Despite the shameless efforts of the New People’s Princess to steal my limelight, my birthday passed in the joyful fug of a procession of excellent restaurants gilded with the happy delight of a smart hotel.
So yes, it was our bi-annual epicurean pilgrimage: Shelley well and truly raised the bar this time, with two nights at the so chic St Martin’s Lane Hotel, Friday-night ruby with class at Veeraswamy, and to top it all off Saturday evening indulgence at the blissful Clos Maggiore.
So yes, it was our bi-annual epicurean pilgrimage: Shelley well and truly raised the bar this time, with two nights at the so chic St Martin’s Lane Hotel, Friday-night ruby with class at Veeraswamy, and to top it all off Saturday evening indulgence at the blissful Clos Maggiore.
Arriving at the hotel, a triumph of the form-over-function design guru Philippe Starck (a man who’s reality bears little resemblance to that of most in this world) I spotted at least one Nathan Barley haircut amongst the acid yellow walls and Zoolander fashion-music. The quirky furniture, which included a large chess set and some gnomes, looked on … quirkily, dismissive of my ordinariness.
We ascended in a lift bathed in blue light; we both looked as if we were trapped in a giant sunbed. On the walls, video-art played, and all around wafted elegant foot shuffling lift music.
The room: minimalist. Utterly beautiful, clean lines, with vast windows looking out on to Covent Garden. Coloured mood lighting was available, although at times I needed to resort to unplugging things as I simply could not find the damn switch. Not very minimalist of me. In an office block opposite us, a man is stood at the window looking into our room, hoping no doubt for some voyeuristic shenanigans. We did not oblige. We are married, afterall.
The room: minimalist. Utterly beautiful, clean lines, with vast windows looking out on to Covent Garden. Coloured mood lighting was available, although at times I needed to resort to unplugging things as I simply could not find the damn switch. Not very minimalist of me. In an office block opposite us, a man is stood at the window looking into our room, hoping no doubt for some voyeuristic shenanigans. We did not oblige. We are married, afterall.
Off to our first gastro-treat. Stepping gaily through Leicester Square we make it to Veeraswamy – eager to arrive on time, on threat that if we did not arrive within 15 minutes of our slot it would be an evening at the Pizza Hut buffet or the Aberdeen Steak House for us. But we made it. Glad we did, some lovely food.
Shelley started with a bowl of deep-fried leaves, which sounds awful but was in fact rather nice. Think tempura but using curry leaves, coriander and the like. I had paneer, light and mousse-like, sandwiching a thin layer of coriander and mint. Delish.
Shelley started with a bowl of deep-fried leaves, which sounds awful but was in fact rather nice. Think tempura but using curry leaves, coriander and the like. I had paneer, light and mousse-like, sandwiching a thin layer of coriander and mint. Delish.
On to mains, makhani all round (paneer with pointless morels, chicken for me) with some glorious sides, good naan and fluffy rice. All washed down with a poised St Veran chosen by my chosen. Desert was a delight, the greatest kulfi ever known.How could we top this evening off? With sleep of course, our favourite!
As is so often the case, morning followed night. As the light shone through the vast windows we slipped gracefully into consciousness and set off on our day in search of culture. After managing about 90 minutes at Tate Britain we gave up and searched for champagne, which we found at Kettners. The echoing room, the disinterested staff, and the gaggle – no flock – of loud elderly ladies let out for an afternoon on the town caused us to abandon this place and find pasties to eat, as we passed from the ridiculous to the sublime.
True sublimity awaited, however, for the toppest treat of all lay ahead of us at Clos Maggiore. From the knowledgeable and friendly service, to the warm unfussy ambience, to the delicate and complex food, and the intelligent and often bold wine selections, it was a superb evening.
Pumpkin and pine nut soup was the yellow of an August evening, soothing and warm. Tian of smoked aubergine caponata with mozzarella croquette offered contrasting peaks of delight, set off with the bold and perfect choice of a sweet wine from the Jura. Tagliatelli with truffle cream came with a mass of that wonderful fungus, swathing carefully made pasta, to be followed with a complex mix of gnocchi, blue cheese, walnut pesto and poached pear which paid testament to the chef’s clever and well balanced palate. To follow, a happy and unctuous selection of cheeses and then, joy of joys, the lightest of chocolate fondants.
Fig 1: Tian of smoked aubergine
Fig 2: Petit foursFor me, life cannot get better than this. Wonderful. So it is at that point I shall draw to a close, on a true high, before the mundanity of this, my main life, returns; before it intrudes on this vision of excellence.
