Contrary to popular conception, I’m not a great baker. I was hired by Bake Off for my judging experience, not my baking skill. I’m a good cook and I know what’s right and wrong about a cake, but I suspect my own baking efforts would not often get Paul Hollywood’s nod of approval. On the day before Good Friday I decided to make hot cross buns. They were a total disaster. Analysing them, I could hear myself say: ‘No flavour. How old were the spices you used? And when did you buy that yeast? You do know you should chuck out spices every year and that instant yeast does not last for ever?’ So, we went to Tesco and bought new spices and yeast. The second attempt was much better, but still not wonderful. We went late-night shopping and happily the Co-op still had hot cross buns. Shaming, really.
My husband John, having been to visit Larkhill Vineyard to report on it for our ITV show, Prue Leith’s Cotswold Kitchen, has had a rush of blood to the head and wants to plant wines chez nous. He asked the Larkhill couple, Simon and Wendy Bond, to come and advise us. Knowing we have nothing but north-facing slopes, I was sure they’d say: no way. But they told us of newly developed grape varieties that will grow in cold, windy, rainy climes with minimal sun. And of consultants who do nothing but advise would-be amateur winemakers, and gave us the names of companies that would plant the vines, of wineries that would make our wine for us, and distributors that would market it for us. With every statement my heart sank further. I could see nothing but money flying out the window. But they said two things that gave me hope: ‘Start with only an acre or two’, and ‘Wine-making is hard work. If you aren’t out in the vineyard every day, pruning, tying in, spraying, feeding, you aren’t doing it right.’ With any luck that will put John off. And at least it won’t be a 50-acre disaster.
We went to the opening night of Giffords Circus, near Stroud, and fans will be delighted to know that the revamped version is breathtaking. There is still a quirky Englishness, with the clowns reciting bits of Shakespeare, Browning, Laurie Lee, Beatrix Potter et al, but now there are performers from all over Europe, America and Africa, with acts that are so crazy and dangerous that you long for them to be safely over. Two near-identical female trapeze artists perform high up in the big top without a harness, one swinging from the other, sometimes held together by nothing more than one girl’s bent ankle hooked over the other’s foot. And the Newts, nine young men from Addis Ababa, are spellbinding to watch. What they do is as much dance as death-defying acrobatics.
We’ve finally had lunch in Jeremy King’s reopened Simpson’s in the Strand, and I can report it’s all it’s cracked up to be. We went with Delia Smith and her husband Michael, and we oldies felt instantly at home. A black-and-white picture of that dining room could be mistaken for one taken in 1900: waiters with white shirts, black waistcoats and bow ties, customers nearly all middle-aged or over, mostly men sprinkled with a few elegant women. But I’m glad to say there is no dress code. It’s always seemed to me monstrous to take a customer’s money and tell him he must wear a jacket and tie. One man was wearing a T-shirt, sporting muscled arms covered in tattoos.
The décor has an Edwardian feel. Chandeliers, pargetted cornices over spacious, cushioned booths whose partitions give you privacy but are low enough to allow ogling of the other diners. The menu is also a blast from the past, with most customers opting for the roasts, carved at the table on silver trolleys, as they have been since 1848. Old-fashioned glories like deep-fried scampi, prawn cocktail, ox cheek pudding and treacle tart all feature. All a million times better than I remember.
Prue Leith’s Being Old… And Learning to Love It! is out now.
Comments