QUINTESSENTIALLY | Insider | Food & Drink

He had a scruffy beard, long hair and liked to kick in the wheels of pick-up trucks that wouldn’t work. He lived on his own terms, known by a select few to whom he bared his soul. Many of his fellow artistes had that vagrant romantic quality, but none spent this quality in quite so distinctive a fashion as Steve McQueen.

He lived in an aircraft hanger. He wore a pair of Persol sunglasses, made some relatively good movies (The Cincinnati Kid is a good movie), and is remembered for such novelties as riding motorcycles and finding the perfect pose to any given moment.

With all this in mind, what do you think a restuaurant/bar/club should look, feel, sound and taste like that serves as an ode to his name? Dezzi McCausland of the Kingly Club, Soho brooded for a while, and then, gazing long and hard at the mean streets of Shoreditch, lit upon what many considerable punters deem the perfect expression.

I went looking for the sign outside Tabernacle Street near Old Street station, the one that reads ‘If you go past this point you better have a damn good reason’. That was his catchphrase. Every superhero needs one. Every superhero also needs a theme tune, and in the cocktail lounge area that I think was designed by the guy behind Johnny Depp’s Viper Room, they like to think its funky house with a bit of Bob Marley thrown in.

My date thought McQueen was Paul Newman, and wasn’t too bothered by his shirtless apparition on the screen behind us. We sat down and I fell in Love with a Proper Stranger. The home-made raspberry syrup in it is good, and the Woodford Reserve bourbon gives you a proper kick in the teeth. They should have had some rocking chairs in there. But other than that, Papillon would approve.

I was here to eat. “You see, what I want to do, I’m gonna do.” Another sentiment of his thrown around the bar by boys drinking martinis at happy hour, a little confused by what a couple girls further along wanted from them. Nothing as it turned out, but that’s just part of McQueen’s aura – you take it on, whether it works for you or not.

Steve McQueen was a bad boy that liked to collect cast iron toys. But he was also soft inside, a little sophisticated, a little vulnerable, aloof, and yet constantly in need of reassurance. He wanted to be nondescript, and yet hated the everyday snub. All in all, he was a lot like fans of gourmet dining. A lot like us.

The interior decorators thought as much, and plastered the walls with McQueen’s face. They recreated his soul from brown leather chesterfields, and padded it with Honduran mahogany and swirls of leather; Orient Express by way of a McQueen frat house. They hesitated to serve us, and we got anxious, biting our lips, checking our bb’s, wondering how much his Persol’s would have gone for at auction, or if he really was that cool, as cool as either you or I, and what it is that makes someone really cool, and admired predominantly for that quality.

The chef was cool. A sensitive soul, he came out afterwards to see what I really thought. She looked at him and said ‘your lobster was so good. So good.’ and really meant it, and he pressed my shoulder happily. Cool is sincere, and diffident, and self-assured, and remarkable in that it doesn’t need words to convey its intent. The menu is cool. American almost-there-gourmet grill, with creole spiced grilled prawns and parmesan mash and compassionate cuts of Sirloin that I worked on with a glass of red, all cedar and cigarbox and red berries from Bordeaux.

She lined her lips with orange gloss, took my hand. “I like this place”, she said. “Quite cool.” And if she said it, then it’s got to be. I put on my Lemtosh glasses, put on my hat, my three quarter length coat and gazed back at the emotion swelling behind her eyes. It’s warm, and shiny, and not a little bit affectionate.

‘Let’s get another drink.’ I said, ‘It’s actually pretty cool in here.’

www.mcqueen-shoreditch.co.uk/

McQueen,
5-61 Tabernacle Street,
Shoreditch, London EC2A 4AA

Situated a hop and a skip from both the V & A and the Brompton Oratory, there’s little doubt that Marc Abela’s latest opening, Cassis Bistro, is firmly aimed at an upmarket and well-heeled clientele.

The impression is reinforced from the moment you walk in the door to find a tasteful collection of modern art (Abela’s own) decorating the restaurant, from such figures as Julian Opie, and the suitably suave yet accommodating staff prepare to minister to your every request. There is no shortage of high-end establishments round this part of London, but the emphasis on Provencal cuisine is a subtly original one; as with his Michelin-starred flagship The Greenhouse, Abela understands how to offer a twist on what his audience might expect.

My esteemed colleague Harry and I were pleased to discover, looking at the menu, that the highly talented head chef David Escobar had not attempted to become over-ambitious and ignore the central tenets of Provencal cooking, namely simplicity and sparing use of frills. Thus, a starter of three different kinds of pate with fig chutney and country bread was nothing short of rapturous, with delicate attention paid to the flavours of chicken, pork and liver, making the combination a beautifully hedonistic one.  This was equalled by a fine beef carpaccio, given a kick by the well-placed addition of some aged Parmesan. A couple of glasses of Viognier made for fitting accompaniments.

For the main course, my eye alighted on a herb-crusted rack of lamb with the slightly eyebrow-raising addition of aubergine caviar, a combination I hadn’t previously encountered. Thankfully, it proved to be excellent, the aubergine’s subtle richness accentuating the tenderness of the lamb. One imagines it passed onto the great meadow in the sky happy. Harry, meanwhile, pronounced the duck breast with chickpea galette an excellent affair, and a shared olive oil mashed potato offered a decadently sumptuous experience that very nearly matched Joel Robuchon’s signature dish.

By this point, we were at belt-loosening stage, but we thought it would be rude not to sample a couple of the desserts, and we were exceptionally glad that we did. Raspberry millefeuille was as delicate as earlier dishes were robust, offering a refreshingly tart flavour in the raspberry that undercut the usual sweetness of the millefeuille. Meanwhile, a salted crème caramel was one of the best that I’ve ever tasted, being far from the shamefully floppy mound of sugar that this usually appears as but instead offering a punchy, complex mix of sensations that puts the usual drab mediocrity to shame.

It’s easy to praise Cassis Bistro to the skies. It’s been a massive success since it opened, and no doubt it will continue to be so. We’re looking forward to our next visit already.

232-236 Old Brompton Road, SW3.

www.cassisbistro.co.uk

Gleneagles is probably the most famous hotel in Scotland, and rightly so. It’s a cornucopia of virtually everything you could want in a five-star establishment, from lavishly appointed suites to a spa that offers the kind of treatments that relax your body for days afterwards. Nonetheless, it’s as a fine dining destination that many people are drawn to it, and understandably so, for, in the shape of its Andrew Fairlie restaurant, it boasts the only 2 Michelin-starred establishment in the whole of Scotland. Some might murmur about places such as Martin Wishart and Tom’s Kitchin in Edinburgh being equally worthy of such an accolade, but for the time being this makes Mr Fairlie’s establishment the best restaurant in Scotland, at least on paper. Does it live up to the hype?

The answer, from a recent visit, has to be ‘yes’. The first impressions of the sleek, black-painted room, are that Mr Fairlie is not a shy man, as can be seen by the oil paintings of him that festoon the walls. However, his self-confidence seems more than justified by the excellence of the experience and the quality of the operation. The staff are friendly and welcoming – always a preferable combination than ‘correct and formal’ – and the entire (and, if you’re having the tasting menu, fairly lengthy) evening never flags or feels overstretched, a rare joy in establishments of this kind.

The food is, of course, impeccable. It’s been described by many as Scottish-French, but while this might summon up bizarre images of tartan berets, what it in fact means is that Fairlie likes to take traditional aspects of Gallic gastronomy and give them a less formal twist. So, for instance, ballotine of foie gras, a mainstay of just about any Michelin restaurant menu, is given an unusual fillip by the addition of a sort of hot foie gras bonbon. To say more would spoil the surprise, but you’d be highly advised not to bite into it. Possibly the stand-out dish of the evening was a home smoked lobster with lime and herb butter. It’s a simple but brilliant idea, so much so that it seems incredible that nobody ever thought of it before. For those with sweeter teeth, a dessert of Pertshire raspberries with chocolate cremeux and crème fraiche ice cream is a delightfully beguiling way to finish the meal.

The wine list is comprehensive, but despite the innate Gallic bias in the kind of cuisine, it’s remarkably eclectic, and perhaps best sampled by the glass for full effect. A particularly excellent 2008 Marlborough Riesling proved a fitting match with a dish of hand dived king scallops, and a 2007 Moscat Rosa from Italy beautifully offset the richness of the chocolate and strawberry pudding. When the list does ‘go French’, it does so with alacrity – a main course of slow cooked beef cheek was given extra heft by the 2001 Chateau Kirwan Margaux that accompanied it.

At the end of a long, and very pleasant, evening (3 and a half hours), my companion and I felt as if we deserved some sort of award for having conquered such a delectably varied array of fine food and wine. And so it duly came, in the shape of a battalion of petit fours. However, even with our hardy constitutions, this seemed a step too far. We looked at one another, timorous, and the staff, showing psychic skills that we’d only vaguely guessed at before, said ‘So you’ll want these to take away then…?’ Which we did. It proved the final, delightful end to a truly exceptional meal.

Andrew Fairlie at Gleneagles, Scotland PH3 1NF. www.andrewfairlie.co.uk

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 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

Yorkshire – not the most obvious choice for a luxury weekend away, it is perhaps more akin to waders, gun dogs and nature enthusiasts than blackberry (the non edible kind) toting city dwellers trying to keep their Hunter wellingtons out of the mud.

However T’Yorkshire I was going one sunny June afternoon, boarding my Grand Central train at the rather stylish new look Kings Cross Station.
I’d also brought the boy along with me to embark on our cross country trek, he’s an adventurous type you see, and a good man to have around in case there’s a tricky field or stream to negotiate on the way to the spa.

But why Yorkshire, I hear you ask? Well I’d heard a whisper, that a place so heavenly, so quintessentially luxurious, had popped up in a little village called Helmsley and was simply too good to miss.

When Emily Brontë wrote of ‘bright white clouds flitting rapidly above – the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze’ as the ‘perfect idea of heaven’s happiness’ she was telling the truth, and as we raced across the countryside, I was starting to see why we had made our journey in the first place.

The Feversham Arms was originally an 18th Century coaching inn that sits opposite a picturesque church, and as we pulled into the driveway I was struck by how modern yet still original the glass and Yorkshire stone building looked nestled in the heart of the village.

My inner sugar junkie rejoiced when we were told afternoon tea was waiting for us outside by the pool – yes that’s right – the pool, which at the Feversham lies in the centre courtyard, surrounded by the cottage style poolside suites, where other guests swaddled in white robes were relaxing in the afternoon sun.

As something of an afternoon tea connoisseur, the Feversham’s tea did not disappoint – Yorkshire ham with spicy apple chutney had been rolled into fingers of freshly baked bread, followed by the most wonderfully well risen scones topped with the homemade strawberry and passion fruit jam, and to my immense delight, lemon curd!

But the highlights were the chocolate and raspberry pots served in miniature terracotta flower pots and topped with marzipan mushrooms, followed closely by the strawberry jelly striped with elderflower pannacotta – childhood memories on a plate.

Now to the bedroom – our spa suite was aptly decorated in soft blue William Morris florals, with a wonderful lounge area complete with buttery leather couch and this month’s latest glossy titles. The bathroom was my own personal Elysium with the double-ended 6ft bath, l’Occitaine products, and vanilla scented candles acting as the perfect balm to my city sore limbs.

Sitting on our balcony, we opened one of the two bottles of champagne that had been waiting for us in the room bearing the cheeky missives ‘one for now’ and ‘one for later’, as the sun set over Helmsley Castle in the distance.

Dinner at ‘The Fev’ (as we had learned it was affectionately called amongst the staff and seasoned guests) is a relaxed affair in the hotel’s atrium style dining room surrounded by vintage jeroboams and charming paintings from local artists. The food was spectacular,  from the pan-fried scallops with chicken wings cooked in maple syrup, Thai mushroom puree and crispy chicken skin to start, to the tender fillet of beef that melted like honeycomb in my mouth for the main.

But the meal was dominated by the gargantuan cheese cart that worked its way tantalizingly around the room before finally coming to rest at our table. Being more of a cheese lover than an expert, we asked the Fev’s resident turophile to make some recommendations for us to sample, I went for a local smoked cheese and some superbly aged cheddar, whilst my date feeling a little more adventurous with his palate opted for the Stinking Bishop and the Epoisses de Bourgogne – a cheese so pungent it is banned from French public transport – lucky me!

And so satiated, relaxed and perhaps a little merry we went to bed, but not before the do not disturb mascot – in our case a sheep, had been firmly placed outside the door.

To be continued…

If you’ve ever been to LA, you may have visited the Chateau Marmont. In it, there’s a large balconied suite overlooking a garden restaurant. It’s the best room in the house, and if you haven’t been, you really should. If you’ve got a lot of work to do, you can stay for month-long swathes at a time, and accomplish pretty much anything. But probably, between sunning yourself at the pool with Keith Richards or chatting with very chatty American ingénues in the lobby, you won’t get much done.

You can have your own personal cook, and room service at 5am when you’re still up and and staring at the first rays over Sunset Boulevard. Everyone is friendly (they have to be), and there’s a sense that by staying there, you’re sharing in the history of something great, and by association are pretty damn cool to boot. The way Francis Ford Coppola is. Or Billy Wilder. Or Grace Kelly.

Now maybe, hopefully, and most scrupulously, you might have the same feeling when walking out of the lobby and into the eight-storey atrium of The Landmark London.

It was evening, and all of the lights came down to me from the balcony where a gentleman in white tie (he looked like George Clooney in the Martini ad) stood smiling at the world beneath his very smug fingertips.

I left the girlfriend who hadn’t showed for our date and went up to see what all the fuss was about. Now, you ask me about rooms at the Marmont, and I will say they ‘embrace the entire history of early Californian architecture, though the ambience today is distinctly mid-century romantic…’ or something like. At The Landmark, it’s all 21st century minimalism – ‘a nice joint, very therapeutic… no nasty surprises, which is most important…’ and carry on is such manner. It has all the marks of a five star ‘sumptous stay’; the ihome system, Nespresso machine, flat screen tvs, free Wifi, comfortable sofa, minimalist frescoes, and just enough light to flick a copy of Spectator or Conde Nast while my date is shown to a table beneath a swaying palm. I wish they had kept the horse-drawn carriage verve of the scene playing out downstairs. But it does do a good grooming kit in the sizeable bathroom – something the Chateau never quite got right.

But look, when you come here, come for a glass of Taittinger Rosé Champagne, the Vanilla crème brûlée, and the music in the Winter Garden. I mean it. You won’t want for anything more. I was in the Maldives last week, and I sat on the rocks staring at the pure, pure water, green like absinthe, and knew that such a moment was supposed to be perfect. But it wasn’t, as I had a melody of ridiculous requests that I wanted to make of the bar tender behind me, who ironically seemed to be having that perfect moment himself. But Mozart and Bach plucked on a harpsichord is most pleasing to the ear, and distract one from the compulsion to want oneself into a stupor; you are free to eat the Casterbridge beef without caring too much about the wild truffle sauce that accompanies it. Still, if you’re going to really go for it, have the Twice baked soufflé followed by the rack of lamb. She did, and she was very happy with it.

But listen, Sunset Boulevard or Marylebone Station – it often comes down to one dialectic. Do they have it in them to make you feel delightfully ordinary (if you aren’t), and yet somehow incredibly significant (we all are)? Could they make a film about you here, one where you ended up lying in a massive bath in a massive white marble bathroom, enswathed in Dom Perignon a la Dennis Hopper and a subtle smirk pasted across your well groomed face?

Marylebone Haunt The Landmark is a stayer.

The Landmark London offers 51 suites out of the 300 bedrooms available.

222 Marylebone Road, London NW1 6JQ,

Tel : +44 (0) 20 7631 8000

Ah, Paris. City of romance, of the Eiffel tower, wide boulevards, world-class food and wine and mime artists. Well, maybe not so much the last part. But there’s no denying that France’s capital still exerts a powerful hold on artists, bohemians and lovers, meaning that for all its undoubted opulence and wealth, there’s still a lingering sense of vibrancy and excitement here. You’re going to get as much out of a cheap glass of wine and some charcuterie in a tiny, cosy cafe somewhere in St-Germain as you are the most opulent three Michelin-starred restaurant; it just depends where you go and what your expectations are.

A pretty good place to start off is the new Shangri-La hotel, located in what used to be Prince Roland Bonaparte’s palace. The highly respected Shangri-La group’s first European property, this is both grand and hugely welcoming, thanks to the warm and highly professional staff. The building itself is amazing, with vast public rooms that let visitors feel that they’ve headed back in time to the opulent Belle Epoque age. The bedrooms are fantastic as well; the grandest suites offer either unparalleled old-world luxury or, in the case of the penthouse suites, 360 degree views over Paris. Even the ‘lesser’ rooms and suites offer the highest levels in service and comfort, making this a perfect home from home in the city.

Obviously any trip to Paris has to revolve around food, to some extent, and the fine dining restaurant here, L’Abeille ( meaning ‘the bee’) has the quietly confident attitude of somewhere that knows it’s going to become a destination restaurant soon. The acclaimed chef Philippe Labbe serves up cuisine that blurs the boundaries between sweet and savoury, offering delicacies such as foie gras, rack of lamb and salmon with aplomb. What makes it an especially pleasant experience is Labbe appearing at the end of the meal to talk to every single guest about their food, which gives the evening a warmly human touch so often lacking in restaurants of this calibre.

Somewhere else that has returned to former levels of opulence and splendour after a lengthy refurbishment is Les Ambassadeurs, the Crillon’s jewel in the crown. Under the young chef Christopher Hache, the restaurant has regained its Michelin star, and pleasingly manages to strike just the right balance between the formality that the has-to-be-seen-to-be-believed room would seem to deserve and the welcoming and friendly attitude that the staff all exhibit. The food, likewise, is fine dining but without the stuffiness that this might suggest. A main course of rib of beef with samphire, carved at the table, made just about every other sirloin seem anaemic in comparison, and rack of baby lamb in angel-hair noodles showed what could be done to an apparently conventional dish with some wit and imagination. As ever, a flawless 2001 Haut-Medoc, chosen by the discerning sommelier, made the dinner that much more enjoyable.

Of course, one doesn’t just visit Paris to eat and drink, tempting though that would no doubt be. As one of the great cultural capitals of the world, there’s a never-ending variety of exhibitions on, and we managed to brave the queues and crowds at the Musee d’Orsay – probably the city’s finest art gallery – to see the much-hyped Manet exhibition. Juxtaposing his most famous pictures, such as Le Dejeuner sur l’Herbe, with his lesser-known paintings and contextual works by his contemporaries, the exhibition offers a rare insight into his working methods and ideology, bridging the gap between Romanticism and Impressionism. If you are planning on going – and it’s fairly unmissable – be quick; it finishes on July 17^th.

As one strolls down the Tuileries on a moonlit night, blessedly uninterrupted by the clichéd sound of accordion players (they ply their trade more or less exclusively on the Metro these days), it’s easy to over-romanticise the situation. But, like Venice and Rome, there’s no denying that the authentic atmosphere of beauty and oh-so-Gallic style means that Paris will continue to be an irresistible destination for lovers of all backgrounds and ages. Long may la vie Parisienne continue.

Quintessentially travelled to Paris on Eurostar from London St Pancras. Eurostar operates up to 18 daily services from London, with prices from £69 return. Tickets are available from eurostar.com.

Brand new to Fitzrovia, The Riding House Café is the latest brainchild of the same team that brought us Village East and The Garrison.  This is a welcoming, bustling bistro den, the sort of place that demands a closer inspection when one happens to be strolling through an evening, looking for a place to meet with friends.

The immediate warmth is enhanced by the forthcoming greeting one receives from the front of house. The first two physical fixtures that jump out are the long social table and a huge bar in front of the open kitchen; both areas are alive with the sort of people that want to unwind with a few drinks, indulge their imagination over menus, or simply reflect on the madness of a city that doesn’t think itself mad at all.

We are led to the dining area – barely more formal – but a tad more organised. Red leather upholstery, dark wood panelling and light fixtures crafted from stuffed squirrels suggest an avant-garde mind was involved in the design process; uniquely clad individuals given a couple of whiskies (on the house), and an insight into the ‘Riding House’ mind to abstract in whatever manner they felt appropriate.

The cocktail list here is also an interesting read – concoctions resplendent with creativity that you would be hard pressed to find anywhere else. The Man on Fire Margarita caught my attention as a blend of flavours I adore, yet have never had the luck to try together; Islay whisky, mescal, vanilla and honey, the Scottish and Mexican flavours so delightfully infused that the characteristic smoke from both alcohol variants whirled to the forefront.

So what’s recommended in the way of food? Well, on sampling a pick of the small plates, including the pork belly, steak tartar, sea bass ceviche and cured sea trout, the sea bass stood out as the best of the four – light, refreshing and enough happening with every mouthful to leave you wanting more. For those who don’t know how much they want, small plate eating is a fad you’ll probably welcome; variety on the table turns a meal into a journey through different times and places to a progressive destination with pauses for Moorish lamb or Chermoula spiced poussin involved somewhere along the way.

Onto dessert; another adventure all its own, a hot fudge sundae taking me back to a childhood of ice cold vanilla under a thick ooze of hot fudge, topped with a commotion of honeycomb and macaroons. As I tried to scrape the last spoonful of melted vanilla and chocolate out of the bottom of my glass, my watch struck ten – time had gotten the better of me. Late for a separate adventure, I struggled to leave my new found den, so engrossing I now felt part of the furniture.

With all the small and wild crowd pleasing dishes, stuffed squirrel designer chic and fashionista’s ambling through the doors whenever you take a sip of your honey-blended margarita, Riding House might just already be the new ‘IT’ place to dine.

43-51 Great Titchfield St
London W1W 7PQ

I’d like to be sitting here, tapping away at keys, sharing with you a symphony of adjectives that conjure up the clearest taste of a fairly special whisky, so that you might be sharing in my delight, but I can’t – only one man in the whole world has supped this one.

In fact, the Royal Salute Tribute to Honour is so exclusive that there have only been 21 bottles of the stuff produced – and no ordinary bottles either, with each flagon deftly handcrafted in accordance with a flamboyant design by Stephen Webster, Creative Director of Garrard.

Created to pay tribute to the oldest jewels in the British Isles – the sword, sceptre and crown that comprise the Honours of Scotland – Tribute to Honour overflows with royal connotations and oozes with exclusivity, and that’s without lifting the lid.

Blended using almost fifty of the world’s most rare and highly aged whiskies – they’ve all spent at least 45 years working their magic in the Royal Salute Vault, waiting patiently for their crowning moment – the Tribute to Honour is packed with a veritable A-list of blends.

So, back to that man who can claim to have let this nectar pass over his lips: Master Blender, Colin Scott. Given the small task of creating the most bespoke of whiskies, doing justice to Scottish history and royalty at the same time, Scott has sipped, pipetted, sniffed, tasted, mixed and distilled his way through the last two years to create the final nectar.

Similarly, Stephen Webster has overseen a team of craftsmen, engravers, diamond cutters and expert jewellers to create the flagon equivalent of what lies beneath the perfectly polished midnight glass.

Over 314 hours, 413 black and white hand-selected diamonds, crafting 22 carats of gemstones set in gold and silver make up the bottles. Golden lions flank a diamond encrusted dagger as the centre piece of the design, coming to stand for king and for country – and maybe even a symbol of winning the battle to create the finest bottle of whisky there is.

You better move fast to get your hands on a $200,000 bottle, and give me a call – if you dare open it.

Tribute to Honour was launched on 12^th June at the Sentebale Polo event, attended by the Duke of Cambridge and Prince Harry – see Quintessentially TV’s coverage of the event here.