QUINTESSENTIALLY | Insider | 2011 July

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Archive for July, 2011

Men At Arms

Friday, July 29th, 2011

You may not have heard of the brothers Tom and Ed Martin, but you’ve almost certainly been to one of their venues, which are conquering London at an almost frightening rate. From the ever-popular Botanist on Sloane Square to the excellent Docklands establishment The Gun, they have a group of extremely upmarket establishments, pitched somewhere between gastropubs and restaurants, which offer superb food, well-chosen wine lists, friendly and accommodating staff and quirky touches that elevate them far above the norm.

The Cadogan Arms, situated on the Fulham side of the King’s Road, is no exception to this tradition. Formerly the sort of down-at-heel pub that the sane would avoid before venturing into, it’s been given a sympathetic and fun makeover to give it a sort of ‘urban rustic’ feel, complete with stuffed animal heads on the wall, a large open fireplace in the dining room and cosy wood panelling. If you’re after something more alternative, upstairs boasts the Billiards Room, where there are American 8 ball pool tables, and for a reasonable cost one can have a drink, some nibbles and play pool.

The downstairs dining room is where the culinary action is, and on our recent visit it was firing on all cylinders. We popped in on an especially wet and stormy Sunday for lunch, but thankfully we were soon pepped up by a couple of excellent glasses of Prosecco, and delicately presented starters of scallops with sweetcorn puree and a half pint of prawns. My guest was initially hesitant about whether a half pint would be enough, but the enormous main courses – leg of lamb for me, rib of beef for her – soon changed her mind. Off the top of my head, I can’t remember having a bigger roast, complete with all the trimmings, and even my hearty appetite was defeated. The quality of everything was, as you’d expect, exemplary.  An excellent bottle of 2008 Patagonian Malbec complimented both dishes beautifully.

Atypically, the thought of dessert terrified rather than excited me, but needs must, and I was very pleased that my white peach and passion fruit sorbet was both delicious and, thankfully, light. My guest’s lemon posset looked heavenly, but I felt that it would be too much of a good thing to sample any. And so, sated, we eventually rolled out into the afternoon. The sun was shining, at last, and before I began a lengthy trek home to walk off my lunch, I felt able to say, with confidence, ‘That was really very good indeed.’

And so it is.

298 King’s Road, SW3. www.thecadoganarmschelsea.com

The North American Guitar

Wednesday, July 27th, 2011

Quintessentially Music caught up with Michael Watts of The North American Guitar at their recent event at Abbey Road studios,

An award-winning guitar player and authority on the modern, custom instrument, and a conduit between client and guitar builder (luthier), he affords us a unique insight into today’s guitar market and explains how a custom, hand-made instrument is the best investment a guitarist of any level could make.

Investing in a custom guitar by Michael Watts of The North American Guitar

Guitars are extremely desirable creations and with collectors and players alike now focusing on the bespoke build rather than the vintage market (think les Pauls, 60 year-old Stratocasters and Telecasters) there has never been a better time to invest in a modern instrument.

The guitars of the 20th century were mass-produced commodities in contrast to the hand-built tradition of the classical instrument. However, the past thirty years or so have seen a turn away from the “cookie-cutter”, production line instrument, with guitarists now that much more discerning in their tastes.  With this trend comes a closer relationship with the buyer, helping them to find that perfect, one-of-a-kind inspirational instrument.

Obviously people collect guitars, not only because of their visual beauty but also for their sound and versatility. And it is my opinion (born of many years of personal experience as a player, collector and dealer) that modern luthier-built guitars are in many cases greatly superior to those being pumped out of the big name factories. It is the difference between “dining” at a fast food joint and a meal at Mosimann’s. The attention to detail, the human touch and experience, all of these things elevate the modern guitar to new heights.

And that’s inspiring.

Let’s face it, playing a truly great guitar is a wonderful feeling – it’s difficult to put the thing down! It’s also extremely rewarding in that you improve as a player without even noticing it. A truly responsive instrument will guide you, inspire you and teach you.

Our clients at North American Guitar range from vintage collectors looking for unique pieces to complement what they already have to novice guitarists who want to start with the very best instrument possible. Whatever the circumstances we use our experience to ensure that they are matched with a builder whose work will bring pleasure and inspiration for years to come. We have a deliberately small roster of talent which includes some of the best guitar builders (electric, acoustic, resonators and archtops) in the world including Michael Greenfield, Brent McElroy, Jason Kostal Michael Lewis (Fine Resophonics) and Sam Walker (Wirebird Guitars). Between them these guys have made instruments for the likes of Eric Clapton, Keith Richards, George Harrison and other rock gods of the 21st century.

To enquire about having your very own custom-built guitar, please contact info@quintessentiallymusic.com now to get in touch with our consultant.

www.facebook.com/QuintessentiallyMusic

Eternal Reign

Monday, July 25th, 2011

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Kettner’s Coquette

Friday, July 22nd, 2011

Having watched those ravishing ladies glide into the bar, dresses swishing as they walked, and Vivienne Westwood handbags draped adoringly over their arms, I felt as though I was on the front row at a pre-40s fashion show.

Packaged as the ultimate girly day outing – one of those days filled with beauty tips, hair styling and an eclectic assortment of classes suited to all girls in search of a glut of quintessential Englishness – Kettner’s Coquette and its infused forties feel seemed to have it all. As I wound myself up their spiralling staircase, flashes of red Louboutin heels peppering my vision, I tried to catch snippets of the animated chatter of said ladies, and the increasingly high pitch of their voices as we came closer and closer to the entrance.

With treasure map in hand, my thoughts found room to realign themselves. Did I head to the Room of Prophecy and Promise to have my tarot cards read, or, not being one to say no to early afternoon cocktails, opt for the Room of Indulgence and Intoxication?

Before I could linger any longer I found my arm moving and a sudden strange sort of pressure on my palm… then a man’s voice speaking of strong creativity and judgment and a rapid realisation that a palm reading was only another treat of the day. The mysterious aura of the palmist only added to the foreboding atmosphere as I pushed for more secrets about my future. With more questions than answers, and with my mind caught, I pursued my tarot reading with a feline ferocity that may have just unnerved the Riddler somewhat.

Pottering from room to room, I scooped up GU puddings, found that some had turned kissing into a very serious art, and danced (courtesy of a professional dancing instructor) into a forties up-do by Lipstick and Curl. Then, aided by a suitably fitting live soundtrack by The Polka Dots, I wondered through a collage of vintage clothing, with free flowing cocktails and quintessential English afternoon tea taken with rain tarnishing London’s streets outside the window.

This was a secret, forbidden dalliance, an escape that one makes when one wants to re-emerge again as the ideal of ones coquettish imagination. And that escapism, so cleverly fabricated in this notorious London spot, is exactly what the day manages to do so well.

A fitting charade for a hen party, or a coming together of mother-and-daughter in like-minded company, or a gaggle of friends ready for a day of luxurious retro feel pampering, this decadent and ultimately surprising event is certainly one not to be sniffed at.

www.kettners.com

French sense & scents

Thursday, July 21st, 2011

I don’t like to dwell on the weather, but winding down the driveway to Le Mas Candille, the car dips out of the mizzle for a moment – that really annoying sort of rain that doesn’t look much, but gives you an absolute drenching. I’m greeted by a glowing-with-olive-tan Francoise, looking a little sheepish under her umbrella having soaked in the sun here for all of last week.

Nevertheless, the four and a half acres of manicured gardens, all lavender, honeysuckle and callistemon, shine through, glugging the weather faster than it can fall. Le Mas Candille (Mas for the farmhouse at its centre, Candille for its landmark cypress tree) is just a few kilometres from Cannes, and slips into the medieval hillside of Mougins like Cinderella’s foot in her slipper – and sits pretty behind Nice and Monaco, her bigger bolshy sisters.

Le Mas is less diamonds and glamour, more understated luxury with a sparkle catching on the breeze from the coast. This is where olive trees have stood for 200 years, and a peach plastered 18th century farmhouse with heavy cream shutters bakes in the southern French sunshine – when the weather behaves, so Francoise Mirebeau, the delightful Responsable Commerciale, assures me – breathing out its warmth like a radiator through long evenings, coaxed by a chorus of crickets.

But Le Mas is not without its fair celeb share – Kirsten Dunst rested her head here, between scooping the best actress award and schmoozing on the red carpet at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, and Brad Pitt’s been known to drop in for dinner.

Little wonder, since under Serges Gouloumès – un petit ‘chef celebre’ himself – restaurant Le Candille has held a Michelin star since 2005. The food is exquisite; all rounds of asparagus mousse, morel mushrooms, giant langoustine and suckling veal, expertly crafted and perfectly complimentary, with that juicy buttery-ness that is the preserve of the French.

And then there’s the cheese cart; the star of the proverbial show, right as the sun goes down over the pre-Alps, and Serge bumbling around happily, charming guests with a cunning grin and an accent thick enough to slather on a fresh baguette.

Sleeping soundly in vast beds, sinking into rooms that have a hint of the classic Relais & Chateaux, and each with an individual farmhouse charm, the sun peeks through. Inspired by the heady scents of the garden, we venture to Grasse, the perfume capital of the world, to play at making our own fragrances in the original Fragonard factory – with debatable success, it must be said, but an excellent education in scent for a Wednesday morning

But finding your nose is tough work and though Grasse can’t help but smell divine, the soporific effect of its winding streets means that the cocoon of Le Mas’ Shisheido Spa, and a network of Jacuzzis and infinity pools and hammocks and day beds and my deep bath are too hard to resist.

I could go on, but by now you should be sipping Champagne on the terrace, refreshed and barefooted and without a care in the world – Picasso may have lived in Mougins, but with Cypress trees and terracotta roof tiles playing at complementary colours and the big clouds rolling off the Ligurian Sea, the panoramas unfolding are straight from Cézanne’s brush.

So there you have it; a haven, I suppose, where the light is special, the smells almost tangible and the feeling fine – and the kind of place that just when you’re satiated, the petits fours appear and it all starts over again.

lemascandille.com

A Pudding With Puccini

Wednesday, July 20th, 2011

The London Sketch Club in Chelsea.

We went there last month. It was really for the pudding that I went, though they also told me Puccini would be there. I imagined he would be a little world weary, given he was brought into this world 150 years ago. But they told me he wasn’t weary at all, and that he wasn’t adverse to the Smoked Paprika Risotto that we would all be sharing under the spotlights, courtesy of Damian Clarkson and The London Kitchen (heroes of the enigmatic four-course private party).

So I walked in, and looked for him – the ashen-faced vampire-genius, his Italian spark still kindled in eyes of inordinate dramatic power. Instead, I met a chap in a tweed jacket matched with red and yellow socks, and he quickly showed me to my seat, for fear, most incredulously, that I would speak for too long with foodie maestro Roy Ackerman (CBE), Chairman of the world master of culinary arts and one of the most gentle spirits I have ever met in person. I told him so, and added (in my own head) that his humility could be seen in the smooth gesturing-in of one lovely lady that reminded of Michelle Pfeiffer in an impassioned period drama.

Next to me at the table (there were ten of them, dotted around), a girl of an incredibly artistic beauty and silken locks, as if she had just alighted from the small operatic stage up front. The first floor club/painting/dining room is also small, and there are enchanting studio windows, and elegant silhouettes on the walls, and then there are strange musical notes drifting between the tables as the chatter falls away from the proverbial musings of the Kings Road into a twilight of obscure sciences. At this point the light food and heavy wine is slipped almost transparently between your noses as Puccini’s arrival at the Sketch Club in 1905 becomes the reason to indulge in a long, absent-minded analysis of the beauty of Tosca, and Turandot – which you saw in Florence the year before last – all the while keeping your eyes fixed on another pair of eyes that speak of unspeakable appreciation.

I was told shortly afterwards that Puccini wasn’t going to make an appearance that night (the maestro is in Rome, Michelle informed me later, seen driving a very fast car with as much care for bleak classical chords as I have for the charms of resident member Arthur Conan Doyle, who along with Charlie Chaplin and GK Chesterton, is still known to pass by the club on his way to the sweet shop on Baker Street).

Now guess how much you have to pay for all this? I mean, for all the food, and wine, and bon humour, and pudding with a soprano and tenor redefining love in a tremor of Bimba, Bimba, non piangere – loosely translated as ‘sweetheart, sweetheart, do not weep’, the famous love duet which ends with the butterfly pleading for her love to Vogliatemi bene, loosely mimed by pinning two arms to a table (the butterfly wings) and screaming ‘I have caught you. You are mine’.

Well, it’s all yours for the cost of a truffle-buttered chicken liver parfait, paired with a bottle of Pinot Grigio Rosato Ca’Lunghetta, finished off with a white chocolate tart with raspberry syrup (£100 at most fancy establishments).

Now the pair of eyes with unspeakable appreciation were becoming more and more enthused. And I divulged my knowledge of Puccini and my own recent exploits in Rome, and told of how her butterfly earrings were made to look bland in the company of her naturally ephemeral aura. For you see my friend, such a dinner party (or any such surprise gathering of peoples, elliptically fashioned with subtle movements towards the grandiose) inspires the Giacomo Casanova in one, the poet and his muse standing well outside of the confines of time.

And so, when the lamplight and garden whispers and the real-life portraits around you dissolve, and you are left enfolding the once careless glance, the oft-implacable fluttering of the eyes, the obscure musical cadence of her laughter, and dance in step to Puccini’s final act, you will catch a reflection of yourself in the studio windows where the leaves roam freely, and you will see a picture of the artist as a young man.

And you will smile, and remind yourself that you are indeed an artist, and a quite marvellous one at that.

(Future seasons open to both members and non-members include: * Summer 2011: The English Season – ‘Trifle, Custard and Coward’ * Autumn 2011: The French Season – ‘Pudding with Piaf’.)

Private Dining Rooms offer the opportunity to book The London Sketch Club for private parties – ranging from canapés to full scale dinners.

The London Sketch Club
7 Dilke Street
London
SW3 4JE

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