The far end of High Street Ken is something of a tundra, devoid of the…
Estella visits the latest outpost of the Obika mozzarella empire on Charlotte Street, where she samples the finest white stuff known to mankind…
Veteran American actor, comedian and director Mel Brooks reportedly stated “sex is like pizza, even when it’s bad, it’s good” and I am inclined to sort-of agree, although the focus of my attentions in this context falls on the pizza.
“In Italy, a trullo is a 19th century dry stone, conical-roofed dwelling of the Apulia region; traditionally used as outhouses or small abodes for agricultural workers; now smartened up and rented out as luxury holiday homes.”
On the plane the next day, my stomach and mind grumbled and struggled to digest what had happened. My head ached and an overwhelmingly dank sense of disappointment seemed to permeate all things.
There are good things happening on the King’s Road. No, I don’t mean the antics of the Made in Chelsea crew. I’m talking restaurants.
Theo Randall deals in rusticity. His cooking philosophy is simple: source the best ingredients to create authentic Italian dishes that would make mama weep for her homeland.
“There’s that moment after dessert when the restaurant owner wheels out a flaming pan of liquor coffee in order to stop anyone dying from a medieval curse…” All in an evening’s dining, if you’re on an island in the middle of Lake Como.
“I’ve gone down the rabbit hole and there’s no telling when, or if, I’ll come out. In front of me is a dish that smells of freshly cut grass. Truffles and toadstools float in a thick pond of green, their tops covered with what looks like dried basil.”
As the aromas of black truffle waft through the restaurant, I glimpse a sea of grey Patrick Batemans, like bowler-hatted figures from a René Magritte painting, interminably colourless against the zest of Mazzei’s cooking.
Can a maître d’ really make or break a meal? After my visit to Il…
Dark Knight of the Gluttonous Table, Douglas Blyde, unsheathes his rapier tongue and ventures into the badlands of Soho to chomp and imbibe in the environs of Bocca di Lupo. No plate is left unturned, no ice cream left unlicked.