Dear readers,
Today we address the vital subject of one's happy place. The place where one can relax, read, enjoy a glass and generally feel the cares of the world wafting away. The place where, in the words of the theme song from Cheers, everyone knows your name, or at least your order. I will make a surprising confession. There are many drinking establishments in London I love dearly: The Seven Stars, The Speaker, The French House and Skylon are among them. But for true relaxation, comfort and warmth, my happy place is none other than part of a chain, All Bar One on Chiswick High Road (from where I write at the moment).
Why is this? I have no brief against chains, unlike some; they are reliable and uniform, generally well-stocked and reasonably priced. I accept, though, that they do not always summon up the blood and stiffen the sinews, nor set the pulse a-racing. Arguably, it is not their job. But I will defend this one.
For starters, the wine list is really pretty good for a high street bar. You can have a bog-standard glass of malbec, or a bottle of Washington State riesling. Very few bottles will cost you more than thirty quid, and you'll get something good for that. There is a fine range of draught beers and lagers (though I accept that it is not a venue for CAMRA types). The food is reasonably good and reasonably priced, if occasionally a bit mimsy. For those who are looking for such things in a bar, the coffee is good and I am told the tea is too (I cannot abide tea - it makes me nauseous).
That's not the real point, though. I come here because it is comfortable. It's spacious, I can usually get "my" table (and am in high dudgeon when I can't), the staff are friendly and will bring me my standard pint(s) of Peroni almost unprompted, there is a wifi connection now, since the refurbishment, and I feel like it is an extension of my living room. If I want to read, or write, or just think, it is a haven from the bustle of everyday life.
(All of this is slightly ironic. When I was flat-hunting before I first moved to London, I came into this very self-same All Bar One after leaving an estate agent, and hated it. Cavernous, with poor service. How times, and people, change.)
All of this says, I think, that happy places are more about people than the places themselves. One very good friend of mine will never be happy too far from The Seven Stars, while another gets misty-eyed at mention of the Wittenham Clumps (which really should be a pub name). I suspect most of us have them, however, and they are to be cherished. And, if you find yourself in Chiswick, pop into All Bar One. But don't sit at my table. I'll be cross.
Sunday 21 October 2012
Monday 8 October 2012
'Tis the season of Bond
Dear readers,
Today we return to a subject dear to my heart, that of James Bond, 007, licensed to kill. This is very much the time for it; recently we celebrated the 50th anniversary of the release of the first Bond film, Dr. No, and later this month, of course, we will be treated to the latest cinematic instalment, Skyfall, complete with its Adele-sung theme song. (Skyfall is Bond 23, canonically, but that ignores the execrable Casino Royale and the much more entertaining, if silly, Never Say Never Again.) I've yet to hear the theme song, but Adele strikes me as ideal, very much a Shirley Bassey for the 21st century, with no disrespect to the still-extant Dame Shirley.
This month's GQ devoted a considerable portion of its pages to Bond, and very interesting it was too. Dame Judi Dench wrote an fascinating piece on working with Daniel Craig, David Walliams interviewed Sir Roger Moore, and Danny Wallace visited GoldenEye, and wrote the first chapter of a supposed Bond novel. All of this brought home to me how varied Bond is; how, in many ways, he is what you want him to be.
Popular perception of 007 is overwhelmingly shaped by the films, of course, and people's Platonic ideal of Bond is often dependent on their age and therefore who was their childhood Bond. (Mine was late-stage Moore, Dalton and, I suppose, early Brosnan, though I was hardly a child by the time the series was revived by GoldenEye.) For some, Bond is the seductive killer of Sir Sean Connery; for others, he is the licensed-to-quip Sir Roger Moore, and for younger people he is the smooth charmer of Pierce Brosnan. Those growing up with Daniel Craig will have a very different slant on 007, and there can't be many people whose childhood Bond was George Lazenby.
Then again, there is the Bond of the books. Fleming's Bond. The general revival of Bond over the past, say, ten years will, I'm sure, have driven more people in the direction of Fleming's eleven novels and two collections of short stories (and I devoured the John Gardner successor books as a teenager); but I dare say they are still considerably overshadowed by the silver screen Bond. The literary Bond is, it is almost a cliché to say, darker and bleaker than the films. There is a striking sense of the soullessness of Bond's job (is it a vocation, really?), and the famous brand names and high living are surely an antidote to all that, oases of enjoyment in a life that is really rather cold. And this shows in Fleming's writing. The very first book, Casino Royale, is, I think, a terse, tense and brutal masterpiece, and if anyone has framed a spy novel with better first and last lines, then it can only be Len Deighton.
"The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning."
"Yes, dammit, I said 'was'. The bitch is dead now."
I like both the books and the films, though I freely accept that some of the late Moore outings were very silly, and Sir Roger was looking rather creaky (see A View to a Kill). By contrast, I think Live and Let Die is one of the very best, up there with From Russia With Love and Thunderball. One has to enjoy them (or not) on their own terms. For me, the jury is still out on Daniel Craig. He is a magnificent actor, as anyone who watched Our Friends in the North must surely attest, but, while I thought Casino Royale was very good, I found Quantum of Solace a little limp (a shame especially as it's a cracking short story, albeit Bond barely features). Maybe Skyfall will tip the balance one way or the other; though I think Craig has also signed up for Bond 24.
All of which brings me to my perhaps-controversial conclusion. I've thought long and hard about this, and I wouldn't be without any of the Bond films, but my favourite screen Bond is Timothy Dalton. Like Brosnan, he was considered for the role more than once, but playing the role in his early 40s was probably about right. And I will say now that I think The Living Daylights is out-and-out one of the best Bond films there is. The gadgetry takes a back seat, we have a sympathetic and rounded Bond girl in the exquisite Maryam d'Abo, and some excellent villains. Dalton's Bond can be charming and quippy, but he is also a killer. That's his job. He also looked like Bond; dark hair, saturnine looks, a hint of Celtic charm. Bond, after all, was never the perfect English gentleman. Half-Scots and half-Swiss, he never quite fitted in.
If The Living Daylights was a great film, I accept that Licence to Kill was less satisfactory, though it still entertains. And I will always regret that Dalton walked away after that, hardly helped by the long legal wrangling between UA/MGM and Eon Productions. He'd have made an excellent fist of GoldenEye, I'm sure, though he'd have been in the region of fifty by that time. Brosnan proved a good Bond, but some of the darkness, so pervasive in the novels, had gone (and one could hardly blame a man who had been in the entertaining but campy Remington Steele).
Still, Bond fans have much to look forward to. First, there is Skyfall; then, next autumn, we have William Boyd's new Bond novel, to be set in the late 1960s. We shall return to this soon enough, I'm sure...
Today we return to a subject dear to my heart, that of James Bond, 007, licensed to kill. This is very much the time for it; recently we celebrated the 50th anniversary of the release of the first Bond film, Dr. No, and later this month, of course, we will be treated to the latest cinematic instalment, Skyfall, complete with its Adele-sung theme song. (Skyfall is Bond 23, canonically, but that ignores the execrable Casino Royale and the much more entertaining, if silly, Never Say Never Again.) I've yet to hear the theme song, but Adele strikes me as ideal, very much a Shirley Bassey for the 21st century, with no disrespect to the still-extant Dame Shirley.
This month's GQ devoted a considerable portion of its pages to Bond, and very interesting it was too. Dame Judi Dench wrote an fascinating piece on working with Daniel Craig, David Walliams interviewed Sir Roger Moore, and Danny Wallace visited GoldenEye, and wrote the first chapter of a supposed Bond novel. All of this brought home to me how varied Bond is; how, in many ways, he is what you want him to be.
Popular perception of 007 is overwhelmingly shaped by the films, of course, and people's Platonic ideal of Bond is often dependent on their age and therefore who was their childhood Bond. (Mine was late-stage Moore, Dalton and, I suppose, early Brosnan, though I was hardly a child by the time the series was revived by GoldenEye.) For some, Bond is the seductive killer of Sir Sean Connery; for others, he is the licensed-to-quip Sir Roger Moore, and for younger people he is the smooth charmer of Pierce Brosnan. Those growing up with Daniel Craig will have a very different slant on 007, and there can't be many people whose childhood Bond was George Lazenby.
Then again, there is the Bond of the books. Fleming's Bond. The general revival of Bond over the past, say, ten years will, I'm sure, have driven more people in the direction of Fleming's eleven novels and two collections of short stories (and I devoured the John Gardner successor books as a teenager); but I dare say they are still considerably overshadowed by the silver screen Bond. The literary Bond is, it is almost a cliché to say, darker and bleaker than the films. There is a striking sense of the soullessness of Bond's job (is it a vocation, really?), and the famous brand names and high living are surely an antidote to all that, oases of enjoyment in a life that is really rather cold. And this shows in Fleming's writing. The very first book, Casino Royale, is, I think, a terse, tense and brutal masterpiece, and if anyone has framed a spy novel with better first and last lines, then it can only be Len Deighton.
"The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning."
"Yes, dammit, I said 'was'. The bitch is dead now."
I like both the books and the films, though I freely accept that some of the late Moore outings were very silly, and Sir Roger was looking rather creaky (see A View to a Kill). By contrast, I think Live and Let Die is one of the very best, up there with From Russia With Love and Thunderball. One has to enjoy them (or not) on their own terms. For me, the jury is still out on Daniel Craig. He is a magnificent actor, as anyone who watched Our Friends in the North must surely attest, but, while I thought Casino Royale was very good, I found Quantum of Solace a little limp (a shame especially as it's a cracking short story, albeit Bond barely features). Maybe Skyfall will tip the balance one way or the other; though I think Craig has also signed up for Bond 24.
All of which brings me to my perhaps-controversial conclusion. I've thought long and hard about this, and I wouldn't be without any of the Bond films, but my favourite screen Bond is Timothy Dalton. Like Brosnan, he was considered for the role more than once, but playing the role in his early 40s was probably about right. And I will say now that I think The Living Daylights is out-and-out one of the best Bond films there is. The gadgetry takes a back seat, we have a sympathetic and rounded Bond girl in the exquisite Maryam d'Abo, and some excellent villains. Dalton's Bond can be charming and quippy, but he is also a killer. That's his job. He also looked like Bond; dark hair, saturnine looks, a hint of Celtic charm. Bond, after all, was never the perfect English gentleman. Half-Scots and half-Swiss, he never quite fitted in.
If The Living Daylights was a great film, I accept that Licence to Kill was less satisfactory, though it still entertains. And I will always regret that Dalton walked away after that, hardly helped by the long legal wrangling between UA/MGM and Eon Productions. He'd have made an excellent fist of GoldenEye, I'm sure, though he'd have been in the region of fifty by that time. Brosnan proved a good Bond, but some of the darkness, so pervasive in the novels, had gone (and one could hardly blame a man who had been in the entertaining but campy Remington Steele).
Still, Bond fans have much to look forward to. First, there is Skyfall; then, next autumn, we have William Boyd's new Bond novel, to be set in the late 1960s. We shall return to this soon enough, I'm sure...
Wednesday 26 September 2012
Autumn - season of two faces
Dear readers,
I have been neglecting my duties of late, but you may consider me duly chastised. Today I consider the ultimate British topic of conversation - the weather.
We are now officially into autumn, though you would only occasionally know it from the conditions. It is a season I sometimes like a great deal, and sometimes despise; as two-faced as Janus. Today is a case in point. I strode out to sit and relax in a local bar, peered hopefully at the lightening skies, and threw on a blazer. A few moments after I had left,the rain, fine, aggravating drizzle, started, and I was even more pleased than usual to dive into the bar. Then the sun came out, and all seemed well. Now it's spitting with rain again.
I say all of this not simply as some quotidian reflection on the weather, but because there are profound implications: on clothes, on food and on drink.
Let's take clothes to begin with. Autumn can be a delightful time - out comes the tweed, the cashmere, scarves and coats. There is great satisfaction in pulling on a well-fitting pair of soft leather gloves, or clicking along the road with a tightly-furled umbrella. A crisp autumn street with crackling leaves underfoot and a pale blue sky is a joy. But then come the rains, the leaves turn to mush, the welts of shoes get clogged, or a burst of sudden warmth makes a scarf clammy and uncomfortable. As this can change half a dozen times in a single day, dressing in the morning is climatic Russian roulette.
Then food. Unctuous sausage casseroles, bosky stews and homely roasts make autumn an ideal time. Game is in plentiful supply, and meals can be genuinely "heart-warming". Then comes a grey, drizzly day of indifferent temperature, and it is difficult to think of anything to make the taste buds sing. Summer's table, like summer's lease, has been and gone, but it hardly seems the time to seek the succour of heavy, homely food.
And drink. There are some hardy perennials. A cold, crisp, strong martini will always comfort and caress, no matter what the weather, hot or cold, wet or dry. Just as a crisp cider, however, is blissful on a hot, sunny day, and a rich, spicy red wine is perfect on a cold, flinty evening, there is nothing which really speaks to a flat, blue-grey damp afternoon. Perhaps a good real ale comes closest, representing a truly English season.
So I am not a whole-hearted fan of autumn. I like its good cop but find its bad cop tiresome and depressing. One can only hope for a cold, sharp, clear winter.
I have been neglecting my duties of late, but you may consider me duly chastised. Today I consider the ultimate British topic of conversation - the weather.
We are now officially into autumn, though you would only occasionally know it from the conditions. It is a season I sometimes like a great deal, and sometimes despise; as two-faced as Janus. Today is a case in point. I strode out to sit and relax in a local bar, peered hopefully at the lightening skies, and threw on a blazer. A few moments after I had left,the rain, fine, aggravating drizzle, started, and I was even more pleased than usual to dive into the bar. Then the sun came out, and all seemed well. Now it's spitting with rain again.
I say all of this not simply as some quotidian reflection on the weather, but because there are profound implications: on clothes, on food and on drink.
Let's take clothes to begin with. Autumn can be a delightful time - out comes the tweed, the cashmere, scarves and coats. There is great satisfaction in pulling on a well-fitting pair of soft leather gloves, or clicking along the road with a tightly-furled umbrella. A crisp autumn street with crackling leaves underfoot and a pale blue sky is a joy. But then come the rains, the leaves turn to mush, the welts of shoes get clogged, or a burst of sudden warmth makes a scarf clammy and uncomfortable. As this can change half a dozen times in a single day, dressing in the morning is climatic Russian roulette.
Then food. Unctuous sausage casseroles, bosky stews and homely roasts make autumn an ideal time. Game is in plentiful supply, and meals can be genuinely "heart-warming". Then comes a grey, drizzly day of indifferent temperature, and it is difficult to think of anything to make the taste buds sing. Summer's table, like summer's lease, has been and gone, but it hardly seems the time to seek the succour of heavy, homely food.
And drink. There are some hardy perennials. A cold, crisp, strong martini will always comfort and caress, no matter what the weather, hot or cold, wet or dry. Just as a crisp cider, however, is blissful on a hot, sunny day, and a rich, spicy red wine is perfect on a cold, flinty evening, there is nothing which really speaks to a flat, blue-grey damp afternoon. Perhaps a good real ale comes closest, representing a truly English season.
So I am not a whole-hearted fan of autumn. I like its good cop but find its bad cop tiresome and depressing. One can only hope for a cold, sharp, clear winter.
Friday 1 June 2012
The Sybarite's favourite martinis, part 2
Dear readers,
I recently found myself in Dublin's fair city, always a pleasurable experience, especially when the sun is shining and the handsome Georgian architecture is at its best. My employers had kindly put me up at the Shelbourne Hotel on St Stephen's Green, which was a real treat, to which I may return at another point. It is a magnificent establishment, and redolent with the complexities of modern Irish history as well as being the height of luxury and good service.
During a break in the proceedings, I found time to escape to the bar to peruse the selection of cocktails. (Oysters were also available, and I was sorely tempted, but I was about to dine. Another time, perhaps.) The list was solid, though, like so many places these days, it offered some rather unnecessarily florid variations on old standards, and I confess to being rather wary. While the staff were charming, most of them were not so much hearty raconteurs of Erin and winsome colleens as dutiful employees from east of the Oder. In any event, the barman placed a selection of snacks in front of me - wasabi peas, Japanese rice crackers, the usual abominations - and asked what I would like.
I decided to be brave. A martini, I told him, very dry, with gin. He nodded and scuttled off. I was wary because I have been to far too many bars where I have earnestly asked for a very dry martini and got some foul concoction that must have been nearly 50/50 gin and vermouth. He returned to ask two pertinent questions: firstly, what kind of gin would I prefer? Second, did I want an olive or a twist? After a run-down of the options on the first point, I asked for Tanqueray 10 and a twist (I've never really cared for olives in a martini; I don't like them in their natural state, and they do flavour the drink).
The barman is to be applauded. He took my instruction seriously, and brought me a good, cold, dry martini. The flavour of the gin was to the fore, as it should be, there was a hint of vermouth (I think I saw him using Noilly Prat), it was properly shaken (I am not a fanatic on the stirred vs. shaken issue) and it was a decent size. I shifted in my stool, took the first sip, and felt that life-affirming cold heat of the gin spreading through my body. Pure bliss.
This, I think, illustrates an important point. There are excellent cocktail bars, in which the staff know their business very well and should be able to furnish you with anything you want. Elsewhere, if the ingredients are there, all I ask is that the staff follow politely-offered instruction. I asked for it very dry, with just a whisper of vermouth, and that was what I got. It was delicious, and, even better, I somehow mustered the self-control to stop at two.
So if you are a cocktail lover and find yourself in Dublin, shamble along to the Shelbourne. Be warned, it is not cheap; but then it was not horrifically extortionate either. It was averagely-priced for a cocktail in a posh hotel. It was also well, well worth it. Sláinte mhaith!
I recently found myself in Dublin's fair city, always a pleasurable experience, especially when the sun is shining and the handsome Georgian architecture is at its best. My employers had kindly put me up at the Shelbourne Hotel on St Stephen's Green, which was a real treat, to which I may return at another point. It is a magnificent establishment, and redolent with the complexities of modern Irish history as well as being the height of luxury and good service.
During a break in the proceedings, I found time to escape to the bar to peruse the selection of cocktails. (Oysters were also available, and I was sorely tempted, but I was about to dine. Another time, perhaps.) The list was solid, though, like so many places these days, it offered some rather unnecessarily florid variations on old standards, and I confess to being rather wary. While the staff were charming, most of them were not so much hearty raconteurs of Erin and winsome colleens as dutiful employees from east of the Oder. In any event, the barman placed a selection of snacks in front of me - wasabi peas, Japanese rice crackers, the usual abominations - and asked what I would like.
I decided to be brave. A martini, I told him, very dry, with gin. He nodded and scuttled off. I was wary because I have been to far too many bars where I have earnestly asked for a very dry martini and got some foul concoction that must have been nearly 50/50 gin and vermouth. He returned to ask two pertinent questions: firstly, what kind of gin would I prefer? Second, did I want an olive or a twist? After a run-down of the options on the first point, I asked for Tanqueray 10 and a twist (I've never really cared for olives in a martini; I don't like them in their natural state, and they do flavour the drink).
The barman is to be applauded. He took my instruction seriously, and brought me a good, cold, dry martini. The flavour of the gin was to the fore, as it should be, there was a hint of vermouth (I think I saw him using Noilly Prat), it was properly shaken (I am not a fanatic on the stirred vs. shaken issue) and it was a decent size. I shifted in my stool, took the first sip, and felt that life-affirming cold heat of the gin spreading through my body. Pure bliss.
This, I think, illustrates an important point. There are excellent cocktail bars, in which the staff know their business very well and should be able to furnish you with anything you want. Elsewhere, if the ingredients are there, all I ask is that the staff follow politely-offered instruction. I asked for it very dry, with just a whisper of vermouth, and that was what I got. It was delicious, and, even better, I somehow mustered the self-control to stop at two.
So if you are a cocktail lover and find yourself in Dublin, shamble along to the Shelbourne. Be warned, it is not cheap; but then it was not horrifically extortionate either. It was averagely-priced for a cocktail in a posh hotel. It was also well, well worth it. Sláinte mhaith!
Thursday 31 May 2012
The house cider rules
Today, dear readers, I consider the issue of cider. It seems appropriate, as we stagger to the end of a glorious heat wave, to turn our thoughts to this most thirst-quenching of drinks. For the past few years, of course, cider has been quite the drink du jour, but with some excellent brands have emerged some real duds, and the marketing hype associated with some of the more prominent labels has been overpowering in the extreme.
It was, I suppose, Magners which revitalised the market which had previously been dominated by Strongbow and Dry Blackthorn (or, at the less salubrious end, Diamond White and Frosty Jack's), and in pure marketing terms I have to doff my cap to the C&C Group, the owners of Magners, for presenting an image of carefree sunny days in dappled apple orchards, allied to an easygoing Irish charm. The gimmick of serving it over ice was a clever one, and placed it firmly in the summer drink category. I confess that Magners is never more than a faute de mieux choice, if I am locked into a cider mood, and I find it a bit bland and tasteless. I don't have it with ice, either, as it should be cold anyway from the bottle or the tap, and the ice just leaves you with watery detritus at the end of the glass.
With the undoubted success of Magners, the venerable English company H.P. Bulmer fought back by marketing Bulmer's as a very similar product, also aimed at the served-over-ice aficionados. (Confusingly, Magners is sold in Ireland as Bulmer's; it is the same product, with almost-identical labels.) Bulmer's has also diversified, launching pear cider and No 17 cider, with the addition of crushed red berries and lime. I don't much care for these either, though the red apple edition which Bulmer's produced for a while was a toothsome novelty.
Then, of course, we have the Scandinavian invasion, in cider as in gloomy detective drama, with Rekorderlig and Kopparberg leading the charge. These two have played heavily on the different flavours available. I was for a time much taken by Rekorderlig (apparently to be pronounced Re-kor-DER-lig), and drank vats of the stuff, but I find it rather too sweet now. In small doses, the winter special, with vanilla and cinnamon, is very tasty (I have yet to try it warmed or mulled, but if 2012/13 is a cold winter, I can see possibilities), and the strawberry and lime edition is refreshing under the right circumstances. Both Rekorderlig and Kopparberg peddle pear ciders as well, but I cannot abide pears - a story for another day...
For real quality - and strength - however, the experienced cider drinker must adhere to traditional values. The two great names I am thinking of here are Westons and Thatchers, from the cider heartlands of Herefordshire and Somerset respectively. Both have excellent ranges, and, availability notwithstanding, make it unnecessary to look anywhere else. Westons Medium Dry is a deliciously crisp and tasty drink, and comes in at a decent 6.5% abv. The Vintage is a bulkier mouthful, at 8.2%, but has a wonderfully sweet and apply flavour, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. Then there are the still scrumpies, including the mighty Old Rosie, which, apart from their many other virtues, are available in 20-litre boxes, if you have the storage space.
In the Somerset corner, Thatcher Katy Single Variety is a truly lovely drink, light and dry and refreshing, of which a very attractive rose version is available. Thatchers Gold is a smooth and easy-drinking tipple, only 4.8% abc for those who fight shy of the heftier ciders. Like Westons, they produce a vintage (7.4%) which is a complex and bitter-sweet swallow, worth pairing with food.
I do not deny it. I am a cider fan. Many of you may be too. It is certainly true that the options available to cider-drinkers are so much wider than ten or fifteen years ago, when a can of Woodpecker was a titan in the cider landscape. My only plea is to look beyond the big commercial hitters. Go for strength in depth. The wide ranges produced by the apple growers of Herefordshire and the West Country are a paradise of earthly delights. If the summer returns - it certainly seems to be fading at the moment - go to your local off-licence, dig through the shelves and fridges, and stock up on some fine and refreshing drinks. You won't regret it. Until the morning after.
It was, I suppose, Magners which revitalised the market which had previously been dominated by Strongbow and Dry Blackthorn (or, at the less salubrious end, Diamond White and Frosty Jack's), and in pure marketing terms I have to doff my cap to the C&C Group, the owners of Magners, for presenting an image of carefree sunny days in dappled apple orchards, allied to an easygoing Irish charm. The gimmick of serving it over ice was a clever one, and placed it firmly in the summer drink category. I confess that Magners is never more than a faute de mieux choice, if I am locked into a cider mood, and I find it a bit bland and tasteless. I don't have it with ice, either, as it should be cold anyway from the bottle or the tap, and the ice just leaves you with watery detritus at the end of the glass.
With the undoubted success of Magners, the venerable English company H.P. Bulmer fought back by marketing Bulmer's as a very similar product, also aimed at the served-over-ice aficionados. (Confusingly, Magners is sold in Ireland as Bulmer's; it is the same product, with almost-identical labels.) Bulmer's has also diversified, launching pear cider and No 17 cider, with the addition of crushed red berries and lime. I don't much care for these either, though the red apple edition which Bulmer's produced for a while was a toothsome novelty.
Then, of course, we have the Scandinavian invasion, in cider as in gloomy detective drama, with Rekorderlig and Kopparberg leading the charge. These two have played heavily on the different flavours available. I was for a time much taken by Rekorderlig (apparently to be pronounced Re-kor-DER-lig), and drank vats of the stuff, but I find it rather too sweet now. In small doses, the winter special, with vanilla and cinnamon, is very tasty (I have yet to try it warmed or mulled, but if 2012/13 is a cold winter, I can see possibilities), and the strawberry and lime edition is refreshing under the right circumstances. Both Rekorderlig and Kopparberg peddle pear ciders as well, but I cannot abide pears - a story for another day...
For real quality - and strength - however, the experienced cider drinker must adhere to traditional values. The two great names I am thinking of here are Westons and Thatchers, from the cider heartlands of Herefordshire and Somerset respectively. Both have excellent ranges, and, availability notwithstanding, make it unnecessary to look anywhere else. Westons Medium Dry is a deliciously crisp and tasty drink, and comes in at a decent 6.5% abv. The Vintage is a bulkier mouthful, at 8.2%, but has a wonderfully sweet and apply flavour, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. Then there are the still scrumpies, including the mighty Old Rosie, which, apart from their many other virtues, are available in 20-litre boxes, if you have the storage space.
In the Somerset corner, Thatcher Katy Single Variety is a truly lovely drink, light and dry and refreshing, of which a very attractive rose version is available. Thatchers Gold is a smooth and easy-drinking tipple, only 4.8% abc for those who fight shy of the heftier ciders. Like Westons, they produce a vintage (7.4%) which is a complex and bitter-sweet swallow, worth pairing with food.
I do not deny it. I am a cider fan. Many of you may be too. It is certainly true that the options available to cider-drinkers are so much wider than ten or fifteen years ago, when a can of Woodpecker was a titan in the cider landscape. My only plea is to look beyond the big commercial hitters. Go for strength in depth. The wide ranges produced by the apple growers of Herefordshire and the West Country are a paradise of earthly delights. If the summer returns - it certainly seems to be fading at the moment - go to your local off-licence, dig through the shelves and fridges, and stock up on some fine and refreshing drinks. You won't regret it. Until the morning after.
Monday 28 May 2012
"Dapper" be damned?
I was reading this month's edition of GQ, today delivered on to my doormat, when I discovered an article about HRH The Prince of Wales. Now, that in itself is a cause for celebration: I think HRH one of the best-dressed figures in the public eye, and his championing of traditional British tailoring and craftsmanship is to be lauded.
So what, dear reader, caused me not only to pause, but to share my thoughts with the great ether-world? I shall tell you. The article described HRH as "dapper". I confess to this being a long-standing bugbear of mine. I don't like the word. I don't like its implications, or the inferences which people draw from it. And I don't think it should be pinned to HRH's (no doubt double-breasted) lapel.
Why? Well. Partly it is a matter of familiarity breeding contempt. Any man who takes care of his appearance and enjoys the occasional touch of flamboyance will rapidly used to being "complimented" on being "dapper". Some people seem to think it is some great catch-all term for being well-dressed and well-groomed, and that the recipient of their careless verbiage will beam with pride. Alas, not so.
I think I have two objections to the word "dapper". One is, perhaps, a personal kvetch: I just think it implies smallness of stature. How easily the words "a dapper little man" come together, with all the contemptuous damnation that the English language can put into the two commonplace words "little man". This is bad enough, but if, like your correspondent, one is of decent height, it seems doubly galling.
There is something more general, though, I think. "Dapper" implies a degree of smoothness, a sheen which is not wholly complimentary. It is a good long way along the road to "smarmy". There is something not quite right about the dapper man. Something, well, simply not U. When I think of "dapper", I think of David Suchet's Hercule Poirot, all glistening moustaches and foreign affectations. I think of John le Carré's Toby Esterhase, superficial charm hiding great weakness behind a dandified exterior. I think of Mad Men's Roger Sterling, a sybarite's hero in some ways but a bad man in many others; not the sort of fellow with whom you'd leave your niece.
Perhaps I'm being too pernickety (but I doubt it). "Dapper" is a loaded word. "Elegant" is fine. "Groomed" and "polished" are just about all right, though both have shades of meaning which can imply excessive effort. "Well-dressed" is definitely acceptably. But please, let's be careful when we use the D-word.
So what, dear reader, caused me not only to pause, but to share my thoughts with the great ether-world? I shall tell you. The article described HRH as "dapper". I confess to this being a long-standing bugbear of mine. I don't like the word. I don't like its implications, or the inferences which people draw from it. And I don't think it should be pinned to HRH's (no doubt double-breasted) lapel.
Why? Well. Partly it is a matter of familiarity breeding contempt. Any man who takes care of his appearance and enjoys the occasional touch of flamboyance will rapidly used to being "complimented" on being "dapper". Some people seem to think it is some great catch-all term for being well-dressed and well-groomed, and that the recipient of their careless verbiage will beam with pride. Alas, not so.
I think I have two objections to the word "dapper". One is, perhaps, a personal kvetch: I just think it implies smallness of stature. How easily the words "a dapper little man" come together, with all the contemptuous damnation that the English language can put into the two commonplace words "little man". This is bad enough, but if, like your correspondent, one is of decent height, it seems doubly galling.
There is something more general, though, I think. "Dapper" implies a degree of smoothness, a sheen which is not wholly complimentary. It is a good long way along the road to "smarmy". There is something not quite right about the dapper man. Something, well, simply not U. When I think of "dapper", I think of David Suchet's Hercule Poirot, all glistening moustaches and foreign affectations. I think of John le Carré's Toby Esterhase, superficial charm hiding great weakness behind a dandified exterior. I think of Mad Men's Roger Sterling, a sybarite's hero in some ways but a bad man in many others; not the sort of fellow with whom you'd leave your niece.
Perhaps I'm being too pernickety (but I doubt it). "Dapper" is a loaded word. "Elegant" is fine. "Groomed" and "polished" are just about all right, though both have shades of meaning which can imply excessive effort. "Well-dressed" is definitely acceptably. But please, let's be careful when we use the D-word.
Wednesday 2 May 2012
Cocktail of the week: The Sicilian Vesper
I do not, dear
readers, regard myself as much of an experimenter when it comes to cocktails. I
tend to stick to the classics – a martini, a Manhattan, an old-fashioned – and
regard with suspicion and a healthy dose of contempt such abominations as the
apple martini or the woo-woo. They seem to me to be the answer to a question
no-one has asked, or, worse, alcohol delivery systems for those who don’t
really enjoy drinking.
That said, if
no-one ever innovated, we’d be left drinking moonshine from a mason jar, so
from time to time I will break out. A conversation with a friend recently left
me thinking that there should be a cocktail called a Sicilian Vesper (as any
fule kno, the Sicilian Vespers is the name given to the outbreak of a rebellion
in Sicily against French rule in 1282 – things kicked off at the Church of the
Holy Spirit just outside Palermo at the beginning of Vespers). Now, a brief
examination of the internet revealed several cocktails so named, mostly
involving marsala. They sounded foul; blending marsala, poire Williams and
sherry is not my idea of a good time. So it was time for some fresh thinking.
It seemed to me, mes braves, that a Sicilian Vesper
should surely make some recognition of Ian Fleming’s famous Vesper cocktail as
devised for Casino Royale. The idea
of a gin and vodka mixture had to be central to it (as well as being a delicious
combination). Clearly, though, there had to be some nod towards the island of
Sicily itself, famous for, among other things, citrus fruit. What to do, what
to do?
My eventual recipe
was this. Take a generous measure of ice-cold gin (I keep mine in the freezer
and made my martinis without ice; no dilution that way). As gin goes, Tanqueray
Ten is my ideal, though I am currently using Beefeater 24. It has a nice orange
tang to it, which suits this recipe very well. Add a similar amount of ice-cold
vodka – I used Smirnoff Blue, but some people prefer Grey Goose (I can never
get very excited about vodka). Absolut Citron would be another option to
enhance the lemon aspect. Then, instead of vermouth, add a capful of limoncello,
for sweetness but also tartness. What could be more Sicilian? Finally, add a
dash of orange bitters (citrus again), then stir, and serve. You have a
powerful but refreshing drink which I recommend to all. Excellent in all
weathers, but I can see it becoming a staple as the summer comes along and the
sun beats down upon us.
Thursday 5 April 2012
A pint of lager, shaken, not stirred
The press has been alive with reports this week that the forthcoming Bond film, Skyfall, will see our hero drink not the traditional dry martini, “shaken, not stirred”, but the Dutch lager Heineken. Outrageous! people have cried. Sell-out! traditionalists have wailed. You will know, dear readers, that the Sybarite takes a lively interest in all things Bondian. So what of Heineken?
Well. First, it would be disingenuous to say that I am not unsettled by the idea of the world’s most famous spy knocking back lager instead of a cocktail. Will the dinner jacket be exchanged for an untucked, short-sleeved shirt? Will Commander Bond ask for a packed of salt and vinegar with his pint? If it were not unacceptable to the health police, would the Morland Specials give way to Benson and Hedges, or Silk Cut? On the face of it, it seems A Bad Matter.
But one has to remember that Bond has been about product placement for a long, long time. As early as Goldfinger, prominence was given to the Aston Martin DB5, a matter which will have pleased the management at Newport Pagnell, and Bond has long flashed a succession of Omega watches. (I myself have an Omega Seamaster, and a very handsome timepiece it is, too.) Nor was the intrusion of brand names an invention of the filmic Bond. Ian Fleming was a terrible name-dropper when it came to brands, from Bond’s Bentley styled by Mulliner, through the Kina Lillet in Casino Royale’s vesper martini, to the Rolex Oyster Perpetual by which Bond told the time. The thread of champagne branding running through both the books and the films is legendary. So are we in a tizz about nothing? Is the Heineken deal merely the latest in a series of commercial agreements?
Yes and no. I think there is a fundamental difference in philosophy between Fleming’s name-dropping and the later celluloid product placement. For Fleming, using brand names like Rolex, Bentley and Dom Pérignon was a mark of luxury and high living, an important aspirational tone in 1950s Britain. Bond ate, drank, wore and drove the best because it made him a figure of glamour and exoticism, which brightened up the lives of Fleming’s readers. That is a different matter from hawking Bond’s image to the highest bidder. Importantly, Fleming attached brands to Bond because they were the best and the sort of things which a man of Bond’s station would consume, own and use. The films were not a complete abnegation of this philosophy: one can see that Bond might drive an Aston Martin, or wear an Omega if he tired of his Rolex. He might well be dressed by Brioni, as Pierce Brosnan was, though one cannot help think that it would have taken a great motive force to drive Bond into the arms of a foreign tailor.
Would Bond drink Heineken? It is a mistake to associate him solely with the vodka martini. The Commander is partial to a Negroni and an Old-Fashioned, will happily drink Dom Pérignon, Krug or Taittinger (especially with caviar), likes his vodka with pepper sprinkled through it, sometimes rounds off a meal with Hennessy Three Star, and has been known to knock back bourbon and raki (not together!). And, of course, in the very first book, Casino Royale, he creates the Vesper martini in honour of the woman with whom he is working. So Bond is a versatile drinker.
Somehow Heineken is tin-eared, though. I have no brief against the drink; it’s one of the more pleasant lagers, one of the relatively few which one can genuinely enjoy, and I have certainly, ahem, “enjoyed” it fulsomely myself on more than one occasion. Lager also has a respectable film history: think of the pints of Carlsberg in Ice Cold in Alex. But there is nothing of sophistication and glamour about it, even if Daniel Craig is to appear on the labels and Sam Mendes is to direct one of the advertisements. This, surely, brings us to an important point. We are all wise enough now to know that Bond is not realistic, nor gritty. He is not Jason Bourne, nor is he “Harry Palmer”. Bond exists for two purposes – action, and glamour. The “reboot” of the film franchise with Daniel Craig provided plenty of the former; the bone-crunching, dizzying chase at the beginning of Casino Royale was a thrilling example. But Bond must provide the latter as well.
It’s not the commercialism of the Heineken deal to which I object. It’s that the choice of drink is just wrong. You might as well take Red Bull’s shilling, and have Commander Bond keeping himself going with a foul, sweet-tasting energy drink. In fact, if you have no regard for the appropriateness of the marketing, make it Horlicks, or an Innocent smoothie. It simply lacks authenticity. I know that branding is important for Bond, especially in these straitened times (a substantial proportion of the new film’s budget comes from sponsorship and product placement). But is the best they could do?
Still, I will go to see the new film when it’s released, and I will probably enjoy it. But I will still come home afterwards and crave a martini before dinner. Over to Bond:
“I never have more than one drink before dinner. But I do like that drink to be large and very strong and very cold and very well made.”
I differ on the number of drinks, but you just know he wasn’t talking about a pint of lager.
Wednesday 4 April 2012
No brown in town? A journey into shoes
It will come as no surprise to you, dear readers, to discover that I have several bêtes noires, particularly in matters of dress, and one of them is the unfortunately prevalent practice of wearing tan-coloured shoes with grey suits. I cannot fully explain why this should be so. Partly, I suppose, it is an aversion in general to shoes being lighter than the clothes worn with them – think about it, it’s quite rare, really – but there is something deeper than that. I suppose, at bottom, it is a combination of finding it visually unappealing, and, for want of a better comparison, thinking that those who indulge in such a look tend to be the sort of people who appear on The Apprentice (“When it comes to business, I’m a tiger” etc).
So far, so good. No tan shoes with a grey suit. But I have recently been pondering the validity of the “no brown in town” rule. How sound is it? Are there exceptions? By “town”, of course, we generally now mean “with formal clothes”. I do not think there are many people who would say that brown shoes should never be worn within the metropolis. But in the days when a gentleman would automatically be wearing a suit, it had a certain pithy point to it.
Of course rules are less strict now. However, it is worth thinking about them, because sartorial strictures often emerged from a point of fundamental common sense, or some basic notion of what looked right. I will admit straight away that there is one very clear exception which I make to the “no brown in town”, and that is when the sun comes out and it is time for a linen suit. I know not everyone takes the same approach, but when dressed in a pale linen suit, I think black shoes look somehow too harsh, too much of a contrast, and you will find me in a pair of brown Oxfords, perhaps tobacco-coloured suède brogues or even – gasp! – co-respondent shoes. (A digression: a colleague at work was delighted to be informed that two-tone shoes are so-called because the sort of chap who would wear them was the sort of chap likely to be cited as co-respondent in divorce proceedings. Equally, he was amused to learn that Americans, rather more primly, refer to them as “spectator shoes”.)
I do think that I would adhere to a black-only policy towards shoes in the most formal of dark lounge-suit situations, primarily in terms of work. As most people wear suits in navy or charcoal, or some variation, I think that black tends to look best, and a well-polished black shoe is a thing of a beauty which will always flatter the wearer. Even lighter grey suits – I have a mid-grey three-piece in Prince of Wales check, of which I am very fond – still respond best to black shoes. However, anyone with aspirations to style and elegance will realise that suits are not just for business.
For more social occasions, I think it is not unreasonable to apply slightly different, perhaps even more relaxed, standards. I would not, for example, go tieless to work, but to a reasonably smart party a suit with a crisp shirt open at the neck might be just the ticket. So it is with shoes. Here, then, it is not a matter of arbitrary standards, but of what looks good. My own view (i.e. the correct one) is that grey suits simply will not stand up to shoes other than black. Perhaps it is the slight coldness, the hardness, of charcoal, a marvellous thing in its own way, that is a mismatch with the warm richness of the palate of browns. With a black suit, if one wears such a thing outside the funeral parlour or crematorium, brown is an absolute no-no.
When it comes to navy, I am not so sure. Again, I think tan is out. Too light, too attention-seeking. But a pair of well-shined chestnut brogues might be a gainly addition to the ensemble, or perhaps dark brown suède loafers. Choice of sock here is key; I favour scarlet, generally, but if one is making a statement with one’s shoes, it may be de trop to have noteworthy socks too. I understand that women have a maxim, “Cleavage or legs”, and it has some applicability in this case too. But a case-by-case basis might be the way forward.
Then we come to the vexed question of oxblood. I have rather a fondness for oxblood leather; if it is done right, it has a lustre which brown can rarely match, and a lightness of touch that sombre black simply lacks. Done badly, one is simply a man wearing purple shoes. For a navy suit, though, it may provide an acceptable via media. Its warmth matches that of the cloth. For a social occasion which requires smartness, it suggests that the wearer has not just wearily donned his working clothes, but has thought about his wardrobe, and chosen carefully.
In conclusion, then, “no brown in town” has had its day, but that does not mean a free-for-all. It’s like anything else about clothes, really. Just think about what you’re going to wear. A bit of thought is repaid many times over.
Of course, none of the above applies if you are the Rt Hon Kenneth Clarke QC MP. Some people are just exceptions.
Friday 30 March 2012
Black tie, white noise
Dear readers,
I find myself moved to consider the subject of black tie, or what our American cousins would call “the tuxedo”. (I should say that I do not mean that last remark at all snobbishly; that is what, for very good historical reasons, Americans call what the British refer to as “black tie”. To sneer at the phraseology is deeply demeaning and rather vulgar.) As far as the history of evening dress is concerned, I shall not rehearse it here, but one can do no better than read the appropriate section of Nicholas Storey’s A History of Men’s Accessories, the most comprehensive yet concise rehearsal of how we got to where we are with the modern dinner jacket.
However, I come to the subject with something of a cri de coeur, seeing very elegant formalwear treated so frequently with sloppiness and indignity. First, an encouragement. Worn properly, and approached properly, black tie will make a gentleman look as good as he is ever likely to of an evening, and can make anyone believe, if only for a while, that he has a whiff of Cary Grant or David Niven. But there are certain niceties to be observed, and rules to be followed. I daresay mine which will follow will be regarded as terribly subjective, and so they are: except that I am, of course, right.
My mind was turned to the subject in particular by a casual reference in the May edition of Gentleman’s Quarterly. (Why I am reading a “May” edition at the fag-end of March is another question, to the bottom of which I have never satisfactorily got.) I was pleased to read that “men are rediscovering the joys of dressing up”, even if some of us had never really abandoned them, but some awful advice was to follow. “Different colours, prints and fabrics are all acceptable”? Perhaps if one is employed in the pornography industry, or if one is from southern Europe. Otherwise, no. Black, please, and wool. No patterns.
Hereafter, then, are five simple rules to observe to look dashing and elegant when attending a black-tie function. Follow them, dear readers, and you will be the beau of the ball.
1) “Black tie” doesn’t just mean “a black tie”. There is a trend among actors and other disreputable professions to attend evening functions in a dinner jacket and a straight black tie. Some make a nod towards form by wearing one of satin. Don’t. Doubtless this is meant to convey the message that the wearer is no respecter of conventions, a maverick who plays by his own rules. In fact, flouting of one rule within a greater scheme of other rules is childish and pathetic. “Black tie” means an outfit which involves a bow tie. Wear one.
2) Cover the waist. There are many variations on black tie which don’t push the boundaries of acceptable conduct; one can wear a double-breasted dinner jacket, a cummerbund, a black waistcoat or even a white waistcoat (rather stylish, this, and sported by the aforementioned David Niven in Death on the Nile). But what no-one wants to see is your waistband, or, God preserve us, a belt. Whatever option you choose, there should be something covering the waist. Personally, I favour a cummerbund or a waistcoat. But a double-breasted jacket, kept buttoned, is perfectly acceptable. Flaunting the join in your outfit, however, is just lazy and untidy. A word on cummerbunds: gentlemen of more generous proportions need to make sure they fit properly. There is a terrible danger that a sloppily-worn cummerbund can slip underneath the belly and form a deeply unsightly “gut bra”, especially as the evening wears on. If you are worried about this eventuality, wear a waistcoat.
3) Keep it simple. Colour is not necessarily your friend. If in any doubt, your tie should be black and your pocket square white. Coloured bow ties are best avoided, and coloured bow tie-and-cummerbund combinations in anything but black are to be shunned completely. Ask yourself if you want people to suppose that you were given both in one box, probably from Debenhams. This is an area in which judgement may be exercised. Coloured pocket squares can be very attractive: Frank Sinatra habitually wore scarlet, hardly to his detriment, while a polka-dot or paisley design can lend a degree of acceptable individuality. When it comes to ties, there is less leeway. I am perfectly willing to countenance “institutional” colours (school, university, club, regiment, whatever), but their deployment should be sparing. A club tie, for example, should only be worn to an event at the appropriate club, and school or university colours shouldn’t get much use beyond reunion functions. For regimental colours I am more laid-back, as they have been earned the hard way, but even so, one should always ask why one is choosing a tie other than plain black. If there is not a simple reason, there probably isn’t one at all. Interestingly, the one area in which my views are liberal is that of hosiery: I wear scarlet socks with black tie, and think it is absolutely acceptable.
4) Get the shirt right. Another area of choice: wing or turndown collar? Marcella or pleats? I hold no strong brief in any direction, though personally I favour a turndown collar and a Marcella front. But it should be a proper evening shirt, ideally with studs. A plain white shirt will not quite do. It bespeaks cobbling together, and unfamiliarity with black tie. The point of black tie is that the wearer should look comfortable and relaxed in it. If, however, you are set on a wing collar, it must be a stiff, detachable collar. Wing-collared shirts with attached collars will always crumple underneath the band of the bow tie, and consequently look sloppy. This makes wing collars more of an effort, logistically and financially, but I’m afraid that there really is no alternative if that is the path you choose.
5) Tie your own tie. It should go without saying that automatic bow ties are beyond the pale, but alas does not. Tying a bow tie is not difficult; if one can master shoelaces, one can conquer the bow tie. You would not (I hope) wear a clip-on straight tie, so why so many people believe automatic bow ties are acceptable is beyond me. A club I belonged to at university demanded the immediate destruction of said items by fire if detected, and I cannot honestly say that it was a bad practice. Worse still is the deeply underhand procedure of wearing a pre-made bow tie but carrying a loose tie in the pocket to be slung around the neck later in the night to indicate a “relaxed” pose. That is simply wrong.
So there we are. A few simple rules, which, if followed, will make anyone look good at a black tie event. It shouldn’t be that hard, but, everywhere you look, you see evidence that perhaps it is. I am, therefore, happy to be able to help.
Sunday 19 February 2012
Istanbul sketch
Dear readers,
I have been silent and depriving you for far too long. This has been through an enervating cocktail of indecision and lethargy with which I shall not bore you - suffice to say that your humble correspondent prostrates himself before you in the greatest humility and regret.
Anyway...
My travelling companion and I recently spent five days in Istanbul, hard by the Sea of Marmara and staring across from Europe to Asia. I thought I might share with you some of my reflections on the visit, but I must issue a disclaimer - it was my first trip to Istanbul, and I make no claims to great or original insight. Doubtless some readers - there are some of you out there, aren't there? - will know the city a good deal better than I, and will have more interesting things to say. If so, write your own blog.
Accommodation
We stayed at the excellent Hotel Amira, in Sultanahmet, not far from the coast. I stumbled upon its existence largely by accident, having conducted a very cursory search on the Internet. It describes itself as a "boutique hotel", which can often make me reach for my revolver, Goering-like, but in this case it was an apt title. Opened two years ago, the hotel is forged from two adjacent apartment blocks, and has very spacious and comfortable rooms, and an inviting lower-ground floor bar and eating area. On our arrival, the concierge, the charming Alehandro, waved our luggage away to a porter, then swept us to the bar for a complimentary drink (Turkish tea for my companion, white wine for me), where he unfolded a map of Istanbul and ran through a number of sights to see and places to eat. It was a marvellously delicate performance: there was no hint of hectoring or having planned an itinerary for us, merely a desire to be helpful and to guide us through the tourist maze of the city. In the end, we took up several of his recommendations, and none of them disappointed us.
The hotel also boasts a well-appointed fitness centre. Your correspondent is not usually much in the market for such facilities, but I did avail myself of an hour-long massage which left me greatly soothed and invigorated, though there was no doubt a lesson to be learned from the increasingly stern admonitions of the masseuse to "Relax!".
The minibar in our room was reasonably priced, and well stocked. Particularly impressive was the provision of half-bottles of vodka and scotch - this in a country where almost everyone is Muslim.
Perhaps the most charming feature, however, was the provision of (again, complimentary) afternoon tea: Turkish coffee or çay, pastries and cakes, bread and cream cheese, and savoury sandwiches. We took the opportunity on a number of occasions to retreat to the calm of the tea room and read while our batteries recharged.
The sights
I had, of course, read a great deal over the years about Istanbul (and Constantinople), so I had some notion of what there was to see and what I wanted to see. Hagia Sophia (I can't quite bring myself to say "Ayasofya") was near the top of my list, and didn't disappoint. For all the predations suffered after the fall of Constantinople in 1453, Justinian's basilica remains breath-taking. The sheer size and ambition which the domed nave displays boggle the mind. To think that the basic structure dates from the sixth century AD, especially compared to what was happening in northern Europe at that time, is a rather humbling experience, and I could sympathise with Justinian's murmured, "Solomon, I have surpassed thee". The destruction of the mosaics is a great shame, of course, though some have survived and been restored. At the heights of its glory, packed with worshippers and shining in gold, it must have been spectacular.
The Hippodrome is an odd thing. Hardly anything, of course, remains; the Serpent Column (much reduced) and two obelisks from the spina (of course, the gilded horses are now in Venice...). The rest is nothing more than a pedestrianised piazza, Sultan Ahmet Square, with the slightly peculiar addition of a water feature built to commemorate the visit of the German Emperor Wilhelm II in 1898 (a useful reminder, perhaps, of quite how hand-in-glove with the Second Reich the crumbling Ottoman Empire was). And yet, maybe it's the romantic in me which found it surprisingly easy to imagine the ancient structure, the long oval, the terraces of seating, the imperial Kathisma linked directly to the Great Palace. This was the beating heart of Constantinople, where the Blues, the Greens, the Reds and the Whites battled it out in chariot races and the Nika riots caught light in AD 532.
The Basilica Cistern was recommended by a friend, and, while an underground water reservoir may not seem at first glance like the most enticing spectacle, it was well worth the totter down the steep and greasy steps. The cistern was built by (who else?) the Emperor Justinian, to hold water from the Belgrade Forest which was piped to the city, 12 miles away, by the Valens Aqueduct. It could hold 100,000 tons of that water, and even today, 1,500 years after it was built, is an extraordinary engineering feat. Turkish 'elf-and-safety laws may be more lax than our own; the railings preventing an unwary visitor falling into the cistern itself were hardly confidence-inspiring and a relatively tall person would hit the upper rail somewhere below his or her centre of gravity. Nevertheless, we survived unscathed both that and the strange costumed band which was playing in the gloom.
A boat cruise up the lower part of the Bosphorus was a good sighting experience for subsequent visits. We began just beyond the cargo terminal, sailed up the European side as far as the second suspension bridge, then crossed to the Asian side and sailed back. Our genial guide, Aziz, was helpful and informative, though there was an air of the cri de coeur about his repeated reminders that the Bosphorus is an international waterway, so that, unlike the Suez and Panama canals, it returns no revenue to the host country for the very considerable traffic. The weather was not great that day, so we huddled inside the boat, but we saw a good chunk of each coast; particularly impressive were the Rumeli fort, built by Mehmet II in 1451 and 1452 to provide a base for the eventual and successful siege of the city, and its older, Asian counterpart, the Anatolian fort, across the waterway. I have an instinctive sympathy for Byzantium, and there was a melancholy about these places. It was a symbol of the encroachment of the Ottomans, the almost inevitable tightening of the noose around Constantinople's throat.
Our trip to the boat was punctuated by a visit to the Spice Bazaar. I will say this now: I hate bazaars, markets, haggling, hawkers and all that sort of nonsense. I do not want to buy a carpet from you, Mr Turk, no matter how cheery a conversation you may strike up with me. I am too British ever to be able to haggle effectively, and would rather just run away. To the tour operator's credit, they herded us into a pre-arranged stall just inside the Bazaar, where a very cheery vendor (who reminded me a little of Omid Djalili) proffered Turkish delight and tea. I know that the Turks, like their Arab neighbours, place great store by hospitality, and I do not generally like to offend (certainly not by accident), but I really do not like either Turkish delight or tea, so was left in a difficult position. It may be for this reason of social awkwardness that I left the stall with two kilogrammes of Turkish delight and more than £100 worth of beluga caviar. (An interesting observation: the vendor seemed both apologetic and defensive about the fact that of all his wares the caviar and the saffron were the only things which didn't come from Turkey, both being Iranian in origin.)
Food and drink
I am wary of describing anything as characteristically "Turkish", "Greek", "Lebanese", "Cypriot" or whatever food. The cuisine of the Levant is a great melting pot, and much the better for it. We ate very well. There was excellent grilled meat, splendid hummus, and some outstanding stews. A special mention must go to Cafe Rumeli, a wonderful eating place housed in an old printing factory just off Divanyolu, full of little nooks and crannies and warm fires. We had three excellent courses, some raki and some local wine, and the bill for two came to a little under £60. It was difficult to feel robbed. And the award for the most picaresque meal must go to the Terrace Restaurant in the Armada Hotel. Certainly, the views were stunning: the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia spotlit on one side, the Sea of Marmara on the other. It was, of course, the evening of 14 February, and there was a very reasonable set menu which included the magic words "unlimited local drinks". We certainly didn't lose money on the deal. The musical entertainment was provided by a (very good) jazz guitarist, whose repertoire seemed to consist largely of instrumental versions of 80s and 90s pop standards (Sting seemed a particular favourite), but who am I to criticise? The man knew his audience, and some older couples were hurling themselves around the dance floor with what I can only describe as gay abandon.
When it comes to drink, of course, Turkey means raki, and I enjoyed a great deal of it (plus the litre which came home with me thanks to duty-free). It was the favoured tipple of Kemal Atatürk, the country's founding father (whose picture is much in evidence and whose reputation it is a criminal offence to insult), and I can very much see why. I like pastis too, and those cool, milky, aniseed concoctions are so terribly easy to quaff in industrial quantities. But I must also say that I found the Turkish wine we had very drinkable, and astoundingly good value. We didn't try any white, but the red, while all much in the same, dry style, was tasty and much more refined than I had probably snobbishly expected. If only it could be exported at such prices! There was also a delightful liqueur which the staff at Cafe Rumeli gave us; it was clear and tasted of pear drops and bubblegum, but I have no idea what it was. Some Internet research needed, I think...
A final word for the local beer, Efes. I only tried the basic draught lager, but it was just as good as any cooking lager we have here, and very thirst-quenching when you've walked up a steep hill. Or got out of bed. Or whatever.
Conclusions
I shall certainly return to Istanbul. A fascinating city, in Europe but really not of Europe. Like other Eastern cities I have visited, everything seemed to be either a thousand years old, or else half-built. The people were genuinely welcoming, even when I declined to buy any carpets, and the food and drink were excellent. As for sightseeing, there is enough to fill a dozen trips and more. Back to the Hotel Amira before long, I'm sure.
I have been silent and depriving you for far too long. This has been through an enervating cocktail of indecision and lethargy with which I shall not bore you - suffice to say that your humble correspondent prostrates himself before you in the greatest humility and regret.
Anyway...
My travelling companion and I recently spent five days in Istanbul, hard by the Sea of Marmara and staring across from Europe to Asia. I thought I might share with you some of my reflections on the visit, but I must issue a disclaimer - it was my first trip to Istanbul, and I make no claims to great or original insight. Doubtless some readers - there are some of you out there, aren't there? - will know the city a good deal better than I, and will have more interesting things to say. If so, write your own blog.
Accommodation
We stayed at the excellent Hotel Amira, in Sultanahmet, not far from the coast. I stumbled upon its existence largely by accident, having conducted a very cursory search on the Internet. It describes itself as a "boutique hotel", which can often make me reach for my revolver, Goering-like, but in this case it was an apt title. Opened two years ago, the hotel is forged from two adjacent apartment blocks, and has very spacious and comfortable rooms, and an inviting lower-ground floor bar and eating area. On our arrival, the concierge, the charming Alehandro, waved our luggage away to a porter, then swept us to the bar for a complimentary drink (Turkish tea for my companion, white wine for me), where he unfolded a map of Istanbul and ran through a number of sights to see and places to eat. It was a marvellously delicate performance: there was no hint of hectoring or having planned an itinerary for us, merely a desire to be helpful and to guide us through the tourist maze of the city. In the end, we took up several of his recommendations, and none of them disappointed us.
The hotel also boasts a well-appointed fitness centre. Your correspondent is not usually much in the market for such facilities, but I did avail myself of an hour-long massage which left me greatly soothed and invigorated, though there was no doubt a lesson to be learned from the increasingly stern admonitions of the masseuse to "Relax!".
The minibar in our room was reasonably priced, and well stocked. Particularly impressive was the provision of half-bottles of vodka and scotch - this in a country where almost everyone is Muslim.
Perhaps the most charming feature, however, was the provision of (again, complimentary) afternoon tea: Turkish coffee or çay, pastries and cakes, bread and cream cheese, and savoury sandwiches. We took the opportunity on a number of occasions to retreat to the calm of the tea room and read while our batteries recharged.
The sights
I had, of course, read a great deal over the years about Istanbul (and Constantinople), so I had some notion of what there was to see and what I wanted to see. Hagia Sophia (I can't quite bring myself to say "Ayasofya") was near the top of my list, and didn't disappoint. For all the predations suffered after the fall of Constantinople in 1453, Justinian's basilica remains breath-taking. The sheer size and ambition which the domed nave displays boggle the mind. To think that the basic structure dates from the sixth century AD, especially compared to what was happening in northern Europe at that time, is a rather humbling experience, and I could sympathise with Justinian's murmured, "Solomon, I have surpassed thee". The destruction of the mosaics is a great shame, of course, though some have survived and been restored. At the heights of its glory, packed with worshippers and shining in gold, it must have been spectacular.
The Hippodrome is an odd thing. Hardly anything, of course, remains; the Serpent Column (much reduced) and two obelisks from the spina (of course, the gilded horses are now in Venice...). The rest is nothing more than a pedestrianised piazza, Sultan Ahmet Square, with the slightly peculiar addition of a water feature built to commemorate the visit of the German Emperor Wilhelm II in 1898 (a useful reminder, perhaps, of quite how hand-in-glove with the Second Reich the crumbling Ottoman Empire was). And yet, maybe it's the romantic in me which found it surprisingly easy to imagine the ancient structure, the long oval, the terraces of seating, the imperial Kathisma linked directly to the Great Palace. This was the beating heart of Constantinople, where the Blues, the Greens, the Reds and the Whites battled it out in chariot races and the Nika riots caught light in AD 532.
The Basilica Cistern was recommended by a friend, and, while an underground water reservoir may not seem at first glance like the most enticing spectacle, it was well worth the totter down the steep and greasy steps. The cistern was built by (who else?) the Emperor Justinian, to hold water from the Belgrade Forest which was piped to the city, 12 miles away, by the Valens Aqueduct. It could hold 100,000 tons of that water, and even today, 1,500 years after it was built, is an extraordinary engineering feat. Turkish 'elf-and-safety laws may be more lax than our own; the railings preventing an unwary visitor falling into the cistern itself were hardly confidence-inspiring and a relatively tall person would hit the upper rail somewhere below his or her centre of gravity. Nevertheless, we survived unscathed both that and the strange costumed band which was playing in the gloom.
A boat cruise up the lower part of the Bosphorus was a good sighting experience for subsequent visits. We began just beyond the cargo terminal, sailed up the European side as far as the second suspension bridge, then crossed to the Asian side and sailed back. Our genial guide, Aziz, was helpful and informative, though there was an air of the cri de coeur about his repeated reminders that the Bosphorus is an international waterway, so that, unlike the Suez and Panama canals, it returns no revenue to the host country for the very considerable traffic. The weather was not great that day, so we huddled inside the boat, but we saw a good chunk of each coast; particularly impressive were the Rumeli fort, built by Mehmet II in 1451 and 1452 to provide a base for the eventual and successful siege of the city, and its older, Asian counterpart, the Anatolian fort, across the waterway. I have an instinctive sympathy for Byzantium, and there was a melancholy about these places. It was a symbol of the encroachment of the Ottomans, the almost inevitable tightening of the noose around Constantinople's throat.
Our trip to the boat was punctuated by a visit to the Spice Bazaar. I will say this now: I hate bazaars, markets, haggling, hawkers and all that sort of nonsense. I do not want to buy a carpet from you, Mr Turk, no matter how cheery a conversation you may strike up with me. I am too British ever to be able to haggle effectively, and would rather just run away. To the tour operator's credit, they herded us into a pre-arranged stall just inside the Bazaar, where a very cheery vendor (who reminded me a little of Omid Djalili) proffered Turkish delight and tea. I know that the Turks, like their Arab neighbours, place great store by hospitality, and I do not generally like to offend (certainly not by accident), but I really do not like either Turkish delight or tea, so was left in a difficult position. It may be for this reason of social awkwardness that I left the stall with two kilogrammes of Turkish delight and more than £100 worth of beluga caviar. (An interesting observation: the vendor seemed both apologetic and defensive about the fact that of all his wares the caviar and the saffron were the only things which didn't come from Turkey, both being Iranian in origin.)
Food and drink
I am wary of describing anything as characteristically "Turkish", "Greek", "Lebanese", "Cypriot" or whatever food. The cuisine of the Levant is a great melting pot, and much the better for it. We ate very well. There was excellent grilled meat, splendid hummus, and some outstanding stews. A special mention must go to Cafe Rumeli, a wonderful eating place housed in an old printing factory just off Divanyolu, full of little nooks and crannies and warm fires. We had three excellent courses, some raki and some local wine, and the bill for two came to a little under £60. It was difficult to feel robbed. And the award for the most picaresque meal must go to the Terrace Restaurant in the Armada Hotel. Certainly, the views were stunning: the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia spotlit on one side, the Sea of Marmara on the other. It was, of course, the evening of 14 February, and there was a very reasonable set menu which included the magic words "unlimited local drinks". We certainly didn't lose money on the deal. The musical entertainment was provided by a (very good) jazz guitarist, whose repertoire seemed to consist largely of instrumental versions of 80s and 90s pop standards (Sting seemed a particular favourite), but who am I to criticise? The man knew his audience, and some older couples were hurling themselves around the dance floor with what I can only describe as gay abandon.
When it comes to drink, of course, Turkey means raki, and I enjoyed a great deal of it (plus the litre which came home with me thanks to duty-free). It was the favoured tipple of Kemal Atatürk, the country's founding father (whose picture is much in evidence and whose reputation it is a criminal offence to insult), and I can very much see why. I like pastis too, and those cool, milky, aniseed concoctions are so terribly easy to quaff in industrial quantities. But I must also say that I found the Turkish wine we had very drinkable, and astoundingly good value. We didn't try any white, but the red, while all much in the same, dry style, was tasty and much more refined than I had probably snobbishly expected. If only it could be exported at such prices! There was also a delightful liqueur which the staff at Cafe Rumeli gave us; it was clear and tasted of pear drops and bubblegum, but I have no idea what it was. Some Internet research needed, I think...
A final word for the local beer, Efes. I only tried the basic draught lager, but it was just as good as any cooking lager we have here, and very thirst-quenching when you've walked up a steep hill. Or got out of bed. Or whatever.
Conclusions
I shall certainly return to Istanbul. A fascinating city, in Europe but really not of Europe. Like other Eastern cities I have visited, everything seemed to be either a thousand years old, or else half-built. The people were genuinely welcoming, even when I declined to buy any carpets, and the food and drink were excellent. As for sightseeing, there is enough to fill a dozen trips and more. Back to the Hotel Amira before long, I'm sure.
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