The United Republic of Texas.

I have a love/hate relationship with blogs. Part of me wants to think of escape cville... as a book - I'll travel, jot down where the stories are as they happen, then immediately post once I get back. But the mind doesn't work that way. I get home, write about a few, then grow tired. I get tired of waxing poetic about whatever trip I've just been on. So I file the rest away in a drawer somewhere and forget.

Inevitably though, something will happen to remind me of a great travel story and I'll think, "Damn, I should've written about that the minute I got BACK! That's a GREAT story, why didn't I write about that? " My linear mind wants to write them all down one by one, right then, pretty little memories all in a row. But my real mind jumps around. I remember certain things, forget others - only to remember again in a flash much later when I'm lying awake at 3am. Or doing laundry. Or listening to the radio. Which I guess is what a blog does, jump around, offer some insight into how a person's mind can work. But I just can't seem to get past the satisfaction of looking at the escape cville... archives and seeing all London entries in January, all Breckenridge entries in February....Sigh. Maybe I should just relax and go with the flow. Hell, I haven't posted here in eons after all.

In any case, something happened today, June 2009, which reminded me of a great travel story that happened last YEAR. I hadn't even THOUGHT about it until today. It took Jay Thomas on his Sirius/XM radio show to remind me of it. It was just one statement, but the minute he said it, my mind reeled, flashing back to a sunny day last June on London's Portobello Road. Jay said, "Chuck Norris wants to become President of the United Republic of Texas!"

And there it was. The United Republic of Texas. That statement sent my head Wayne's World reeling, complete with flapping hands and Doodle-do noises, flashing back to an image of two scruffy, grizzled, elderly gentlemen in dirty suits, one brown, the other gray. They wore brogues on their feet, fedoras atop their heads. Sitting outside a pub on Portobello Road on worn wooden chairs. The table in front of them has been gouged with pocket knife carvings and is covered in pint glass water rings. One is strumming a guitar, the other it is humming and playing drums with the tabletop. Both are drunk, guzzling Guinness like it is water...

Hubby and I had headed out that afternoon to meet friends. Telling them to meet us at the corner pub, we grabbed the only two chairs left on a busy happy hour Tuesday. Two chairs immediately adjacent to said grizzled guys. Humming, strumming, drinking along without a care in the world. Waving to anyone who looks and generally being genial in a "I'm drunk and cannot really harm you," kind of way. Most people would've maybe chosen a seat inside, but I figured, what the hell. We're traveling. Let's make some friends.

So we sit. Offer the gentlemen a Guinness which they gladly accept. Small talk is exchanged. And that's when it happens. The older gentleman of the two, his face covered in gray frazzled beard, his eyes just on the verge of rheumy, but jolly all the same, his teeth yellowing, reaches into his jacket and offers me his card.

A business card. Handmade. Like something a child who was just learning computer software would create. The edges were dirty, like he had fingered its edges many times, offering it to people to look at, but never keep. The words were typed in mismatched fonts, the map below was badly pixelated and some of the words were misspelled. It said, in all caps:

PROUD CITIZEN OF THE UNITED REPUBLIC OF TEXAS!

With a colorful map of the Republic underneath. Mr. Grizzled then began a long diatribe about how he came to be a proud citizen of this Republic, and in his American accent (getting slurrier by the minute) talked about what brought him to that stretch of London on that particular afternoon. Or day. Or month. Or year. It kinda didn't matter. Mr. Grizzled Two just sat and strummed his guitar and grinned. Grinned like he'd heard this speech many times before. Too many times to count, so why not just strum the day away. Playing nothing in particular.

I think I may have actually whipped around to make sure that 1) I wasn't dreaming and 2) ol' John Singer wasn't about to come walking around the corner because right then I was sure I had somehow dropped right into a Carson McCullers novel.

But no, Mr. Grizzled was real. And he was passionate about his cause. He talked and talked about why this Republic needed to happen. And why it needed to happen NOW. I wanted to ask if he was so passionate about it, then why was he sitting on a London streetcorner instead of protesting down the Main Street in Dallas, but he kinda wouldn't let me get in a word edgewise. It's as if the card was attached to an invisible string which led to his sternum, and once it was pulled, he would talk until that string rode back up inside him. However many hours that took.

Our friends arrived a while later and so we left these gentlemen. One strummed, and one talked. Even as we stood to leave, Mr. Republic of Texas just smiled, waved, and kept spewing his passion all over Portobello Road. Later on that week we saw them both, one strumming, the other just sipping, this time seated at the front of a different pub on a different street in the same neighborhood. I caught the eye of Mr. Texas and he just smiled. Pointed his index finger at me like it was a gun and with a wink of his eye pulled the trigger. But in a genial way. Like we had shared a secret joke.

So is this travel story accurate? For the most part. But like all travel stories you file away in a drawer for a year, it is probably the victim of embellishment. Maybe forgetting for a while makes it better? Maybe not. Nevertheless, it definitely makes it mine...

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Westminster Abbey.

Westminster Abbey with Procession, by Canaletto, 1749.

While in London this past June, Hubby and I of course visited Westminster Abbey. Along with Big Ben and the Tower of London, it's in the triumvirate of "must see" tourist sites.

I wanted to show it to him because of a magical day I spent there back in 1996. Unfortunately, the best laid plans and all that. This day was cold, rainy where before it had been beautiful sunny, strolling weather. I remember I walked the length of the Thames that day - all the way to the Tate, past the Rodin sculpture of The Burghers of Calais.

Where before I had the whole day before me to explore every nook and cranny of the abbey, this visit saw us rushing about like mad tourists on a 3-hour visa. We hadn't kept good track of the time, and so were left with the prospect of trying to see a centuries-old cathedral the size of three city blocks in an hour. We couldn't try again tomorrow - we were leaving tomorrow. Sigh. A short visit is better than nothing I suppose. It made me sad because I wanted Hubby to experience Westminster the same way I had - slowly, gradually, letting the grandiose beauty and weighty history settle over you like a warm comforter. Instead we tried to see as much of the history, the stony tombs and smell the earthy granite and wet earth of the inner Cloisters before the security guards could shoo us out. I remember we searched frantically to see the shrine to Sir Isaac Newton (Hubby is a physicist) before realizing the golden monstrosity right before our eyes was actually it. Kind of a letdown after so much "treasure" hunting.

I had first visited Westminster in April 1996. I was down from Glasgow where I was sharing a flat with two friends, playing the expatriate card until the money ran out. Visiting my friend Carter who was living in Piccadilly Circus in a tiny two-room apartment above a porn theater and a butcher. Just down the alley from the main square. We'd leave his building and see dead rabbits hanging by their ears next to a window full of purple dildoes. The red neon would seep into his apartment at night when the lights were out giving the place a bordello-like air. The LOUDEST apartment I've ever visited, because not only could you hear all the foot traffic from Piccadilly, but there was a major market in this alley every day and so at 4am on the dot, merchants would bang together pipes to form their stalls. Between the red neon and the banging, I didn't sleep.

My friend shared the place with his Japanese girlfriend whose father was a vice president at Nissan or something. She lived in Covent Garden and bought all her clothes at full price designer shops and had her shoes made to fit. When I asked where she got the fabulous pair of laceup shoes she was wearing, she replied they were handmade in Florence for only $1000. For someone who had worked two jobs for a year to spend six months traveling the UK, this was beyond extravagant.

A highlight of this trip was going to Westminster. Carter and girlfriend worked at World Bank, and while they have lived in London almost 2 years, they had never visited and had no interest in starting the tourist thing now. So I was left to my own devices which I preferred anyway. I remember being nervous I wouldn't be able to handle the Tube or even find the place. I needn't have worried - the Tube is so easy a child could handle it (once you get by which branches are closed on which days). And Westminster is so huge there's no mistaking it.

Two enormous brown towers rising from the banks of the Thames - so heavily garreted as to not look even real. Like the gargoyles you see living on the tops of churches decided to make the most of their free time instead of just sitting around. Carving out little curlicued garrets in the dark of night - beautiful things that emerge with sunrise. I was astounded by how large it was. And how old. Remembering it now, it actually *was* the first cathedral I had ever seen up close. I was awestruck.

Going inside was even better. The abbey is so large you literally feel as if your whole world has been reduced to miniature. Every footfall echoes. Every touch of my hand on stone tombs or wooden rails brought history forth when I thought of the hundreds of thousands who had walked this walk and touched these things before me. Purposely I took no map, wanting to discover on my own. Here was the tomb of William Gladstone the great statesman. There is one of an actual knight, clutching a sword to his chest, buried in 1152. With each room I entered I let the history wash over me. Overwhelming, but in a fantastic way.

What I liked most was how much I learned by wandering. Entering one room, I found a great tomb encased in marble with a golden roof and black stone pillars. Almost as if the tomb itself was a throne. Here was Queen Mary Tudor buried underneath Queen Elizabeth I (her half-sister). You mean they were buried on TOP of one another? But they HATED each other! I was floored to discover this. In another room, up high, sat the throne on which every king and queen of England had been crowned since the year 700. A simple wooden chair. Heavily scarred by years of graffiti because before people realized its importance to history, it had been used in the school for boys as a classroom chair. It was pure function before they realized it just might be priceless. I was left wondering who had carved what into its mangled arms before they became king. Picturing Henry VIII carving "H's" when he should've been studying his Latin.

Wandering in another part of the Abbey I discovered Poet's Corner. Here were memorials to all the greats: Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling, Yeats, the Brownings, and of course, Shakespeare. A scowling bust of William Blake stared down at me. I felt as if I'd reached my Mecca. My place of worship. So many memorials to so many important authors. So many of their words molded and shaped my writing and love of reading today. I felt as if I had to sit down right then and take in the enormity of it all. It was so overwhelming the only thing I could think to do was write about it.

As I found a seat in a pew and pulled out my journal, a man with a soft, echoing voice announced it was now noon. At noon, the abbey bells toll in memory for all those lost in war. If we could please maintain silence for the next 15 minutes we would honor those forever lost. And then the bells began to toll. Large and looming. Booming sounds full of wholeness and clarity and longing. It was stunningly beautiful. And for the next 15 minutes, as I sat recording my thoughts, the only sounds heard in that massive place were soft echoing footfalls. People tiptoeing through history. Muffled whispers which ceased the minute they were uttered when the speakers realized how much sound carried in this thunderous abbey of wood and stone.

I tried to take it all in. To breathe the history into my pores. To feel the vibrations of voices past pass through me. The kings, queens, scientists and statesmen, lords and ladies, knights and monks. All of whom had worshipped here or been crowned here or been buried here. It was unfathomable. Listening for the past. I'll never forget what it felt like. It must be what "being in the moment" feels like because for those 15 minutes there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be.

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National Portrait Gallery.

I've written extensively here about my family's trip to London last summer. And I find I have more stories to tell. Digging out my scribbled notes, the ink running because somehow in my pocket, the notes got wet, I find the words, "Socialite. Debutante. Adventuress. Advocate. Journalist." Immediately my mind goes to the portrait of Lady Colin Campbell that I saw in the National Portrait Gallery. These were the words after her name and I was struck by first the simplicity then the varied nature of the words and the image they created when shoved together like that.

It made me want to be described in that way. To have a painting hanging somewhere of me after I died with those words plastered beneath it like an epitaph. It made me envious. It made me want to be more like the lady in the picture wearing a flowing black dress, looking all the world like something Whistler had painted - all grays and shadows. Who was this person? What was she like?

The National Portrait Gallery was visited by Hubby and me purely by accident. It was on an afternoon towards the end of our trip. We had just stuffed ourselves with dim sum in Chinatown with most of the family and were by turns feeling satiated and weary. Satiated from the food, weary from the company. When you've spent the past few hours fielding complaints about first being lost, then being hungry then finally getting all 12 people to a table and fed, you tend to feel a sense of relief, then weariness. What had been intended to be a brunch for just Hubby and me had turned into a goat rodeo of trying to gather young and elderly first onto the Tube, then off. People shouting, "It's this way, no it's THIS way," made my head spin, then hurt.

But I digress. Short version we were tired from the meal, went our separate ways, and were looking for a short diversion to take our mind off things before heading back to the flat for an afternoon nap (there would be more family fun at dinner you see). We were wandering, meandering, wondering what to do. That's when we saw the sign for the National Portrait Gallery, followed by "FREE". Sounds good. We wandered in.

What had looked from the outside like a smallish gallery was actually quite large - 3 or 4 floors of nothing but portraits. Kings, ladies, painters, authors, society types, and statesmen. Everyone from Charles Dickens to Prince Charles. Also interesting were the amount of rare portraits located in this gallery. The only known portrait of Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters in existence, for example. It was incredible. What I enjoyed the most is the chronological arrangement. So first you encountered fragile tatters of medieval portraits, some of them so old you could barely regard the image. Later on you enter a room to find modern interpretations bordering on Picasso bizarre.

Early on we entered a room to find ourselves completely surrounded by Tudors. Here were King Henry the VIII when he was young, then old. Here was Anne Boleyn, Catherine of Aragon, Bloody Mary. The entire crew. I think I actually said, "Look! It's the entire cast of The Tudors!" (a favorite show, Jonathan Rhys-Meyers is yummy). But of course, these weren't actors. This was the real deal. The people who lived it. They seemed so much smaller than on telly, with their foreshortened limbs and flat appearance indicative of the painting of that period. All the elaborate finery and lace. It was fascinating to have them all in one place surrounding you like that.

I loved the painter self-portraits as well. Sir Joshua Reynolds (pictured) painted himself with his hand raised before his eyes like he was either blocking out the sun, or searching for something precious in himself. Rembrandt painted himself at different ages and with different facial expressions. All were so different and yet all had that same quality - as if the painter were looking in a mirror, searching for something within his eyes.

I stared at one portrait so long at one point I felt I had known him. So transfixed I forgot to scribble down the name or the artist. But I do remember searching for a postcard of this painting in the gift shop in vain. Why is it they NEVER have postcards of the paintings you love? Just the famous ones. This gentleman was an early 19th century dandy, dressed in a flouncy puffy shirt with a jacket. Like something straight out of Jane Austen. He looked like a right rogue, one eyebrow raised, his hair curling on his forehead like he was up to no good. The eyes were so real I felt he was watching me. They followed me no matter where I walked. Not sure why this particular portrait got to me, but it did. Stared and stared and then didn't want to walk away. Felt like he was trying to tell me something. Or that he was going to climb down from the wall any minute and take my hand - lead me somewhere. Very strange.

After finally making our way through the museum, I was thrilled to stumble upon a major new exhibition - The Best New Portrait of 2008. Galleries here were filled with current artists who had rendered their friends and loved ones in oils, charcoal, what have you. Visitors could vote on which one they liked best and from those votes a winner would be selected. I'm still kicking myself for not buying the companion book because these paintings were spectacular. Some were abstract, but most were photo realist depictions done in extreme closeup. From the point of view of a fly sitting on the end of the sitter's nose (except a fly has like 64 gazillion eyes or something like that).

But seriously, these were extreme closeups. Just incredible work. In one painting, the artist's daughter was wearing geisha makeup - the composition an extreme closeup of her face. At first I shrugged, what's the big deal? It's just a photograph of his daughter's face. Then I realized, no, this was a PAINTING. It was so real, every pore was depicted. Her eyelashes were perfect. The red on her lips stunning. And you couldn't see ANY brush strokes no matter how close you got up to the painting. Not even with a spy glass. In another painting a woman was scrubbing her face with soap. Every soap bubble was rendered perfectly, nary a brush stroke in sight. I marveled at the talent. I was completely floored that what I had taken to be photographs were in fact paintings.

After much deliberation, I voted for the soap bubble painting simply because I had never seen a painting of soap bubbles. And because I remembered my mother, who painted a lot before a car accident took that away from her, saying that soap bubbles and glass were the hardest objects to depict realistically in oils. She used to compose her paintings in an "up close" way as well. I remember looking at one, thinking it was a lovely purple abstract. But it was in fact a close up of a perfume bottle. She gave me the bottle, I put it to the end of my nose, looked at it, and there was her painting. Standing here looking at these winning portraits I felt wistful - she would have loved to have seen this.

I left the museum feeling as if we had discovered a London treasure. Hidden away just outside of Chinatown. Unassuming, on a quiet corner. But inside are treasures to behold. Portraits of people long gone, all staring at you. Trying to tell you something. Something important if only you'll listen.

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Shiny Shiny Harrods.

I love this picture. LOVE it. Not only does it remind me of my favorite store in the whole world, Harrods, it reminds me of the woman who showed it to me. My girl Shiny (her Ya-Ya nickname). I could see her doin' that very thing. Vacuuming the sand in some fierce high heels from Harrods. That's just the kind of broad she is. Frikkin' awesome. Nothing but brass, sass, and class.

Hubby and I had many adventures in London this past June, most of them I've spent months writing about in this very space. But the most memorable was the weekend we spent tooling about town with Shiny and her husband. In a brand new Jag rented for the weekend (Shiny's husband has a VERY cool hobby wouldn't you say?) Talk about feeling like a rock star. This is one way to do the town and do it right. You should have seen the men and boys getting whiplash as we zoomed past.

I had been to London once before long ago on a 4-day spree. I had literally run past Harrods on my way to the Victoria Albert, but had promised myself I would visit this mecca of shopping someday. Someday soon. Little did I know it would take me 12 years before I'd make it back there. But now I think maybe I was supposed to see Harrods for the first time in this way. With an English tour guide who specializes in high-end shopping. Or at least high-end window shopping slash gawking. That's definitely what you do at Harrods - GAWK.

Let me back up a bit. My friend Shiny is from Manchester and as I said, she drove down with her hubby for the weekend, specifically so she could finally meet her stateside friend. We've always emailed or left voice messages, texts, or sent Facebook wine as part of our Ya-Ya group, but up until this point we'd never actually met. None of the Ya-Ya's had met Shiny. So, this trip was a litmus test of sorts to prove Shiny was for real, and not some horny 15-year-old boy typing away in a basement. No, she's for real all right. A true Ya-Ya spitfire.

My husband and I met up with both of them at a pub near our flat - where we proceeded to go directly to Snockerville via the way of Guinness. Not a bad place by the way. Particularly when you're meeting a new friend that you KNOW you already like, and has exceeded all your expectations immediately. Shiny was awesome - I was howling with laughter the minute we arrived. My hubby on the other hand was gawking with wonder because not only is she vivacious, she's gorgeous. He took a sudden interest in all our Ya-Ya gatherings that somehow hadn't been present before. It was pretty funny to watch him fall all over himself to say the least (he looked like a Tex Avery cartoon, lol!)

The four of us ended up stumbling out the pub and stumbling into a local Italian place where we stuffed our faces, drank wine, and stayed until the owner threw us out. Seriously, they were putting the chairs on the tables and looking at their watches with a tsk-tsk motion. She was like another sister, a kindred spirit. We talked and talked and talked. About shoes, clothes, Britpop, Manchester, her three children, everything. It made me happy yet sad because I wished all the other Ya-Ya's could be there. We create so much good energy at our gatherings - can you imagine if Shiny was there too? Remember that song with the lyric, "The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire...." (you know the rest ;) yeah, it would probably be like that.

After being thrown out, it was back to the pub where we sang Radiohead at the top of our lungs (I'll never listen to "Creep" the same way again) until they threw us out of THAT place too. Then talk of plans to meet the next day. It went down like this - Shiny, in her ever-so-elegant, lilting Manchester accent says, "So, would you fancy a drive about town in the new Jag tomorrow?" Uh, yeah. Twist my arm. Damn! I wish I could say things like that! It was so cool, like a Bond film or something.

We squired about Knightsbridge in the swanky new car that day - Shiny pointing out the Royal Albert Hall, Hyde Park, the Savoy. We were *so* the gawking tourists let me tell you. Shiny fussed and cussed at her son on the phone and I sighed, wishing I could talk like that. Never has tearing your son a new asshole sounded so elegant, so proper. Think about it. You could be saying something like, "Dang! Y'all sho is country!" but when you say it with a British accent, you sound like an aristocrat.

Eventually we stopped squiring and headed toward Harrods. Shiny's husband pulled up to the parking garage and I was thinking, "Oh yeah, we're bad. We're bad. We're SUPERbad!" It was sooooooo cool. I suddenly wished I had worn a fancier outfit. No worries, because that car made an entrance for us. We exited and all heads turned (or I imagined them turning). What VIP is valeting his new Jag over there? Why, that'd be US!

Immediately upon entering Harrods you feel as if you've entered another world. A world of wealth. Dripping oozing wealth. Some rich place I've never been and will probably ever live in, but it sure is funner than hell to visit. The bags! All the bags you've ever seen in magazines, on the arms of celebrities, and then some. These were not the knockoffs I search for in vain at street markets. These were the real deal - all lit up in glass cases like rare jewels. It made me sigh. The leather, the shiny buckles. Purdy please can't I have just one?

I wanted to just look at bags all day long, but Shiny insisted we see the shoes. The husbands were dragged along under protest, but Shiny didn't care. Her new girlfriend must see the place where the priceless shoes reside. The heaven of shoes. The shoe mecca. Shoe dreams. And she was right. Harrods shoe department makes Nordstrom look like Payless after a Bogo sale. Hey, Payless is cool. I love Bogo. But these were shoes that GODDESSES wore. I actually gasped. I had only imagined a place like this. So beautiful. I wanted to fall down and thank the lord. Pray a la Carrie Bradshaw. This one slinky black number was so dainty and beautiful. Manolo Blahnik of course. I handled it so carefully, like it would break in my hands. It was weird - I felt like these shoes were too good for me to actually try on. I could only look at them and sigh. Hold them like something precious. They weren't actually for wearing.

We all turned when there was commotion from the other end of the shoe department - a short bald man was walking quickly toward us, surrounded by HUGE bodyguards, all wearing earpieces. Some sort of VIP. This was that kind of place. No hillbillies in this joint. Just dignitaries and a lot of women wearing burkas and fingering Dior bags. So very surreal, unlike any world I'd seen. I wanted to live in it for just a week. Not forever - I don't think I'd like it. Just a week to experience it for myself. It seemed so luxurious. So exotic. And I loved Shiny even more for showing it to me.

After being physically pulled away from the shoes by our husbands, we headed to Harrods Food Court. When we walked through the doors, I swear I heard angels singing. As a foodie, you dream of places like this. It ruined me for any kind of schlock you'd ever eat at a mall food court. I can never go near one again because in my head I'll say, "Sigh. It isn't Harrods. I'll save my money and eat when I get home." You can't BELIEVE this place. An oyster bar with champagne. A sushi bar with the greatest toro I'd ever seen. Duck, guinea hen, buffalo, every kind of fish. Iberico ham in the deli. My husband had a sample and swooned. I'm not kidding, he SWOONED. Foie gras by the pound. Salumi from Tuscany. A caviar bar with every variety you could imagine, served with the finest vodka. Full desserts like napoleons and tiramisu - just imagine your favorite dessert and it was there. The liquor store was incredible - none of it was anything I had ever seen. Exotic bitters from Spain and absinthe from France. *Real* absinthe with the wormwood. Prepared meals and sandwiches, and tortas, and other yummies to take home and pop in the oven. It made Ukrop's look like pig slop.

Total. Complete. Food. Sensory. Overload. The place was huge - department store size. And this was just one floor of a 7-story store. Unbelievable. Completely overwhelmed by my foodie dreamland, I bought a water to calm myself down and then saw a sign that said, "Chocolate."

Chocolate? I looked at Shiny. Oh yes, her eyes beamed. Follow me. Again, the angels sang Hallelujah! You've seen Willy Wonka right? This was like that except bigger, more elaborate. Very HIGH-END. Chocolates mixed with rosewater. Chocolates mixed with violet. Belgian chocolate dipped in gold leaf. A tiny replica of Harrods made out of chocolate. Chocolate bars with hazlenut bits, macadamia bits, toffee bits. You name a bit, they wrapped chocolate about it. I didn't know where to start. I might not be able to afford caviar. But chocolate? Hell YES I'd be buying something here. We spent many minutes looking, sampling, swooning before I settled on several Belgian Galler bars of the most exotic varieties with marzipan, hazlenut, pistachio and framboise fillings. Then another box of floral chocolates - violet, rose, jasmine. They tasted heavenly, the chocolate melting in your mouth and then a sudden taste of rose flooding your tastebuds. Yeah, I know, it was weird. This chocolate tasted like a rose smelled. It was a sensory explosion.

We spent hours exploring Harrods - from the pet store where they carried beds that looked like tiny chaise lounges to teeny leather jackets for your Pomeranian on-the-go. From the stylish luggage on the top floor to the designer clothes to the furniture to the EXTREMELY high-end bathroom fixtures. Bathtubs built for Cleopatra. Showers that Caesar might use with steam and spray from every angle. It was gawking at its finest. Window shopping like you've never seen. And always tucked away in some far corner where you least expect it - yet another restaurant. A restaurant serving nothing but variations of chocolate. Another serving high tea complete with scones and clotted cream.

I was in a daze. I felt like I was dreaming. We rode down the golden escalator and I heard music. Was I in a Harrods haze? No, there was an opera singer hanging out a window, testing the acoustics. Was this place for real? Or was the merchandise just sitting there for tourists to gawk at like an animal in a really rich, really exotic zoo? No, I actually saw people shopping. What planet must you be from to afford anything here? Not our planet obviously. But one I'd like to live on for a week.

Shiny and I, husbands in tow, had so much fun that weekend. She told me from the start that her husband and she would sometimes travel to London on the weekend and hit all the hotspots, Harrods included. I felt right then like she had included us in their special weekend trip and it made me grateful I had met them both. What gracious hosts they were. What genuine people. That whole weekend, it didn't feel like a "getting to know you" trip, but more like a "where have you been, we've missed you" one.

I miss Shiny still. I hope when I grow up I can have one TENTH of the style and charisma she possesses. We've gone back to sending each other shout-outs on Facebook, regaling each other with promises about how we'll all meet at a Punta Cana resort one day. I hope so. I hope we stay friends for life. And I know one thing - okay two things. If I ever get back to Harrods, I'm going to buy those shoes. And if I'm ever in the same room as Shiny again, I'm going to wear them. I'll have to. Just to keep up with her Shiny, badass self...

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Marcus Wareing's Blog!

Look what I found! I had no idea Mr. Wareing was a blogging chef. Wheeeeee! Those of you who read my posts know what an uber-fan I am of this guy. I heart him so vurrah much. Now quick, right now, go read it, read it all. Then add comments all over the place. Tag it, add it, Delicious it, Stumble it, Twitter it, follow it through Blogger (evidently I'm his first stalker, er, follower) or whatever you need to do to keep up to date with this guy. And maybe, just maybe, he'll update his blog more often (purdy please?) Yeah, like he has nothing to do these days with the new restaurant and all, but Marcus. Your fans want to know. Tell us what's on your mind. At least once a month (hint, hint).

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Paella Love Fest.

Oh, she looks happy. Probably because she's cooking yummy paella at Jamon Jamon on Portobello Road in London. I'm happy just looking at it! And I know Nick (the owner) is happy because he sent me SUCH a sweet email today - one that made me grin from ear to ear. He loves my writing. I love his paella. The girl in the picture loves making paella. Let the paella love fest begin! If you're ever in that section of London, check it out. It's wonderful. Thanks Nick, for making me feel like someone out there is actually reading anything I write about...you've made a struggling writer very, very happy today.

Hey Libby,

My name's Nick, I'm the owner of the paella stall on Portobello Road that you wrote such amazing things on your blog about. Thank you so much for the wonderful description, I was quite emotional while reading it, you really spun a story around our humble rice dish :-) So you mind if I link to it on our website? Any time you're in London please come by again, and you and your husband will be our guest for lunch.

Thanks again for the glorious blog
hasta luego
Nick
Jamon Jamon

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Marcus Wareing at the Berkeley.

I was thrilled to read my email today. This doesn't happen often, let me tell you. Instead of hundreds of requests for my address so certain people in Nigeria can send my lottery check, or Cash-4-Gold adverts, or offers for free Snuggies, I got the following thank you. Jane Wareing actually took the time to say thank you. It made me beam. It made me glad I reviewed their restaurant. And it verified what I already knew - the Wareings are going to do quite well. Quite well indeed.

Dear Libby,
I apologize for the long delay in replying to you! I am not sure if I have already replied or not but I found your message and just wanted to say thank you for your support!

With very kind regards,
Jane Wareing
Reservations
marcus wareing at the berkeley
The Berkeley
Wilton Place
Knightsbridge
SW1X 7RL
T 0207 235 1200

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Portobello Paella.

Paella. Just saying the word conjures up my trip to London this past June. Yep, not Spain, but London. I love the stuff, and don't eat it nearly enough because of how long it takes to prepare. There was a place in Richmond where I'm from that had it – Café Europa. The name always made me think of the David Sylvian song. We'd always order tapas instead though, because even on the menu it stated, "Preparation Time 1 hour, Please Be Patient." And the one time we did cave in and order it, the rice was way too salty. All that anticipation for nothing. We'd been better off with more anchovies and olives with our peach sangria.

But I do LOVE LOVE LOVE paella. That slightly nutty, crunchy, little bit salty rice mixed in with fresh seafood. It has a smoky spiciness and a comfort food heartiness that I just love. And in London of all places, I had the best of my life so far. At a stand called Jamon Jamon on Portobello Road in Notting Hill.

While in London we stayed quite near Portobello in a flat rented by my in-laws. Yep, the in-laws pretty much ROCK. It was a great vacation – I’ve now decided if I ever win the lottery, this is where I’ll be buying a flat. It’s beautiful. All the houses seem to be white Georgian creatures. Imagine a New York brownstone but in a vivid white with lots of little turrets and columns. With loud bright-colored doors in red and blue. Very pretty.

Portobello Road, its market, and even the bookstore where Hugh Grant attempted to woo Julia Roberts in "that movie" were just two blocks from our flat. Oddly enough, I never quite made it into the bookstore, even though owning a travel bookstore is pretty much my dream job and that particular one is the one that appears in my dreams on a nightly basis. Maybe I thought the dream wouldn't live up to the reality? Or maybe I was too busy buying a coffee or a Guinness in every single one of the coffee shop slash pub slash sandwich counter places which line this road and all the adjacent ones besides. I've had the best pizza of my life on Portobello Road - at a place owned by Italians. It's the essence of London cuteness this road. You could spend every living day browsing for antiques or snapping quaint photographs, stopping off only to have an espresso and a sandwich. Or a lager if it's after 4. Or not.

On Saturdays though, the street changes entirely. Early that morning I imagine if you live anywhere near Portobello you are awakened at dawn by the clanging of metal pipes - booths under construction but only for the day. The place transforms and for many many blocks the entire road is pedestrianized and chock full of wares. Produce, meats, and baked goods share space with florists, handmade crafts, and rock-bottom priced pashminas and handbags. It's glorious. Completely crowded, people pushing and shoving, calling out to the greengrocer their orders for apples and green beans, handing over money, a cacophony of commerce. And then there's the paella.

You don't see it at first, you smell it. That smoky, spicy smell, so strong and pervasive you can smell it blocks down the road. It hits your nose and you think, "My god that smells good. Where is that COMING from?" Like a cartoon the paella smell is a thick smoke that curls itself into a finger and beckons you. Eyes closed in culinary ecstasy, you lift off the ground and start floating down Portobello Road, led by the smoke finger, determined to find out the source of that bliss.

The Jamon Jamon stand is tiny, most of it taken up by two massively huge paella pans. Giant-sized cereal bowls. Cauldrons of goodness that hiss and smoke and send up the most glorious smells you've ever encountered. Caretakers turn and stir with huge wooden paddles, cultivating the flavors with gentle motions. Beautiful to watch, and a great marketing tool. Who would pass up something like that? The line is was ungodly long to purchase this tasty treat.

After much waiting, hubby and I decided on seafood paella. We usually order something different so we can taste each other's meal, but not this time. The seafood just looked too damn good. Huge shrimps, scallops, and crawfish. It also didn't matter that we had just eaten - a sandwich and espresso (of course). No worries, let the overstuffing begin. No tables here, so we took our styrofoam containers laden with paella goodness and began to walk down the road, eating as we went. Or I should say, shove our way through the crowds and attempt to walk - by this time in the afternoon the road was positively impassable by man or beast. People gearing up, buying their sundries for Sunday supper preparations.

The funniest thing happened too as we walked. While we were still near the stand, everyone knew what we were eating, and looked longingly at us. Or looked at us as if to say yeah, I know that's good, have had that before. Wish I had it now.

But as the stand went out of sight, people still looked at us. They'd get this look in their eyes like, Heeeeey, whatya got there? That looks yummy yummy yummy and their eyes would get all big and round - again, like a cartoon. They would point, and their mouths would drop open. Because you see, they had just smelled it, that elixir of the gods, that Spanish fly of food. Paella. Then they see us, and the two things connect. Holy crap I need that now, they think. And the smoky finger grabs them too. They lift off the ground, close their eyes, and float past us to buy their own morsels of yummy.

Whenever I hear the word, "paella" now I think of my Portobello paella. Of Jamon Jamon. It might not even be the best in the world, who knows? But something about eating huge shrimps and yummy rice out of a styrofoam carton as you stroll the market in London was really something. We smelled it, and we bought it. Then we ate it. Instant gratification coupled with cool scenery to wash it down. People looked at us and wanted to be us because of what we were eating. It was the perfect paella package. Only a peach sangria would've made it complete.

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Annie Lennox.

It's early Saturday evening in London - June 2008. Husband and I have been touristing pretty hard all week, and so decide to grab some nigiri at a Japanese restaurant in Notting Hill before retiring early. And when I say small, I mean small. Room for maybe 20 people tops. We walk right in - no wait for a table - and seat ourselves at a two top, right next to a couple with a teenaged child. I could spit in their soup if I wanted - the tables are that close. My husband is across from me and I'm seated next to the gentleman. I glance over, and catty-cornered to me sits Annie Lennox.

It's my second star sighting in a year. Annie frikkin Lennox. I double check again with lightening speed - one of those glances that screams, "Okay, be casual you've got a superstar less than five feet from you - if you stretched out your foot you could kick her in the shin, but she's here eating like a normal person but she's not a normal person, she's Annie frikkin Lennox." So what do I do? Do I recognize her and ask for an autograph and begin fan fawning? Or do I stay silent and see what unfolds?

My husband doesn't appear to have even noticed that he's sitting next to an award winning singer who sells out stadiums and has the pipes of an angel. I look at him again to see if he's noticed, but he's looking at the menu. I glance around the restaurant. Four other groups are dining - most of them young enough to be my children. Either they don't recognize her, or they are way cooler than me and used to running into superstars at their local sushi joint on a Saturday night on a regular basis.

It is then I decide to go against the grain. Hey, I'm one for that anyway. The expected thing is to fawn and praise. But what would happen if I didn't? What would happen if I just ate my dinner? Think about it. If I recognize her, then her whole demeanor is going to change. She will become much more guarded. It'll change the whole atmosphere of the meal. But if I shut up? Who knows what could happen...

And so we order. Funny, I remember eating, just not sure what it was. I do remember it was tasty, but sitting next to half of Eurhythmics was very distracting to say the least. I didn't stare, but I was incredibly conscious of doing that, "look quick, dart eyes, then look away" thing every two minutes or so. I tried to pay attention to what my husband was talking about but all he got was, "Uh huh, yeah, right," for most of the meal.

Annie's so petite! Maybe five feet tall if that. She was sitting down of course, but I could tell she was little. Wearing a really cute purple smock dress with tights and adorable wedgie sandals. The outfit was too young for her agewise, but she made it work in spades. I was jealous. If I tried an outfit like that I'd look ridiculous and end up as a segment on Maury Povich - Why Won't Your Mother Dress Her Age?

We ate our sushi. Or rather, my husband ate and I tried to. Tried to eat, not stare, provide scintillating conversation to my husband, and listen to what Miss Annie was talking about at the same time. Very shallow of me. I'm very ashamed. But obviously not ashamed enough to stop eavesdropping while appearing to not eavesdrop. I guess I'll be carrying that baggage into my next life. What can I say? It's the starfucker in me - I know these folks are just people, but I'm convinced they're going to say or do something so utterly fabulous that I won't soon forget it. It'll be a story to share when I'm a grandmother. Or as an entry on my blog (sheepish grin).

After her daughter begged off and left early to go watch "Big Brother" (which made me laugh to myself in a "Oh my God! Annie Lennox's daughter watches Big Brother!" kinda way) Annie began to talk about how mad she was at Dave. How Dave didn't appreciate her - after all she was the one who saved him from his drug addictions so many times when he was close to death. How Dave didn't like the kind of music she was doing now, but that's okay, she didn't really like the kind of music he was producing now either. How they're relationship was so dysfunctional, so volatile, and it had been for 30 years. She went on and on, all through dinner. Complaining about Dave. Worrying about Dave. Trashing Dave. After many moments it slowly occurred to me. She's talking about Dave Stewart.

!!!!!!!

Holy crap. Gossip gold right in front of my face. I was glad I had kept my mouth shut, and shot a quick glance at my husband, hoping he was still oblivious. He tends to get even more googly-eyed than me around celebrities. I needn't have worried. Hubby shot me a look that said, "Wow, she really hates this Dave guy," but he still didn't know she was talking about THAT Dave. Or realize she was THAT Annie.

She also talked about how hard it was for a woman her age to get music produced, to really do the kind of music she wanted to do. I wanted to lean over and exclaim, "We love you Annie! Your music rocks!" but of course I'd taken a vow of fan silence and so just stuffed my face with another piece of unagi instead. If it wasn't awkward before, it would be doubly awkward now to acknowledge her presence after she had just trashed her ex-bandmate all over the place.

Again, I'm not proud I eavesdropped. This was a private moment between her and whoever she was with. Then again, those tables sure were close together. You'd have to be a deaf non-lip-reader to not hear what she was talking about. Not sure what my motivation was for listening so closely though. Morbid curiosity I suppose. I'm also not proud that I'm writing about it. Having a Perez Hilton moment here. But it happened. And it did affect me enough to write about it.

Because you see, Annie didn't come off as all that great during her tirade. After a while I felt pity for her. Thinking to myself that she should let it go. Let it GO already. I mean, how long has it been? What is the life expectancy for something like this anyway? For holding onto a volatile, toxic relationship that should've been let lose years ago. I guess even stars can be co-dependent. At first when I realized who it was she was holding onto, I wanted to give her a hug. But as the minutes wore on, the words coming out of her mouth began to sound narcissistic and childish. A lot of "me me me" and "my my my" as if she had such a horrible lot in life. I glanced her way quickly again and didn't see a star anymore. Just a woman in her 50's, trying to hold onto that golden aura of stardom. That shining mantle of celebrity. Not quite Norma Desmond, but in another few years?

Annie was definitely having a Madonna moment that night. In denial, not aging gracefully, Here's hoping it was just a slip, a bad moment after too much sake during a pity party. I would hate to believe someone I've looked up to for her massive talent would be so, I dunno, near sighted? Unable to age gracefully? It came across as an example of what not to do as you grow older. Don't need the limelight so badly as proof of your own worth.

Annie's still a beautiful and talented woman. I love her to death and always will. And I still feel bad about writing about it. But it's my truth - what came across to me that night. Important enough to share and learn from. We're all human, we all have our weak moments. Unfortunately, Miss Annie had a writer sitting next to her that night. An observer. But I want to thank her too for what she inadvertently taught me without even knowing it. That sometimes the best thing to do is to just surrender your pain. Let it go completely.

We left the restaurant and I told my husband who that woman was. He freaked, so of course we had to casually walk past the restaurant again, just so he could verify what I already knew. That it was Annie Lennox, and that while she was still glamorous and could probably break a champagne flute with her voice, she was a woman holding onto a painful past maybe a little too tightly. Just a flawed human like all of us.

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Grappa.

So while in London this past June, my husband and I had the great good fortune to watch the 2008 European Cup quarterfinals. Italy versus Spain. It was an exciting match that left us on the edge of our seats. But what was more exciting were the spectators watching. In the Italian wine bar where we happened to be. And the whole night happened purely by accident.

During the weekend in question, a friend had traveled in for a visit from Manchester and was staying at a posh hotel in Notting Hill. We had spent Saturday together, roaming around Knightsbridge in her huband's rented Jaguar, oohing and aahhing over the fashions in Harrods (and the husband's rented Jaguar) before going our separate ways for a rest, promising to meet later for after-dinner drinks. You see, hubby and I were *expected* to make an appearance at dinner with his family, or we would probably have gone straight from Harrods to drinks.

Except dinner ran late, then there was some sort of a communication breakdown, and so we missed each other on the phone multiple times and never hooked up for those drinks. Consequently, husband and I found ourselves in Notting Hill after dinner, on a Saturday night, with nothing to do. We decided to locate a payphone (no cell service us) and tuck in to a bar nearby – having some drinks and calling my friend every couple of hours to hopefully hook up once again before she and her husband had to travel back north.

We were looking for a pub that wasn't crowded to the gills. Instead what we found was, of all things, an Italian wine bar specializing in grappa. I had never even tasted the stuff, but understood from reading food books that it's basically the fermentation of the grape skins discarded after wine making. And it packs a powerful punch – often served in tiny aperitif glasses because of this. Looking at each other we thought, "Why not?" and ordered two - different ones of course, so we could trade and have a mini-tasting. The European cup quarterfinal was on the flat screen - Netherlands versus Russia. Russia, the underdog, was beating the pants off the Dutch. And so we tucked in to enjoy our match and our grappa.

The stuff packed a punch as promised. Strong spirity taste - more like liquor than port or sherry. I wasn't sure how I felt about it, but after tasting hubby's decided I was beginning to like it. The one he ordered was softer, but rather than order his for the second go round, we got two different ones. Why not make it a full tasting? The owner was more than happy to oblige. He and the waiters were full Italian, spoke almost no English, but were eager to show off their country's drink. I ask if he drank grappa, and laughed when he shook his head and replied, "No, no, no, too strong."

We enjoyed ourselves so much that evening we decided to come back the following evening for another quarterfinal match. Italy versus Spain. What better place to watch Italy trounce Spain than in an Italian wine bar? In London? I remembered as a newly-annointed college grad that I had watched a World Cup final in Scotland. At a pub that projected the game from Germany. It was big big fun. The announcers yelling things in German and Scottish football hooligans cursing in brogue at the screen. I didn't understand a thing, but it didn't matter. I could only imagine the excitement that these Italian owners would project during the game.

And so we returned the next night. The place was packed. Beyond packed. With Italians! Imagine that. It must be like Steeler bars in America. Doesn't matter what city you're in, you can always find a Steeler bar - full of people who used to live in Pittsburgh, who at one time passed through Pittsburgh, or their family is from Pittsburgh. Yeah, London isn't that far away from Italy - still it surprised me that it seemed as if every Italian currently visiting or residing in London was crowded into this tiny wine bar with room for maybe 20 people.

But that's what made it all the more exciting. Every goal that came close or just missed by "that much" was met with cheers, then groans. Curse words in Italian flew about the room. Bottles of beer were opened with a hiss, then gulped down. A few people sipped wine, most guzzled beer, just like at American football games. We American tourists were the only ones drinking grappa - working our way down the tasting menu. Looking back on it now I bet we came across as a little hoity-toity, but by that Sunday night I had develope a true taste for the stuff. They don't call it the water of life for nothing.

A few Brits were in the place as well - hooting and hollering along with the rest of them. At one point this guy walked up to the bar - imagine Alexi Sayle with the attitude of Begbie approaching the height of Andre the Giant. He slammed his fist down on the bar and yelled, "Milk! Gimme a milk!" The place howled with laughter. The owner looked confused. "Cosa?"

"Milk!!!" he yelled, slamming down his fist again. The whole place got quiet. "It's for my kid," he clarified, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. The place roared with laughter again.

The kid he spoke of was damn lucky he didn't get his ass kicked from here to Tuesday. Not sure what was in that milk, but as the night wore on, this kid got bolder and bolder. He was maybe 7 or 8 years old, but already had the attitude of a true football hooligan. Every time an Italian player missed a goal, he'd yell, "Haaaaaaa-Haaaaaaaaaa Italy is stuuuuuuupid! You're going to loooooose!" in this shrill, very loud, sing-songy voice. Yelling insults about Italy to a whole roomful of Italians. He was like a blond version of Damian - that creepy kid from the Omen movies. Every time they missed, he'd yell an insult, at one point calling the player, "A stupid girly Italian man," and other stuff that wouldn't dare come out of a hooligan's mouth. The father would just laugh and order another milk.

The kid's yelling ramped up when the penalty kicks began. I just knew someone was going to bean that kid in the head with a beer bottle. Spain would miss and the bar would cheer. Italy would miss and the kid would cheer. Spain would make one and the kid would cheer as if he just won a trip to Disneyworld. Italy would make one and you thought it was VE-day.

In the end, Italy just couldn't hold their end. Spain won, 4-2 on penalties. The kid was ecstatic, jumping up and down, hopped up on milk I guess. The bar was inconsolable. Ten minutes later, the bar was empty. We hadn't finished, and had planned on ordering another round. It was still early after all. The owner polished glasses, looking at us while shrugging his shoulders. The waiters, frowning and morose, started to upend chairs on the tables.

And so ended my introduction to the glorious elixir that is grappa. Putting chairs on tables is the universal sign of, "We're closing, get the hell out." An implied cue to go, and go now. To go very carefully in fact, staggering a little actually. Thing about grappa - you don't realize it's hit you until you stand up. Gotta remember that one for next time...

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Petrus. Desserts.

My last entry, for now, on what was the best meal of my life - created by Marcus Wareing, shortly before he called it quits with Gordon Ramsay and struck out on his own - to succeed valiantly in my opinion. The dinner was June 23, 2008, at Petrus (then and now a Gordon Ramsay holding) now called Marcus Wareing at the Berkeley. I dined with my soulmate and fellow foodie, my husband. For those who are interested, I hear Petrus is going to reopen at a different location sometime in early 2009, but for my money, Marcus has surpassed his mentor.

At this point in the meal, I have enjoyed sweetbreads, suckling pig, numerous amuse bouche, and the best wine I've ever had. All the numerous tastes and smells and sensations have washed over me to the point that everything is a blur. And here comes the cheese course and desserts. Jeez Louise.

Now mind you, I'm writing this, what, six months later, attempting to describe adquately the entire meal, but truthfully, while the remaining courses were delicious they were overshadowed by the mains. It's all a blur. All I can clearly remember is, "Man, that pig was good." But I will do my best.....Marcus deserve all the praise I can give him. He rocks!

The cheese course arrived next. I do remember a delicious walnut and raisin bread was served with it. And I do remember the "Cheese Guy" (is there a title like sommolier?) asking us what kinds we'd like. I think we were so overwhelmed at that point we just shrugged. My notes say, "Goat, hard, soft, blue, stinky." Real descriptive, right? It's just that we were in such a stupor from so much food, and probably drunk, that Velveeta might've tasted great at that point. He was throwing all these French names and regions at us, and here we are the dumb American tourists going, "Uh huh, that sounds good," shaking our heads, zombie-fide from so much deliciousness. I do love cheese though, and felt silly that I didn't know more about what I was eating. To his credit, the Cheese Guy didn't make us feel stupid, but placed one of each on a plate. They were all scrumptious.

The next offering was a pre-dessert amuse bouche: apple jelly, topped with apple granita and vanilla foam in a shot glass. And we have a winner. Favorite dessert of all time. As I get older, I find I can't eat a whole slice of pie, but just a forkful - my tummy can't handle it. This was the perfect forkful of apple pie a la mode, served in a shotglass. The icy-applyness of the granita paired perfectly with the soft airy creaminess of the foam. And the jelly was like the pie filling. It was so damn good I licked the inside of my glass, then upended it and tapped on the bottom to get out every bit. Oh yes, I'm the epitome of decorum, me.

Here's where the problems begin. I kinda remember the cheese, I CLEARLY remember the apple shot glass, but I don't remember the actual desserts that well. It's not that I didn't enjoy them immensely, I did. I remember them being very rich, very tasty. Sadly, I can't even go back to the website (which used to have the menu posted) to look. So sorry. Again, at that point it was like I was drunk on food. And yeah, maybe a little bit on wine too (sheepish grin). I did write down the following notes:

Lime, pineapple on lime biscuit (mine)
Cake with cognac, macerated blueberries & white chocolate (husband's)

Something I won't soon forget - as we were enjoying the desserts, there was a loud CRASH coming from the kitchen. It sounded as if someone dropped a huge stack of metal pans on the floor. Either that or Marcus was supremely pissed off and threw something at the wall. We started, and then the funniest thing happened. Every single person dining turned at the exact same time and looked directly at Jean Phillipe - head waiter extraordinaire on Hell's Kitchen and our maitre d' for this evening. It was hysterical. He looked at us like, "Well, what do you want ME to do about it?" (in a French accent of course) before shrugging his shoulders and walking off into the kitchen. The whole episode sent us off into gales of laughter because it seemed like something right out of the show. At the time I didn't know about all the trouble Marcus was having with Gordon, and I can't help but wonder if this episode didn't have something to do with that. Or maybe they just dropped a pot...

...In any case, next was the bon-bon tray. The bon-bon tray!?! Never in my life have I dined somewhere that served one. What arrived was an abundance of chocolate - tiny little chocolate morsels in all flavors. What's that scene in Monty Python? "It's just a thin mint." Yeah, I kinda felt like that, like just one chocolate would force me to start calling, "Bring me a bucket!" But I ventured forth anyway, and selected a chocolate-covered Turkish delight which melted in my mouth on contact. Hubby got a mango/passionfruit chocolate. Of course we each took teeny bites and traded. That's what married foodie couples do - NEVER order the same thing, and always trade for tastings. Both were out of this world. And I do remember them.

Did we want to end this glorious meal with cognac? Even though it was a once-in-a-lifetime event we passed. Too much wine and rich food (i.e., old tummies). Coffee? I don't think we did, and now I'm sorry. At this point it was late and I remember thinking about the staff, and how they probably wanted to clean up and go. As we left the restaurant, supremely sated and feeling very happy, there were still three or four couples dining. I remember thinking, "Crap! We should've stayed! We need to drag this evening out more so it won't end!"

Now I wish we'd stayed because with this economy lord knows if we will ever experience anything like that again. But again, both of us have worked for restaurants. So while we were there for one night on the other side of the glass, pretending to be wealthy, and enjoying all that life has to offer, at the same time we were remembering what it felt like to look out of the kitchen door porthole, wishing those rich assholes would leave so we could go home.

The wait staff were also a huge part of what made this experience such a memorable one, and another reason Marcus has those two stars. All through the meal they were present, but not present, whipping by with menus, glasses, our courses. Gliding by effortlessly as though they were dancing. Everything from the first amuse bouche to the last bon-bon was perfectly choreographed. When I flagged down a waiter to ask for directions to the restroom, he immediately stopped what he was doing, grandly pulled the table out from us (without spilling anything) and walked me to the door himself. Someone else who noticed my return stopped what they were doing to replace my napkin with a new one. Now that's service. And I think that's way we didn't stay. People who work so hard deserve a break.

More than once Bruce and I looked around and noticed how bored the other diners seemed to be. The boredom of the supremely wealthy who sigh with ennui because they dine like this all the time. Ho-hum. One couple across from us didn't speak their entire meal. Meanwhile we were living right in the moment, cherishing each bite, each sip of wine, and for weeks after that, talking about how stupendous this was - the meal of our lives. We still talk about it. Thank you Marcus.

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Petrus. Main Course.

Another entry in the continuing narrative that is the best meal of my life - so far. In London. At what was once Petrus, but is now Marcus Wareing at the Berkeley.

So after finishing several amuse bouche and a glorious appetizer course, we were clasping our hands in glee to set upon our mains like a pack of wild hounds. Really, the anticipation was just that huge, because not only had I ordered farm-raised Scottish halibut, but hubby had ordered Norfolk suckling pig - which had been marinated, then cooked for 24 STRAIGHT HOURS! Holy crap. So basically they had begun cooking this succulent juicy piece of pork yesterday while we were tooling around South Bank trying to find a place that served tea and scones. The mind reels.

Now don't get me wrong, I love halibut and ordered it specifically because it was from Scotland. I had had the best oysters of my LIFE in Scotland (and I need to write about that actually). Yeah, yeah, don't order fish on a Monday, whatever Tony Bourdain. I just knew that this fish, here, at this time, would be out of this world. And I was anticipating it - but I was literally jumping out of my SEAT at the thought of eating that pig.

Our main courses arrived. My halibut was delicious. So perfectly cooked it flaked right on my fork the second the two made contact. Served with charred asparagus and asparagus puree. A transparently curling slice of parmesan was arranged on top. Genius paring, as the salty parmesan was really good with the tender fish and the smoky bitterness of the asparagus. The asparagus was charred to perfection - charred way better than either one of us has been able to do on a grill at home. Pencil-thin spears, so tender they just fell away in your mouth. Out of season? Yes, but when you've got a party going on in your mouth you're not one to split hairs...

...And the pig? The pig. I could wax poetic on the pig. It was all I could do to convince my husband to let me try it as all I could see were his hands and face tearing into it like the Tasmanian Devil. Bones were flying! I did manage a tiny chop and some crispy skin. The chop was so small it was almost quail-like. Except this quail tasted so much better. Like a porksicle. So yummy it's criminal. Words cannot adequately express the pork yummy goodness of euphoria I was feeling as I obliterated that chop and chewed up that skin in all its crispy crunchiness. So good. When I was a kid I used to read the Little House books and was jealous when Laura was given pork cracklins during hog-killin' time. This must be what that's like. Crunchy porky goodness squeaking between your teeth and a porksicle to go along with it. Sigh. I've toyed off and on over the years about being vegetarian, but after eating Marcus's pig those thoughts just floated clear away. Even watching a horrific documentary about hormone-injected factory-produced piglike creatures couldn't tear me away from this stuff. It's just that damn good.

Not to be outdone, the sides presented with the pork were equally yummy - although it took me a while to remember them while writing this as the memory of that pork seems to have erased all else. The suckling pig did have chicory with it in some form or fashion which added a nutty dimension - as if you needed another dimension! Before we devoured the pig entirely, a waiter brought over a tiny steaming copper pot of the most finely whipped mashed potatoes I'd ever seen. He delicately spooned a tiny hill of them onto hubby's plate before placing the pot on its own little serving tray. Jealousy doesn't describe it. I got a few mouthfuls, but the remainder of the meal saw me gazing hungrily over at that little copper pot like it contained an antidote I needed so I wouldn't die right there at the table. These potatoes were so smooth it was like you were eating milk. So smooth you could drink them like Jamba Juice. Yeah, I love asparagus, but....those potatoes!

I must admit after all that deliciousness I knew there would be dessert. There had to be, right? Oh my god, how am I going to fit in dessert? Must. Have. Willpower. I'm not of the age where I can necessarily eat like Henry VIII anymore. But here? I'll try...

To check out Marcus Wareing and hear what a truly cool chef he is, check out his video interview, which he did ONE HOUR before opening his new place. Grace under pressure indeed.

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Petrus. First Course.

The next entry in my continuing saga that is "the best dinner of my life". As described in previous posts, hubby and I dined at Petrus in June before it moved/closed/changed, whatever you want to call it. But the important thing to note is that Marcus Wareing was still at the helm (and still is actually). A very important note because I firmly believe he was the reason why this meal was so special - and why I'm spending several blog entries describing it!

I've been reading some reviews of his new place on the Internet, something now I think I shouldn't do lest it color my own. My experience was in early summer after all (months ago) and I'm not a professional restaurant critic. I'm glad I'm not - maybe I'll bring a perspective the professionals can't. I don't know every detail, I don't take pictures. Mine are impressions, snapshots. What I clearly remember with a very few notes. What stood out to me. A layman's perspective from someone who just enjoys good food, who sees eating as an experience, not just a way to stuff your craw.

As we entered, who should be standing there but Jean-Phillipe Susilovic, Gordon Ramsay's maitre d' waiter from Hell's Kitchen. Working at 10:30 on a Monday night? You would think his celebrity might have bought him some time off, but no. Here he was smiling broadly and welcoming us to Petrus, napkin draped over his arm, looking all the world like a cartoon caricature of a French maitre d'. Not that this is a bad thing. Where he appears miniature and birdlike on the show, here he is tall and very handsome. He uses broad sweeping gestures, one eyebrow seemingly always raised. His graciousness comes across as purely genuine, not just something dreamed up for the tourists. Very professional. I am swept off my feet.

He seats us, placing the menus in our hands. Would we like some champagne? Why of course, we're about to spend over a month's food allowance on one meal. Why not? The champagne tastes delicious, particularly in this atmosphere. Petrus is dark and purple. Very purple and plush. Tables draped in white encircle the space and the walls are very eggplant. But oddly, it's not too dark because of wee halogens directed to each person's spot. So while I am VERY farsighted and often need my reading glasses to look over a menu, here I don't. It's perfectly bright, just bright enough to read what I can order. Wow. Love that. It's a little detail many restaurants today too easily forget. As my old interior decorator friend David used to say, "Lighting is everything."

Our first amuse bouche was a foie gras biscuit - one teeny tiny triangle of foie gras with a thin crust of wafer. It dissolved in my mouth like butter. A sip of the champagne just heightened the experience to the sublime. Little bubbly explosions with a background of earthy, buttery goodness.

While we waited for our wine to arrive, we enjoyed some pre-appetizer munchies, arranged just on our large, round table. At last a restaurant that doesn't try to cram two people and 8 courses into a 2-foot by 2-foot square little space. Here we had ROOM. The hummus was yummy, especially when you dipped a parmesan cheese straw into it. the honey potato campagne bread was delicious with butter - thick chewy crust, with lots of meaty sweet bread inside.

And then our wine arrived. A 2003 Gevrey-Chambertin ‘Au Vellé’, domaine Denis Mortet. I simply ADORED this wine, and relished every sip of it with the meal. Again, the sip after the bite heightened the taste, and made what was "more" - MORE. The sommolier did a terrific job of selecting the champagne and wine. We told him what we liked, what we would be ordering, and he went to work seamlessly. This wine was delicious - it tasted like silk, smooth, velvety on the tongue. Just yummy.

Second amuse bouche - a shot glass full of cucumber and green tomato gazpacho. I will be making my gazpacho with green tomatoes from now on. It tasted like the best gazpacho you've ever had, but with the tartness of green tomatoes and the added garden pasture herbiness of the cucumbers. I have never tasted anything as light and summery and palate-cleansing as this in an amuse bouche. Just lovely.

After looking at the menu, my husband and I agreed we wouldn't order the Chef's Tasting menu. Not because of cost, mind you, we were ready to fly to the moon after all. Simply because there were so many other things we wanted to try. I've since learned (from Bill Buford's "Heat") that ordering a Chef's Tasting at or near closing time in a restaurant is an amateur move, a CARDINAL sin. The staff is ready to close up shop and nothing pisses them off more. I'm so glad we didn't. Even with a reservation I would've felt pretty stupid. It's not that I want to come off as a know it all when it comes to restaurants, but I have worked in them, and really appreciate how hard the staff works. I want to respect them and honor them by having the meal the way they would themselves. So no tasting menu for us.

First course - I ordered the sweetbreads having never had them before, I figured, hey, if you're going to eat offal for the first time, might as well have them by someone who knows damn well how to cook them. Honey got the foie gras - he's a foie gras fanatic from way back - one of the reasons I married him.

My sweetbreads were a taste of heaven. A huge slab of them rested on parsnip puree with a Sauterne sauce. The sweetbreads were equal parts earthy, nutty, redolent of the earth with a pleasant, not overpowering gaminess. I've had liver and kidney and heart - not prepared great or anything, and have often found the flavor just too strong. This was anything but. The organ meat taste was soft like a pillow and the sauce provided a sweet wine background to the flavor. The parsnip puree was a perfect foil. Mashed potatoes but a step up.

I got exactly one bite of husband's foie gras - he wouldn't let me have more. Served alongside a bing cherry sauce and hazlenut puree. Pure genius. The two "sides" added a sweet dimension to the foie gras, making it almost like a dessert from the earth. And the foie gras portion was huge, as it should be. Too often you order it, pay through the teeth, only to get a skimpy poorly-prepared version of this misunderstood item. This was a slab, perfectly perfectly cooked. It didn't just dissolve in my mouth, it almost didn't exist there. So buttery and flavorful of the earth with that tart aftertaste of cherries followed by the sweet nuttiness of hazlenuts. Follow that up with a sip of the Geveray Chambertin and you've got the most perfect sublime mouthful possible. My husband agreed it was the best preparation of foie gras he had EVER tasted in his life. We still talk about it.

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Petrus. Pre-dinner drinks.

So, FINALLY, I've sat down and actually plotted out the design and architecture of what was easily the best meal of my life. As previously described, hubby and I went to Petrus in London back in June, before it became Marcus Wareing at the Berkeley, (pictured) not knowing it had just been named, "The Best Restaurant in London."

We took a cab over which is an experience in itself - I've taken London cabs before here in the States and still wonder why more companies don't use them - they're so easy to get in and out of! Particularly when you've had an 8-course meal with a pre-dinner cocktail, pre-dinner champagne, plus wine (wink wink). And the little fold-down seats are adorable.

Anyway, we arrived early for a drink. As we sat in the lounge and perused the 10+ page cocktail menu, we could tell immediately that things here were just a bit different. Remember that Sesame Street song? "One of these things is not like the others..." well, it was kind of like that. We felt ever so slightly out of place. Now both of us were dressed to the nines mind you, but still, the whole vibe here just DRIPPED wealth. These people weren't just rich. They were wealthy. At ease with themselves and their lush surroundings. They were used to this stuff. Meanwhile, my hubby and I had, "We're trying too hard! We're dumb American tourists!" emblazoned in Sharpie pen across our foreheads. Even the young female escort hanging all over two rich old farts in the corner seemed more at home in this place than us. And that's saying something because you could tell she hadn't been invited. She was purchased. She was ol' "Escort #9" with a bullet.

It didn't help that the cocktail waitress came over and said, ever so curtly, "May I HELP you? Are you LOOKING for SOMETHING?" At that moment, I was so grateful for my sweet but inwardly evil, brassy southern upbringing, as well as my training with Chatham alums. In a voice that dripped with honey (and hopefully was not trying too hard) I stated, "Why yes, we're here for a dinner reservation and would like to get a drink."

Her whole face changed. I guess the magic word was "reservation" because not only did she swing into action, but three or four other hostesses came back frequently from then on to check and see if we were all right. Now THAT is more like it! We were showered with fancy cocktail nibbles and the hostess offered to walk us over to the restaurant when we were ready to go. And of course the drinks would be added to our dinner bill. No fuss, no muss. I could get used to this.

My cocktail, simply put, was stupendous. Tall glass, crushed ice, two straws, and god knows what else. That night is such a blur that I have absolutely no recollection of what I ordered. And I can't even go back and check. Their drink menu used to be online, but no more, as explained in my previous post. In any case, it tasted of citrus and herbs and just a slight spice from either ginger or cardamom. And it completely kicked my ass. By the time our reservation was at hand, I was doing one of those walks in tottering heels where you hope that no one notices you probably just did 6 tequila shots. But I wasn't too far gone to make an UTTER fool of myself. Just tipsy enough to be sassy at a party, not the embarrassing lush in the corner with her eye makeup half down her face.

You see, I had fasted for most of that day. My tummy can't take all the rich foods it used to, so in preparation I had taken two Prilosec, eaten lots of fruit, swilled gallons of water, and had only eaten a ginger digestive with some tea before heading off for our 10:45pm reservation. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. At 10:35 that evening, I was drunk, hungry, feeling blissfully happy, and walking with a strut, playing at being wealthy as the hostess escorted both of us across the lobby to our reservation. I felt like a million bucks, and we were headed to what we knew would be the meal of our lives. Does it get any better than this? I think not.

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Petrus.

So while in London, I had probably the greatest meal of my entire frikkin' life at Petrus. A 2-Michelin-starred-Gordon Ramsay establishment right in the heart of either Mayfair, Knightsbridge, or Chelsea depending on what map book you follow. It's located within The Berkeley Hotel.

What's weird is that while researching the links for this story, I learned it won't be a "Gordon Ramsay Holding" for long (which I bet is why our old "eff-bomb" master looks so worried. Notice whose face is on the website? Not Marcus Wareing from the looks of it, too many crags! No, it's GORDON, and the website says that Petrus will be closing September 9, moving to a new location in early 2009.

What the Petrus website doesn't tell you is that Gordon's spectacular young protege was just named as London's "Top Chef" and his restaurant, "The Best in London." No longer Petrus, it will now be renamed Marcus Wareing at the Berkeley. Evidently, Gordon and Marcus have come to a not-so-nice parting of the ways, and Marcus has ended up on top. Too many TV shows Gordon? Click here for the story.

So basically, I am not alone in thinking that our dinner at Petrus was incredible. It was. And I knew it would be from the beginning. Not only did I have to make reservations a month in advance, but the only one available was for 10:45pm on a Monday night. "I'll take it!" I exclaimed, I know, way too enthusiastically in my boorish American way. As foodies, my husband and I were just so thrilled to have the experience of a 2-Michelin star place - and the thought we might run into Gordon, our favorite angry celebrity chef, was just icing on the cake.

Now I feel like I didn't give Marcus nearly the credit he deserved while we ate there. Yes, we had reserved because of the stars and Gordon's name, but secretly all along, it was Marcus behind the scenes giving us the meal of our lives. Good going dude. You deserve every accolade, and I'm sorry for the oversight. Gordon who?

I wonder what happens with Jean-Phillipe though? Oddly enough, he was *working* and working hard, late on a Monday night, the night we dined (more on that tomorrow). I hope Gordon is at least giving him a great compensation package, although I bet ol' JP won't be leaving Gordon's grasp just yet...

(Stay tuned to tomorrow's episode for a course-by-course rundown of the place. I swoon just to think of it.....)

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Victoria Albert Museum.

So my entire family went to London in June, and I'm still processing everything I saw, felt, experienced, heard, and tasted. It was wonderful. London is such an easy city to visit - beyond the language barrier thing, it's just so relaxing to me. It's easy to get around by Tube, and the people are incredibly nice. I never tire of how they say things, just ever so slightly different, with that fantastic accent. The food is to die for good - Indian, Thai, even the Italian was awesome. And I love British cuisine (yes, they have a cuisine). Pigeon, suckling pig, haddock, beef, every bit of it yummy. Every time I go to London I tend to turn British for exactly the amount of time I'm there. I'll rise and take my tea with milk, eat scones with tons of clotted cream and jam every chance I get, and say things like "bloody marvelous" and "chuffed". And drink nothing but Guinness.

Anyway, we saw a lot of things, my husband and I, including my favorite place on the face of this god's green earth - the Victoria Albert Museum. The museum is a wondrous hodge-podge of sculpture, paintings, clothes, and artifacts. Everything from the gowns worn by The Supremes to giant Buddhas from China and Thailand, to ornamental vases from Greece, to Catherine the Great's tiara. Basically everything pillaged from the colonies, right? I actually learned on this trip that the museum was founded after an exhibition was held in the 1800's highlighting the artifacts for the first time. People came from far and near to see these things, which included, "The largest pile of granite ever produced on this continent or any other!" (I'm not making this stuff up). You forget that back then people could barely eat, much less travel to India, so seeing an actual stuffed tiger or a carved chair, or even a huge load of granite was an incredibly big deal. They even advertised it like that - "See the World in Just One Afternoon."

Well we tried. After getting much too late of a start (vacation time) we arrived around 1:30 - the place closes at 5pm. And we immediately looked at each other, crestfallen. There was no WAY we'd even make a dent. We'd just have to come back the next day too. And we did, and experienced almost two days of the most wonderful sightseeing and photographic opportunities I had had the entire trip. Because the Victoria Albert is one of the few museums where they let you take pictures. I went stark raving crazy with the camera - trying out angles, lighting, etc. My little amateur photography brain cogs were spinning out of control, and my little no-nothing camera didn't have a clue what to do (man, do I need an upgrade!). Click here to see the results of my attempt to be "arty farty".

I don't know what it is about this place - the whole time we were in London I kept raving about it to my husband, but the days went by and I kept putting off going there. It was like I was hoarding it all to myself. When we finally went, I thought, "Why in hell did I wait so long? Now we'll never see everything!" I had forgotten how much I adored this place - the hallowed sculpture halls where your footfalls echo, the maze of rooms you can literally lose yourself in. One minute you're staring at an ancient Persian tile, only to wander into an area dedicated to Queen Victoria's funeral (complete with the actual film of the event). The old Vicotorian-ness of the place fascinates me. The smell of old furniture. The calm stares of the Buddhas. The tiny, intricate netsuke, so painstakingly figured, so artfully placed. It's a place for losing yourself, it's a place for wandering.

I gazed at a wooden statue of the Chinese bodhisattva Guan Yin for the longest time. The picture I took is here, but it does nothing to capture the peace emanating from the pores of this carving. Or the immensity of the work - it's HUGE! He sits in repose, but with one leg raised, ready to go help at any moment. Because Guan Yin is the one with a thousand ears, the one who hears every prayer. What a connection I felt with this piece! It was like nothing I had ever experienced in my love of sculpture. I wanted to pray in front of it.

The plaster cast rooms at the Victoria Albert are equally stunning. One side holds casts of statuary and entire church fronts from Europe, the other side is wholly dedicated to Italy (go figure). This area was closed, but after an hour of traversing the museum maze and locating the balcony, I got some great "deconstructed" shots of the curators arranging things. Greek gods half-in/half-out of their packing crates. Very "Thomas Crowne Affair".

Over on the European side, a statue of Perseus holding Medusa's head is slammed up against tombs of medieval knights. A huge lion's head overhangs a cast of Madonna and child, almost as if he were preparing to eat. A cast of some medieval pope looks forlornly at a sweeping depiction of the Goddess Diana. A cast of a man deep in thought, his palm raised to his head looks beyond that of a Turkish prince, his hands held out in prayer. It's again, a beautiful, gorgeous hodge-podge. At one point I was so overwhelmed by it all in, overwhelmed by the sheer beauty that flowed out and around everything, that it was just too much. I began to cry with joy. A heavy sigh escaped me and I was just so damn grateful to be right here in this moment, in this time. So much damn beauty. Everywhere I looked.

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