I first read about The Connaught at an extremely impressionable age. I was too young –it left an indelible, immovable mark on my consciousness. I was fourteen years old, but I remember the sequence of events very clearly.
“If you visit the restrooms at the Goring Hotel you might be forgiven for thinking you’ve taken a step back in time to a Victorian gallery of smut. Adorning the walls are a selection of Reubenesque beauties leaving very little to the imagination…”
“Since opening in trendy Fitzrovia just eight months ago, Peruvian restaurant Lima has already been voted ‘One to Watch’ at the National Restaurant Awards and, perhaps more importantly, has received the thumbs up from London’s hippest tribe of foodies…”
BRGR.Co. A strange, vowel-less beast that’s popped up on Wardour Street, part of the renaissance of Soho restaurants and the new breed of burger purveyors who’ve set up shop to make the most of London’s burning desire for re-imagined American junk-food.
“Chinese chef, Alvin Leung, is something of a legend in Asian gastronomic circles, an avant garde performer who stands alone in terms of creative vision and culinary style.”
“Everywhere in the Capital, everyone is grabbing for their bit of the pie. Whether it’s mediocre no-hopers petulantly clinging to the armrest in the tube, or unjustifiably self-important fat cats creaming off bonuses in the City. It is universally acknowledged that no one wants to share.”
Theo Randall deals in rusticity. His cooking philosophy is simple: source the best ingredients to create authentic Italian dishes that would make mama weep for her homeland.
“You can see Copenhagen’s balls from here!”. Excuse me? “What on Earth are you talking about” I said to Mr P, who was stunt double for Lady Stirling this particular evening. “Copenhagen, his balls, you can see them quite clearly from here”. He was right.
“How’s the meat situation?” – This enigmatic question was graffitied onto a work top at my old university and is, bizarrely, permanently etched in my mind.
Parquet floors, like steaks, require meticulous care. My grandmother knew this with clarity, and as a boy I used to visit her every Saturday to gorge on steak and chips.
Tucked neatly away at the far end of a mews off Berkeley Square lies Bellamy’s Restaurant. I suspect there’s a strong argument to state that Bellamy’s might be the most civilised dining room in London.
Beyond plate glass, which reflects strings of LEDs in trees and a surging line of well-chilled commuters decanting into their offices, is L’Anima’s beautifully-composed dining room.