patterson and Jenniffer Fleming, blatant spelling errors and name changes repeated over and over again.
I mean, I would gladly pay an administrative charge if I knew I was going to be looked after, with prompt responses to maintenance and other queries, and general competency. But that is not the case. Our numerous requests had to be constantly followed up, locks changed more than once after a few scary incidents of being locked in the bathroom, and simple maintenance to the outdoor space blatantly ignored.

And all this without any contact with the actual owner of the property. I completely understand the need for a landlord to enlist the expertise (I use that term loosely and ironically) of a management company for the day-to-day needs of a building and its tenants. But at least, with a known landlord, you have the peace of mind that they care about the property and the person living in it, while the estate agent simply sees you as one in a multitude of addresses.

Anyways, this is a broad rant about estate agents in general, but I promise there is a personal point somewhere in here. My estate agents have a big chunk of my and Lauren’s money (£1,100 each, to be specific), so it doesn’t get much more personal than that. It is basically key to my survival to have all of that returned to me so, coming into the home stretch of living at One Florence Street, and with my lovely roomie returned to Canada, I became obsessed with making sure the flat looked identical to the day we moved in.

Even though we are very tidy and organized tenants, there is still that inevitable wear and tear of 12 months of living. (Not to mention a certain mishap that left a splash of red wine up one of the walls.) When we moved in the flat had been newly painted a sparkling white, and the countertops and appliances newly fitted. So I was focused on returning it to that pristine condition.

Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever cleaned so diligently in my entire life. And, on top of my own work, I also brought in a professional cleaning service, just to be on the safe side. Last weekend, clad in sweatpants, blasting tunes, sipping whiskey, and armed with every single cleaning product known to man, I set to work. I washed walls, bleached the porcelain bathroom fittings and kitchen sink, cleaned windows and cupboards, dusted baseboards, swept and mopped the hardwood floors, and grouted and repainted little nail holes where we had hung our limited art.

In fact, I was so pleased that the generic white paint I had picked up at my local DIY shop blended right into the previous coat, that I obsessively covered various scuff marks – not to mention a certain red wine stain that had made an impressive Pollack-style canvas out of one wall. Yesterday, with all of our belongings (much more than any temporary London inhabitant should own) moved out, the professional cleaners took care of any nook and cranny I might have missed.

And, this morning, the last step in the whole nightmare process was completed. I met with an independent inventory checker, as we did when we first moved in, so he could determine whether the flat was being left in a suitable condition. I was expecting a cold and uninformative third party, based on past experience, but this guy was friendly, and reassured me that there was only a missing light bulb that would be flagged up as a tenant responsibility. Big sigh of relief.

So now we wait for our deposits to be transferred back to us. I anticipate we will get the whole sum back (though I suppose they would be in their right to charge me for the cost of a single light bulb). I am back at my gracious and considerate cousin Pearl’s house, set up in the West Wing, which I called home for my first six weeks in London two years ago. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her.

And, of course, the flat-hunt continues. Hopefully, I will discover the perfect new home in Angel with a great double-room, lovely new roomies and, if I’m really lucky, a private landlord rather than an estate agent.