Sundays at Quaglino’s: bottomless fizz and one of London’s best roasts
“There are a lot of girls in here,” said Mike, suspiciously, as though I’d tricked him into becoming the next human sacrifice at an Ann Summers party, or militant lesbian rally.
£££
Blowing baubles at London Glassblowing
It’s amazing how you can live in London for absolutely bloody ages and think you know about every cool thing going, and then, out of nowhere, you find out there’s an ice climbing wall hiding in Covent Garden, or a flying trapeze school in Hyde Park. Or a glassblowing studio in London Bridge.
Crampons and clippers: an afternoon off in the West End
There’s nothing nicer that taking a Friday afternoon off work. Especially when you’re going ice climbing, getting your beard did and beating the queues at one of Soho’s hottest new restaurants.
Parody panto at Peter Pan Goes Wrong
Several years ago, James 1 asked me if I wanted to go and see a play he’d got last minute tickets to at the Red Lion Theatre in Angel. They were free, so off I went.
A taste of Smith and Wollensky at the Adelphi Bar
I’ve never been to New York, but I’ve known of the great American steakhouse Smith & Wollensky ever since I read American Psycho many years ago. As a discerning psychopath, wealthy protagonist Patrick Bateman name-drops hundreds of fancy brands – some real, some not – and S&W is one of them.
G & Tea at Mr Fogg’s Gin Parlour
“I bet the blokes who work here get laid a lot,” muttered Carla behind me, as we clambered up the very steep steps of Mr Fogg’s Gin Parlour.
Venison Wellington at 108 Brasserie
Winter is coming. But first…autumn!
Michelin star tapas at Barrafina
There’s a lot not to like about Barrafina. For instance: the layout, which sits precisely 29 diners behind a cramped L-shaped counter. Everyone else waits – for up to two hours! – directly behind them, getting in the way of pained-looking hosting staff and audibly wishing the people ahead of them would eat a bit […]
Octopus doughnuts at Kurobuta
I imagine that Kurobuta, which sits on a quiet, residential road teeming with expensive-looking dogs, has two general managers. One subscribes to Apartment Therapy and plays sommelier at friends’ dinner parties; the other is an ex-car salesman with an obnoxious sense of humour.
Converting a carnivore at The Gate
“Ooh, they do fries,” said Mike, brightening up slightly as a plate of polenta chips went by, before being immediately distracted by a Nigel Farage lookalike at the bar.
