QUINTESSENTIALLY | Insider | Culture

If the term ‘curry house’ summons up some sort of time warped establishment where the closest that the dish comes to a culinary highlight is chicken tikka – ‘but with a twist!’ – then the last decade or so’s influx of really high-end establishments in London has put this cliché to bed. But then calling establishments of the calibre of Tamarind, Quilon, the Cinnamon Club and Rasoi ‘curry houses’ is as wrong-headed a description as describing The Fat Duck as a former pub. They specialise in synthesising the various traditions and styles of sub-continental cooking with Western flair and pizzazz, offering menus that delight and challenge in equal measure.

One of the most notable examples of these new-style restaurants is Mayfair’s Benares. Situated in suitably grand premises on Berkeley Square, Atul Kochhar’s establishment has quietly racked up the plaudits over the years, including a Michelin star (one of the remarkably few Indian restaurants in the UK to have such an honour.) On a recent visit, it wasn’t at all hard to see why. Kicking off with a cocktail in the stylish wood-panelled bar, it’s quite clear that there’s a great deal of imagination going on here. A passion fruit chutney martini, something of a signature drink, combines vodka and passion fruit chutney to deliciously decadent and unusual effect.

It’s the food though that has attracted the plaudits. There are numerous different ways of enjoying it here – everything from bar dining menus and lunch platters (ideal for a quick in and out visit, though why on earth you wouldn’t want to stay here is beyond me) to the heartier options of a multi-course tasting menu, described here as a ‘grazing’ menu, or of course the a la carte. Whichever route you choose, you’re in for a culinary odyssey through many of the unique dishes. Mustard marinated chicken tikka and tandoori salmon trout are excellent starters, while some of the main dishes, such as the spice rubbed Romney Marsh lamb cannon (or the Maans Sukka, to give it its proper name) and the Hiran Boti (a roasted rack of deer) offer the perfect combination of fantastic English ingredients with Kochhar’s impeccable cooking. Desserts are easily worth leaving some room for – a chocolate fondant was particularly sublime.

While there have been a few establishments opening and closing in the past couple of years that have dropped well below the excellent standards that Benares represents, there can be little doubt that this is a truly superb place, and let’s hope that it continues to go from strength to strength.

12a Berkeley Square House, W1.

www.benaresrestaurant.com

Regent’s Park is a haven for Londoners who want some outside space; lunchtime picnickers, sunbathers, sportsmen and dog walkers congregate around its pitches, gardens and paths. However, every October these outdoor pursuits play second fiddle as the park is turned into a haven for contemporary art lovers.

The Frieze Art fair, during which around 170 of the world’s leading contemporary art galleries arrive in Regent’s Park, takes over this wonderful open space and offers a chance for Londoners to cast their eye over the best the scene has to offer.

Not only do the galleries pop up, but the entire park comes under its spell; sculptures spring up among the trees of the park’s southern edge while nearby houses have been turned into pop up galleries. Not least among these is the gallery that has taken over one of the opulent residences on Cornwall Terrace.

Following on from the huge success of the House of the Nobleman at last year’s fair, curator Victoria Golembiovskaya is back again with ‘The Return’; an exhibition which should inspire collectors to show more ambition when assembling their collections.

The show features pieces spanning the whole gamut of the art world. The pieces are as diverse as renaissance reliquaries and feature more abstract modern paintings from greats like Gerhard Richter and Damien Hirst.

The residence which is housing the exhibition is in one of the newly refurbished houses of Cornwall Terrace. Within this John Nash-designed townhouse the exhibition takes on a far more intimate nature. You feel like an invited guest within the home of a superbly original art collector.

The house is part of the general development of Cornwall Terrace. The terrace, originally commissioned in 1811 by the Prince Regent, has undergone an intensive refurbishment – the original 19 houses have been re-designed and restructured to create eight enormous, double-fronted houses. Created with a ‘no expense spared’ attitude the houses have been designed to appeal to different markets. For example, no 13 (a lucky number in Chinese culture) is decorated in an East Asian style, particularly emphasising red, also seen as a lucky colour.

The Grade-I listed, neo classical houses have an enviable position overlooking the vast open spaces of Regent’s Park and have been designed to house the very latest home technology.

With prices starting at £29m, Cornwall Terrace is set to once again become one of the capital’s most sought after residential streets.

“A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke”
- Rudyard Kipling, The Betrothed 1886

Pushing open the large, black door of Ten Manchester Street, I feel self-conscious. I’m early. The woman at reception smiles kindly and leads me past the bar. Walking through the restaurant, we enter a little oasis tucked around the back, where a few refined individuals puff discreetly on their cigars. The terrace is both stylish and secluded and, I’m relieved to find, blissfully warm. The waitress whispers to me that they have people smoking here even when it’s snowing outside. I wonder why she’s talking so softly. I suppose she doesn’t want to break the serene atmosphere.

One after the other women slowly arrive, some look apprehensive. We perch on the seats, not entirely sure of the format, everyone waiting for something to happen. A man arrives. The tutorial begins.

I listen attentively, admittedly to try and hide my woeful ignorance. I’m ashamed to say that I know nothing about cigars. I eye my cutter warily; I’ve always been accident-prone. A thought enters my head about taking it home to threaten my boyfriend with. Then again, it’s probably not the best way to secure a proposal…

To their credit, the Hunters and Frankau Cigar specialists know their stuff, introducing the hotel’s vast selection of cigars and patiently explaining how the custom-made Hunters & Frankau humidor works. They were even gracious enough not to raise an eyebrow when one woman asked which end to suck. They’d probably come prepared for the worst. “An evening of cocktails and light cigars catering specifically us ladies.” Deep breath.

As I finally light my cigar and bring it to my lips, I instantly know that it’s a mistake. I’ve never even smoked as much as a cigarette before tonight. Spluttering after my first gulp, I tell myself not to worry, that it’s just the initial drag. After the second, I stifle a cough and my eyes begin to water. The puff of smoke surrounding me begins to dissolve and a tanned, mustached face fades into focus.

“So, you like it?” The Cuban demands, flashing a hint of gold as he smiles expectantly.

“Delightful,” I reply, as the lady next to me tries to suppress a snigger. Any more of this and I’m certain I’ll be sick. This is not going well.

I decide to change tactics and start engaging the women around me in conversation, leaving my cigar to slowly burn. Thinking that the others here would all be first-timers such as myself, I’m surprised to discover several of them are real cigar aficionados. As we nibble our canapés of mini fish and chips and drink our delicious Pinky vodka cocktails, I learn that one is a fashion designer whilst another is the director of an advertising agency. These women are sophisticated and successful, and they relish the opportunity to be here in this little haven away from the men who normally dominated this world.

Looking around at this glamorous scene I smile to myself. Rudyard Kipling would have been delighted. No longer the difficult choice between woman and cigar, earthly love and smoky lust. Instead, there’s a room full of women sucking sensuously on a premium vintage, with a cocktail in hand and air of nonchalance surrounding them. With the exception, that is, of myself. I look down to find my cigar has gone out. I think it’ll be a while before any cigar-toting men whisk me off my feet. Maybe I will take that cutter home after all…

The Ladies Cigar Evening runs monthly.
From 6.30 p.m. – 9.00 p.m.
£30 per person

www.tenmanchesterstreethotel.com

Sweeping through the Scottish countryside it is easy to see why Queen Victoria fell in love with the Highlands after her visit to Perthshire’s Taymouth Castle. Stepping out of the car which whisked me through the sunshine to the grand entrance, there are few, if any, places I would rather find myself.

The reason Scotland’s weather is necessarily unsettled is clear; if the sun were to shine every day it would be, quite simply, unfair. You can keep the Riviera; I would rather be in a sunny Scotland any day.

Think of the Scottish Highlands and your mind probably leaps to surging rivers, huge lochs and challenging golf courses all set amid stunning countryside. Well, with Taymouth Castle you’d not be far off the mark, although you may not expect the spectacle afforded by the row of shining Porsches from the Porsche Club which were parked outside the front door.

Today’s castle was built in the nineteenth century on the site of a much older incarnation and was the home of the Campbell family. Visited by Queen Victoria on one of her first trips to Scotland in 1842 (the suite she stayed in can still be visited today) she was astonished by the preternatural beauty of the area and later bought nearby Balmoral as a personal residence.

The castle fell into disrepair with much of it at best a shell, and at worst in danger of collapsing entirely. Now, however, it is undergoing intensive work with the aim of restoring it to former glories and turning it into a luxury boutique hotel complete with luxury rooms, spa and, eventually, a Michelin-starred restaurant.

The restoration is a superb example of what can be achieved when historic buildings are treated sympathetically. The risk with this type of work is always that the buildings will feel like theme parks, with the character and originality sucked from them leaving an ill-judged pastiche. Thankfully this particular pitfall has been avoided. The rooms feel authentic, the atmosphere real.

The estate’s extensive grounds are also being given a makeover. The golf course which runs through the grounds to be extended and brought up to championship standard with the help of Scottish professional golfer Stephen Gallacher.

The major development on the estate is the building of luxury residences, which will offer owners their own piece of this Scottish idyll. There are plans for more than 100 bespoke residences located to ensure the grounds do not lose their essential character. With access to all the castle’s future facilities as well as a management service, it’s sure to be a great way to enjoy all that Scotland can offer.

For more info, please visit – www.taymouth-castle.com

The beginning of the Royal Opera’s new season has been pencilled into aficionado’s diaries for months, with one certainty: Puccini’s Il Trittico – a series of three one-act operas – will send them home happy, kicking off the season in excellent fashion.

The traditional view is that the masterpiece of the work lies in its final part. The comedic Gianni Schicchi, with the aria ‘O mio babbino caro’ is by far the best known of Il Trittico. Il Tabarro makes a slightly shaky part one, while Suor Angelica is a second part with an acquired taste. However, with new staging from Richard Jones and the mastermind of conductor Antonio Pappano, these conventional notions must surely be thrown out of the window.

This is the first Royal Opera performance of the complete trio since 1965, testament to the recently prevalent view that the work deserves to be rethought in a new production. In this case, though, the trio is added to the already popular production of Gianni Schicci, which tells a manic story of deception. The eponymous Schicci – played here by Lucio Gallo -swindles a greedy family out of their inheritance to further the cause of true love.

Here moved from Puccini’s original thirteenth century setting to the 1960s, the performance perfectly captures the joy and comedy of the opera. The cast throw themselves gleefully into the farcical scheming, and their enjoyment is infectious. Never has deception been so much fun.

For the production’s biggest surprise however, we must look towards the middle panel of Puccini’s triptych: the much-maligned Suor Angelica. It is here transformed by innovative production and a fantastic, heart-wrenching performance from Ermonela Jaho as Angelica, the young woman forced into a convent due to the perceived shame her pregnancy brought upon her noble family.

The opera’s traditional finale, a vision of the Virgin Mary and Angelica’s lost son, is usually perceived as the weakness of this piece. Here, however, a subtle shifting of the work is revelatory, bringing a believable tragedy to the story’s end.

As the first part of the evening, Il Tabarro – a story of a tragic love triangle, dark in both setting and theme – is the weakest of the set.

Despite the excellent performances of lovers Giorgetta (Anne-Maria Westbroek) and Luigi (Aleksandrs Antonenko), and Lucio Gallo as the cuckolded husband, it is overshadowed by what follows, not because of its own shortcomings but purely because of the excellence of parts two and three.

This is a fantastic set of performances offering a spectacular evening of opera: humour, murder, deception and suicide combine for an unforgettable experience.

www.roh.org.uk

Interlude

The defining motto of this journey, I decided, would be ‘Eat well, Sleep Well, Drink Rum.’ It didn’t have to be rum, of course, but it sounded good, and that’s all I was really searching for in a defining motto.

I got off to a bad start. On arrival in Mali’s very 70’s airport café/boat lounge – at that moment but a hazy apparition of very happy folk bedecked with confusing sartorial embellishments – I realised that my own luggage, which itself held a collection of hats and a tiny guitar, was still at Columbo’s International Airport.

Coming out of a trance, I now saw myself quite clearly in the café mirror. The outfit I was wearing was not fit for five days in Paradise, hobnobbing with what seemed like high society at two very five star hotels.

I ordered a glass of cheap red wine. Ill fortune is best offset with a sickly glass of wine, together with the faintly optimistic odour of suncream, daiquiri cocktails and the ‘ Pirates’ theme tune ringing in your ears. I soon wore an outlandish smile, quite at odds with my vampire-pale complexion and a hat I bought off a strange gentleman selling roses.

‘They’ll bring it on the next flight, probably tomorrow morning. And besides, I don’t really need to quaff my hair. Or shave. And I really only need one hat.’ I said to anyone that would listen, before jumping aboard a cruise missile-type speedboat for Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort & Spa.

Now, this is a ride, a real, memorable one that you need to take the kids on. Even the steam fair of my youth that got closed down for insufficient safety measures didn’t have a ride like this one. Every five seconds I flew a few feet in the air, got a plume of spray in my face, a leg in the back and a jolly hand on the shoulder by one of a giggling trio of Chinese businessman (they also wore hats). ‘We like Maldives’ they screamed, and I wiped my Lemtosh shades with a euphoric, nauseous feeling that made me smile even wider.

‘Your hat. Where did you get it?’ The captain lisped in perfect English. He looked like a cross between a young Keith Richards and Mohamed Nasheed – the Maldivian president.

‘I found it in my attic. It’s vintage.’ I lied, too tired to explain. ‘Probably my grandfathers.’

‘Your grandfather?’

‘Yes. He liked hats.’

He eyed my clothes carefully. ‘Your suitcase will come soon. Don’t worry.’

Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort & Spa

The boat slowed and a sea of shining faces greeted us from Sheraton’s Furanafushi Island, just one gem in a trove of 1200 islands that, together with their surrounding lagoons, impress the mind and soul of man with the most sublime juxtaposition of form and colour this side of eternity. Slither of bright white moon and dark tropical plant against water the colour of pure green Versace dress, the water turning from amethyst to emerald to sublime tints of jade and sapphire.

I leant over as Captain Jack hit the brakes and I jumped off, scooped up a little, and got overly emotional as they fixed me a welcome cocktail that had rum in it. They then told me how much they liked my hat, and made me believe that my person, in the superficial sense, at least, was quite welcome at the resort.

This is where I met Milja, a sprightly, intelligent Scandinavian girl with a persuasive accent that reverberated in a joyful major key, picked up, it turned out, after circumnavigating the seven seas in her own good time. My five senses battling with each other to distill these vital first impressions for my audience back home, I only picked up threads of the conversation I was supposed to be having. ‘Yes, we have the best of both worlds here…The scuba diving is great…some of the best marine wildlife…dolphins? Yes, there is a cruise tomorrow afternoon…go to the Spa later for an hour long massage if…yes, amazing…no, I don’t recommend it. The surf is for advanced boarders…now promise, you’ll sleep then meet me at the Coconut Grove for lunch…’

She was very sweet, and informative, and steady like all Scandinavian’s are, and helped me into a green buggy with a couple of Latin American footballers. ‘You from England, man?’ Someone said behind me. ‘Yes. I know, I should have taken my boots off.’ I replied nonsensically, before Milja said ‘Take him to Ocean Villa. It’s the best on the island.’ She winked at me cryptically, then added; ‘Believe me. It’s to die for.’

Now, all I saw at first was a hammock. I slipped off my tattered boots, my wine-stained Savile row trousers and quickly fell into a coma as the water crashed against the rocks just inches away. I heard music playing in gasps of warm salty air – Beethoven and Wagner and then laughing from a fishing schooner on the surf. My eyes opened. I grinned, like a pirate, stretched my arm out, lifted a warm bottle of something expensive I had taken from the mini bar earlier. ‘Bring me that horizon’ I said, popping it open with a burst of laughter.

Inside, with Beethoven for company, I wondered at myself in the mirror before slipping into a bath of warm oils and creams and lotions. Basically, I threw the whole lot in, as is my wont, and gave the interior design five stars after a strong thirty minute inner dialogue that brought every detail into focus – the LA style lighting fixtures, the shabby-chic sofas and rattan armchairs, the play of white, green and tan furnished mahogany panelling and a bathroom probably designed for a beautiful mermaid that lives here in off-season. You feel important in that bathroom, drinking cold beer and reading some inane biography that makes you want to take up oil painting again.

That’s when I jumped into the swell. Now, I had been warned. I knew the risks. But I had gotten hold of the scuba gear, and instead of heading out over the quiet water like most, I decided that there was better fishing up on the rougher East Side of the island. I had a couple girls take pictures of me as I waded out to look for Stingray, Sweetlips, Snappers and Bat Fish. ‘I might even see a shark’ I told them, but they didn’t understand what I was saying and just looked horrified as I dove into a five foot wave. After an hour of thrashing around aimlessly, narrowly missing the schooner, I came up for air, my snorkelling crown stuffed up my nose. I went back in, counted 20 species of day-glo oddities, then threw myself onto dry land, chilled with wonder at the mystery of the ocean. A girl was bathing outside her water bungalow (these are for the true Romantics – with a private sun terrace right up on the lagoon), pouting at the sun with just a hat dipped low over two raven-black eyes, smouldering quietly as they do in a Peroni commercial. She rolled over and shook her finger, and I just stood there, staring, trying to remember what I had just been so excited about.

The next day, at exactly 6pm, after a delightful al fresco lunch of grilled prawn, haloumi and watermelon salad on the beach, the sun was a tiny red disc in a smoky blue sky. I stood on the upper deck of a small tender and hummed along to Keith Richards haunting rendition of ‘The Nearness of You’.

We were headed due South, looking for dolphins. The Jolly Roger wasn’t flying that day, and the Captain stood up front, staring with dreamy eyes towards the horizon, his eyes blinking quietly, waiting for his sweethearts to arrive. ‘They may not come.’ He whispered dramatically. The loved-up Chinese and Dutch on the boat around me let out a faint cry. ‘But I’ll try and find them. For you, just for you, I’ll bring them in.’

As if hearkening to that aloof gaze, or to the melancholic breath that escaped my now crooked smile, a moment later the angels flew before us, carving silver rainbows above the prow. I took off my fedora by way of salute. I had even grown a small goatee, and my pendant swung back and forth across my coppered chest in the 2ft sway. ‘Marvellous, intelligent creatures’ said I, and a girl with ringlets and little Chinese shoes tugged my arm and smiled at me for a moment.

The same night I told Milja as much. We sat down to dine at Seasalt Restaurant– a pantheon of torches and enchanted tropical faces inside a circular wall of coconut trees. They were playing Chopin’s Etude, and the chef was there, decrypting the laws of gastrodynamics. He had a fragrant smirk on his face, one, I imagined, that might only come with creating edible art for folks that really, truly, sincerely appreciate it. He liked me, I could tell, and so spent more than enough time pointing out the necessity of each dish on the a la carte and the flavours that go to make it so unique on the islands. The fish was fresh from the boat and the giant lobster and other delicacies had people murmuring the poetry of love, their hearts softening in that diffused glow, their life stretching out so long and beautiful beyond the tropical flowers, red and yellow and white, beyond the still warm sand and the cool lilac sheen where the moon had found its perfect reflection.

I commended the food heartily, spearing the fish with gusto ‘Milja, I don’t quite know what to say.’ My eyes were full of emotion, and so were hers. ‘I have never tasted such fish, so soft and tender and with that after-taste our friend was talking about.’

‘The caramelized hazelnuts are good aren’t they?’

‘Yes. Each dish is full of sympathetic flavour and texture. Nothing goes missing – the prawns are just rapturous’

‘How is the wine.’

‘Obsessively brilliant – and not too heavy with the sauce. And have you tried this cake! – I think I may just have to give the chef my compliments – by which I mean one from my collection of hats. A strange gentleman I met gave it to me – but on deep reflection, I think it would suit him far more.’

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