Do you have to have a formal afternoon tea when you’re in London? No. But if you’re shepherding around a group of people who really want to have it, then you might have to. So it was for me. It turns out that the afternoon tea spectrum in London ranges from £10 (in cafes) to £100 and probably beyond (in increasingly expensive hotels). There are stops at price points all along that spectrum, with increasingly baroque menu offerings, in number and conception. Our budget was £30/head. The other constraints were that we were a large group and that some in the party had wheat allergies. With all of that accounted for, the place that was able to take us on the day that worked best for everyone was St. Ermin’s Hotel in Westminster—a hop, skip and a jump from St. James’ Park and Buckingham Palace, and right next to the St. James’ Park tube station. Herewith a brief account of the experience. Continue reading
As I began to write this post I was overcome by a huge wave of nostalgia; so much so that I began to look at Airbnb listings for London. This is not because I am so desperate to go back and eat fish and chips at the Laughing Halibut; it is because beginning to describe why we ate there at all took me back to everything we loved about our three months in London this spring. Courtesy my employers, we lived in a smart flat in Westminster. This was great in almost every way: a 15 walk to St James’ Park—where we went with the boys every other day; a 15 minute walk to Tate Britain (though we didn’t go as often as we should have); pretty much in the shadow of Westminster Abbey (though we only went a few days before we left); a 10 minute walk from the St. James’ Park and Westminster tube stations, a 20 minute walk from Victoria station; within easy reach of pretty much everywhere in central London. It wasn’t so good for for food though. Continue reading
As you’ve probably forgotten, I was in London for a week and change at the end of August. My first meal was at the smaller, Spitalfields outpost of Fergus Henderson’s empire, St. John Bread and Wine. In the throes of jet lag, I wrote that meal up only a few hours after eating it. The rest of the week’s eating has taken me a long time to fully write up—indeed, after the review of Hedone in mid-October I all but forgot that I still had two more to go. Here now is the first of those two: a Friday night dinner at the St. John mothership in Smithfield. This has become hallowed ground for foodies from all over the world and as I am entirely conventional there was not much chance that I would not stop in here as well. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I might have skipped it if the Bread and Wine location had offered a slightly different menu the night I dined there. You see, I’d wanted to have their iconic roast bone marrow with parsley salad and I’d been hoping for grouse as well, and neither were on offer there that night. Luckily, the mothership came through. Continue reading
After a brief hiatus I continue with my chronological series of reports on meals eaten in London at the end of August. My previous reports were of lunches at Hoppers, a casual Sri Lankan/Tamil place in Soho and at The Clove Club, a Michelin starred hotspot of the Global Cosmopolitan school. Noble Rot is also part of the new wave of trendy restaurants that seem to have opened up in London in recent years, but while it doesn’t serve up casual Sri Lankan/Tamil food it’s also not quite in the Global Cosmopolitan school. Continue reading
I am in London for a little over a week—I arrived yesterday. I am here mostly on bidness but obviously am going to do a spot of eating as well. I didn’t actually have anything planned for my first evening in town, as I didn’t know how exhausted I would be. As it happens, despite an exhausting, delayed flight and long lines at immigration at Heathrow, I was ready to have a good meal. I guess when your last two “meals” have been provided by an American airline real food becomes more urgent. As my hotel is within walking distance from the Spitalfields St. John Bread and Wine, the satellite location of Fergus Henderson’s famed St. John, I decided to call and walk over. A table was easily secured and it was a pleasant walk—just short of a mile—that whetted my appetite further. And let me just say that between the snatches of Hindi and Bengali conversations overheard on the streets and people crossing those streets with no regard for traffic lights—to say nothing of all the looted Indian antiquities in the museums—I’m feeling quite at home in London.