An intelligent mix of culture, style, travel, food and property, as well as where to go and what to see.
25 min listen
Paul Feig is an actor, comedian and acclaimed filmmaker. He has directed films such as Bridesmaids, The Heat and the 2016 remake of Ghostbusters as well as episodes of Parks and Recreation and The Office. On the podcast, Paul talks to Lara and Olivia about growing up thinking food was bland, the secrets of on set catering and how to make the perfect Martini.
The man at the posh London bar stood with our drinks but wouldn’t give them to us. He had a lecture to deliver first, for cocktail culture – or ‘mixology’ as the craft is now known – is nothing if not didactic. As I looked enviously out at the people with pints of beer across the way, I wearily reflected on how the message to the customer has hardened in the years since cocktail bars with American ambitions crossed the pond. It is: the £19 you’re paying for the drink isn’t enough. You need to be quiet and listen, for you’re not just a drinker: you’re a supplicant. Be that as it may, I felt my eyes violently glaze over as the man redescribed, in even more verbose detail, what we had already pored over on the menu.
The martini is experiencing something of a renaissance. This old standard is appearing front and centre on menus across London, reworked to showcase new flavours and techniques. Within the simple framework of clear spirit, vermouth, an optional dash of bitters and an olive or twist, bartenders are finding infinite room for creativity. Not only is this a refreshing antidote to the tiresome orthodoxy that has historically dogged the martini – ‘Just wave the gin in the direction of France!’ – it’s further proof that London is the global capital of the cocktail. The martini may not have been invented here, but our bartenders are certainly showing the world what this old classic can do.
In 2014, Nuno Mendes, a chef from Lisbon by way of Wolfgang Puck’s kitchens and his own Viajante in Bethnal Green, opened a restaurant at the Chiltern Firehouse hotel. This is a redbrick Edwardian castle in Marylebone, which used to be a fire station, but no longer is. This restaurant was skilful: both blessed and cursed. I thought it was Gatsby’s house, inhabited by people looking for something they would never find because it does not exist: self-acceptance through the incitement of jealousy, which is the emotional purpose of being rich. People went for the empty pleasure of being seen at the Chiltern Firehouse because the prime minister David Cameron, among others, came for Caesar salad with chicken skin, which was presumed to be interesting like he was.
It took Paddington Bear to solve the age-old mystery of what the Queen keeps in her handbag. When Her Majesty pulled out a marmalade sandwich during the pair’s sketch at the Platinum Jubilee concert this summer, it did more than just tickle the audience. It also served to remind us of our national love affair with marmalade. Long before Paddington developed a taste for it, the preserve had been a stalwart of British popular culture, from Jane Austen (where Lady Middleton applies marmalade as balm for her daughter’s scratch) to Evelyn Waugh (where, in Brideshead Revisited, Charles Ryder eats ‘scrambled eggs and bitter marmalade with the zest which in youth follows a restless night’) – not to mention Samuel Pepys, Agatha Christie and Ian Fleming.
Dipping my toes in the Irish Sea on a family holiday last week, I encountered something slimy, muddy-brown and decidedly squelchy. I managed to flick it off my foot with minimal squealing and thought no more of it. But, looking back, perhaps I missed a lucrative opportunity – or a tasty treat for the kids’ dinner. For my beach find was in fact Irish moss, also known as ‘sea moss’ or ‘carrageen moss’ – the latest cult ingredient among experimental foodies, health-conscious celebrities and social media aficionados.
I’ve never been very good at leaving things be. I tend to gild the lily. I may plan to do something simple, but I always find myself adding to it, primping, faffing. This is true in every area of life, but never more so than when I’m cooking. For that reason, this time of year can make me a little uncomfortable. When summer arrives in earnest – as opposed to those brief, misleadingly sunny weekends of late April and mid-May – we are inundated with beautiful fresh fruit. Right now, it’s strawberries, gooseberries, peaches and cherries; raspberries, blackcurrants and figs are just around the corner. And we are told over and over that it is impossible to improve on ripe, raw fruit, fresh from the tree.
Imagine a camel train, crossing the great desert. The remaining water is rancid; the beasts’ humps are shrunken. Death looms. Then suddenly, there is the sound of a fountain plashing and the scent of sherbet. Old Abdullah, who has done the journey often, as he has been reminding everyone for ten days and making his companions increasingly homicidal, is vindicated. The oasis is at hand. Although Londoners, afflicted by heat, may feel affinity with those sons of the desert, our conditions are not so dire. For a start, there are many more oases, in the form of bars or clubs. That brings us to Pimm’s, that admirable method of rehydration. According to the sources, Mr Pimm invented the drink to accompany oysters. Eh?
23 min listen
Aidan Hartley is a writer and entrepreneur. Born in Kenya, he grew up in Africa and England and has worked as a reporter for Reuters all over the world. Aidan has also written The Spectator’s Wild life column for the past 21 years. On the podcast, Aidan talks about spending his younger years on safaris in the wilderness, where mealtimes consisted of handfuls of rice cooked from metal tins on an open fire.As a reporter, he talked about reporting on famine in Somalia and why that led him to where he is now – living on a remote family farm, as a disciple of John Seymour’s guide to self-sufficiency.
I moved down to Sussex over 25 years ago from South London. My family viewed living by the sea as a dream goal. I still remember the day when we packed up and cavalcaded down to Worthing, a charming seaside town in West Sussex. After the amazing experience of winning MasterChef, we opened our first restaurant Pitch in 2019 serving beautiful British inspired food from both the sea and the land. There has been a significant boom of food and café culture all around Sussex, and many areas such as Brighton and Worthing have flourished into destinations for those in search of culinary delights. Our second restaurant Bayside Social has capitalised on this foodie reputation. It's a beachside restaurant focusing on fresh small plates mainly inspired by the coast.
You can’t please me: the grass is always greener. I spend the summer months longing for a time when crumbles and stew, cardigans and the big duvet, are not only welcome but required. Then as soon as we hit the autumn and the weather changes, I’m trying to hold onto the last vestiges of sunshine. This, I suppose, is as close as I can get to a compromise, a middle ground: pineapple, peeled but whole, still sporting its Sideshow Bob haircut, roasted until cooked all the way through, and caramelised on the outside. Served hot with ice cream, or boozy cream, and drizzled with the spicy, dark glaze that drips off during cooking, it captures all the flavours of summer and yet still delivers warmth.
Sometimes this column has a guest reviewer: a dining companion. It was Liz Truss in late summer 2011, for the now long closed Bistro du Vin in Dean Street: a Hotel du Vin without a hotel, and so bereft. It had a bookshelf on which all the books were painted neon, and they flew out in lumps when you tugged at them. I wonder if Liz wanted political PR advice from this column, but I doubt it, because I think you can’t fake integrity, and I get my political PR advice from watching The West Wing. Let Truss be Truss. But Truss is Truss. Or rather Truss is Trusses: she is both myriad, and none. It is possible that the book spines gave better political PR advice. They understand colour blocking. I knew her at college and alumni are confused.
We’re in the elegant 1820s parlour of a five-star, Grade II-listed hotel. There’s music playing softly, and opposite us, one particularly well-groomed guest is wearing a bowtie. A three-tier cake stand is brought to the table. On the top tier sits a selection of homemade biscuits and a fluffy cupcake finished with a swirl of yellow icing. Beneath that is a thick wedge of cake with what looks like pink and white buttercream oozing from the middle. And on the bottom tier is a finely decorated China bowl, piled high with… mashed-up meat?
In the battle of ideas, it is sometimes necessary to make a tactical withdrawal. That is now the case over climate change. This should not be confused with a full retreat. But in the circumstances, those who insist on the need for lifestyle changes have a point, at least when it comes to wine. Some time ago, I propounded a dictum. Rosé should only be drunk south of Lyon. One could start quite early – 10.30 perhaps, opening the first bottle while brushing away the final crumbs of croissant. Apart from a very few serious wines, it would not matter if the stuff were cooled to ice-lolly temperature. But in this heat, there is no shame in quaffing rosé in England. Other wines can be problematic. Freedom and whisky gang thegither.
What makes a kebab a kebab and why do we like eating things on sticks? That is the important question I have been mulling as we hit the steamy barbecue season. The debate was inspired not by kebabs, in fact, but by yakitori, the typically refined Japanese version of kebabs that essentially involve cooking every body part of a chicken on small skewers, and which also seems to be London’s most recent Japanese love affair following sushi, ramen, udon, and so on. Yakitori though is really the extreme of food on stick eating. Take the menu of Junsei in Marylebone (excellent, by the way), which breaks the chicken down into ten elements ranging from gizzard to wings and cooks them to dripping succulence on half size kebab sticks.
33 min listen
Thom Elliott is the co-founder of Pizza Pilgrims. On the podcast, Thom tells Lara and Liv about growing up above a pub, learning to make pizza while touring Italy with his brother, and starting Pizza Pilgrims on his lunch break.
You may have noticed it’s been a bit warm this week. There are few things the poorly insulated and generally un-airconditioned nation of Britain is less prepared for than the mercury screaming past the 30-degree mark. So really, the only sensible thing to do is park yourself in the shade with a big jug of water, some good company, and a cold cocktail. The following drinks are specially designed to beat the heat without being too much hassle to put together. They’re easy-going, refreshing, and none of them require a cocktail shaker – because, honestly, who can be bothered with that sort of thing just now? Cheers. Elderflower Rebujito In its native Andalusia, the Rebujito is the answer to the Spritz or the Mojito.
Good lord, it’s hot. I mean, really, really hot. Right now, the heat is so overwhelming as to feel like it is tangible, as if you could reach out and touch it. All we’re capable of talking about is the heat; any other polite conversation is too much for our fried brains. Normally, when our annual heatwave hits, I proffer some halfway house of a recipe: a dish that only needs the hob, not the oven, or is sufficiently refreshing or brightening that it justifies the added kitchen heat. But, this year, even that compromise seems unmanageable.
When the Tory party set itself on fire last week a restaurateur told me: ‘Don’t worry, Tanya, we’ll still be here when it’s over.’ She was wrapping a scotch egg as she said it, and it’s very true. There is a soothing continuity to restaurants: no matter what fresh hell, people need to eat. I will know civilisation has ended when I can’t get a sausage at the Savoy hotel. People always say that the Savoy has the only slip-road in Britain on which people drive on the right. That is the least interesting thing about it. It is, for instance, the only London hotel built as a dosshouse for people who like light opera (now musical theatre).
As temperatures soar and the will-to-live wanes, there is something that promises to get us through this unbearable heat. No, it’s not a pair of Chanel espadrilles, or a Balenciaga beach ball. It’s something versatile, accessible and varied. When it’s this oppressively stuffy outside and in, the only real pleasure is to quench the unavoidable thirst. I’m talking about drinking — and I don’t just mean alcohol. Here are five cooling liquids which do that better than the rest: Mango Lassi Lassis originated in India 1000 BC. The drink is widely believed to have Ayurvedic healing properties and can calm both stomach and mind.
London has one of the most distinctive skylines on the planet - and what better way to enjoy it than sipping a cool beer or cocktail? As we approach peak summer season, rooftop bars are popping up across the capital. Follow our picks of the top places for great atmosphere and a privileged bird’s eye perspective of the city. Tattu, Denmark Street Tattu's Cherry Blossom Negroni Rise above the buzz of the West End with this latest addition to the WC2 food scene. A Chinese restaurant and bar with sweeping views of the city, Tattu challenges the view that London sets the nation's foodie trends; it first burst onto the scene in Manchester and Birmingham before opening in the Capital. The cocktails are as easy on the eye as they are on the tongue.
I grew up by the seaside. More precisely, I grew up near South Shields, on the north-east coast – somewhere which is British summer beach country for one, maybe two days a year, and salt-lashed and grey for the rest of it. But come rain or shine, ice cream is a permanent fixture. Ice cream was such an important part of life that the first school trip I ever went on, aged three, was to an ice-cream factory. I remember being handed an ice cream as big as my (admittedly then quite small) head, and vehemently declining the bright red sauce offered, known locally as ‘monkey blood’. A kindly nursery nurse reassured me it was just raspberry sauce, but I simply wasn’t taking the risk.
‘Club’ is a four-letter word. Whenever a club is mentioned in the press, it will inevitably be portrayed as a sinister meeting place where men gather in secret to plot against the common weal. If only. The main point about all clubs is that they are fun. That is true in St James’s. It is also true in the working-men’s clubs of the north and Midlands. That said, the Carlton Club could claim to be a special case, although anyone entering its portals in the hope of coming across louche behaviour would be disappointed (almost always). But it could be regarded as a trustee of the Conservative party. As such, it has provided the setting for crucial events, most notably in 1922.
19 min listen
Lily Dunn is a writer, teacher and lecturer in creative writing and narrative non-fiction at Bath Spa University. Her latest book Sins of my father: a daughter, a cult, a wild unravelling is out now. On the podcast, Lily talks about her first memories of picking blackberries in Cornwall, her love for all kinds of toast and her culinary experiences in Italy.
There are few pints as good as the one you drink after a day on the beach. The sea air, the promise of a good fish and chips on the way, and the phantom warmth of a sunburn settling in all make that beer or cider taste even sweeter. British beach pubs can sometimes let the views pick up what the service lets down but this doesn’t have to be the case. Here to make sure your post-paddle pints are spot on perfect are some of the best places in the country to drink by the seaside. Xylo Taproom – Margate, KentXylo taps into Margate's artistic vibe This stylish microbrewery sits on the corner of Margate’s fashionable Old Town, offering a great view of the beach and the Harbour Arm.
Nothing beats a spot of decluttering - throwing things out of your wardrobe that you don’t use or need to see what you have and make space for things you do need. I am useless at it when it comes to clothes and other clutter, but cookbooks are another matter. I review cookbooks; I probably had about 150 of them, some of which have been used for just one recipe. When it came to the point when they were falling off the shelves – and they’re hefty, being mostly hardback – I had to let some go. So, which ones justified the shelf space? Most of my cookbooks don’t get used in their entirety. I make for two or three familiar and reliable recipes, and use them again and again.
Call it nominative determinism, but a lemon drizzle cake is perfect for disappointing, drizzly weather. It’s cheering: brightly flavoured, and packed with zest, but still comforting, filling your home with a warm citrus scent as it bakes. It’s also a more enjoyable food-based activity than picnics or barbecues when winds are high. A lemon drizzle cake is really just a pound cake – equal quantities of butter, sugar, eggs and flour – that’s then spritzed up with zest and juice. But it’s a pretty glorious one, managing to be both zingy and sweet, light and sticky.
The George, Fitzrovia, was Saki’s local, and a pub for men talking about cars when Great Portland Street was called Motor Row. I imagine them sucking down gin and weeping for early Jaguars; a ghostly Max de Winter rising to leave for Manderley; Mr Rolls and Mr Royce squabbling over ale. Felix Mendelssohn and Dylan Thomas came here too. Nowadays they would be called local creatives by marketing literature, so I suspect they are pleased to be dead. Many pubs have failed, which is an incremental tragedy, though it’s pleasing for women seeking men who are not always drunk. It’s true that if you want to see a fantastical neo-Tudor ceiling on the Kilburn High Road, you will only find it in a pub, specifically the Black Lion.
Sauces are the unsung hero of any barbecue for me. We tend to focus on the big hitting items like the burgers, sausages, and steaks – and don’t get me wrong, these are an extremely important part of the barbecue experience – but what really brings a barbecue to the next level is what goes with it. The beauty of sauces is that they can be prepared in advance. With so much to think about during the preparation, anything that can be made ahead of time for a barbecue is a winner in my eyes. The key to impressing your guests is choosing sauces that are going to complement what you’re cooking. If you’re having fish, for example, you need a sauce that is light and citrusy – or something with Asian flavours.
