London hours

That’s all I had in London after Yorkshire – a few hours to watch the stars come out and the buildings light up...



… then a meal, wake up Sunday at 4:30, post, catch the 6:55 from Paddington to Heathrow,* the 9:15 to Paris, the 1:20 to Chicago, the 5:00 bus to Madison.

It is all I needed. I cannot afford London (taxi to Paddington: $30, train to Heathrow: $30; the Tube: not in operation early on a Sunday). Perhaps it is fitting that my last day in the countryside had a big blow out. My London hours didn't fizzle either -- out they go, with a big bang. England, of all places, ends with a blow out meal.

Anyone who studies the London foodie scene will know the name of the city’s best man in the kitchen, Gordon Ramsay. Not that anyone can get a table in his flagship restaurant. No matter – he is so way over my budget that I swear, it’s like a meal at Charlie Trotter’s in Chicago (another place I have never tried) – putting it on my credit card would max it out instantly.

But he has a couple of protégés around town. They have their own kitchens, but they belong to Ramsay’s restaurant group. I looked over the half dozen and picked the one that would not kill me financially – the Boxwood Café.

It is sleek. I knew it would be – in Knightsbridge, sharing space with the Berkeley Hotel, I mean, come on. It’s going to have a lot of women wearing black in very interesting bare shoulder arrangements and men – trying to invent a look of some sort (men are still struggling here, don’t you think?).

I have to admit, I chose to dress down. I often do. I don’t want to be uncomfortable when I eat. Nondescript stuff. Passable attire. No one will frown, but no one will say – nice!

I could only get a very early reservation, but that’s fine. I’m hungry early. I arrive, am ushered to the bar where I spend a wonderful ten minutes photographing my pink aperitif, with a Nina-in-the-mirror effect in the background. The aperitif was so expensive that I decided it deserved the permanence only Ocean could deliver. They must have thought I was nuts. Hey, ol’ boy – see that lady in the bar with the nondescript attire? She is photographing her drink over and over again.



In spite of this, I get a nice table.

I order the tasting menu. Seven small plates, chef’s selection, no decisions for me, plenty of opportunities to see how good a kitchen it is. And a wine walk to go with it (where the restaurant selects pairings for each dish).

I have to say, I was hugely impressed with 90% of what I ate. [I would have used something other than red peppers to zest up the ceviche of Irish organic salmon with grapefruit and coriander and I would have opted for a different dessert. Anyone can do a great chocolate fondue. Most of us can’t bake beans. Ergo, please bake something for us.]


ceviche of salmon


chocolate fondue

Ont the other hand, the seared loin of yellow tuna, fennel, red onion, quail’s egg and black pepper sauce was phenomenal, as was the warm roasted wild mushroom salad with curly endive and smoked bacon.


tuna, etc.


wildest of mushrooms

But I want to mention what happened to me early on and what has been the patters since I got my spiffy SLR digital Sony. I get discovered! My cover is blown. [But, what is my cover?]

Suddenly, everyone fusses and hovers. The manager comes out and introduces himself. And at the Boxwood, I get not one, but three wines with the cheese course (no, at this point even I cease emptying the glasses). And they are great wines.



And toward the end, I get an invitation to the kitchen, to meet the chef.

We lean against his kitchen wall, the chef and I, and we chat. Turns out he spent a year in Wisconsin when he was young. No, he did not get his inspiration there. He admits this. He has vague memories of dining in supper clubs around Lake Geneva.

So we’re chatting and I tell him what I liked and no, I didn’t question the red peppers on the salmon, nor did I meekly hint that the beef would have been okay with an eight hour slow cook rather than nine hours, because at nine it practically melted in your mouth and I’m not sure that this is necessarily a good thing, even if, or especially because this is Dedham Vale beef.

When I booked the table back in Madison, I had promised I’d be out by 8, but I wasn’t. Not even 9. Someone sure had to wait because I was preoccupied with being fussed over.

Blown out tires, blow out meals -- both expensive. Good bye England. I must say, I like what you’re doing with food these days. What a surprise.


*Heathrow: where the magic number is one bag. One carry on. One. It can be a little suitcase. It can be a backpack, what it cannot be is Nina with little suitcase and laptop case and camera and purse. Oh, rules.

Yorkshire cliffs, gannets and other assorted beasts

It’s especially gratifying when you look out the window in England to see a blue sky and the pale pink promise of a sunny morning. You know it wont last, but it’s a pick-me-up.




Not that I needed a pick-me-up – I was out and about before five – two and a half hours before sunrise.

I indulged in a British cooked breakfast. Scrambled eggs and smoked Scottish salmon – irresistible. And then I went to pay the bill at the inn.

Except I noticed they did not charge me for the dinners. Nor drinks. Good American abroad that I aspire to be, I pointed this out to the clerk. No no, she tells me – dinner is included in the price. I do not think that is correct, but she holds her ground. And so two more dinners go by in England where I am undercharged. I am on a roll! It gets cheaper and cheaper to eat here!

(But everything else is a slap in the pocketbook, including hotel internet access which is always an extra. A heapin’ little extra.)

I set out toward the coast. I need to return the car at York by 1 and catch the 1:33 London train. I have plenty of time. It’s barely light out.

Except, on a detour into the forest…



…you know, to avoid the big roads, I get lost. Tick tock tick tock.
And in Scarborough – a fair-sized town by the coast, I get lost. Getting unlost takes time.

Finally, I get to the rugged coastline. Stunning. Breathtaking. Awe-inspiring.





And colder than cold. The wind is so strong that at the cliff’s edge, it feels like any moment I will wind up down there:



Now, these guys do not seem to mind the gale. Wooly beasts. They stare at my jacket (you know how sheep always stare at you, until you stare back and then they look elsewhere) and think – you poor human, with your skimpy duds...



I retreat to the warmth of the car. I go up hills, down hills, around curves – can you make yourself sick with your own driving? I pull into a village at the Bay where I am told Robin Hood kept a secret escape boat. (I always half thought that Robin Hood was a fictional character. Sort of like Santa Claus.) Maybe one of these?




Probably not. I'm guessing their purpose is different.



Up the steep alley, a local grocer puts out his regional seasonal.



And down by the water, pools are forming and a brave English lass is determined to corner and catch a little fish, just to show that she can. Except, somewhat predictably (and much to the relief of her parents, I’m sure) she can’t.





No puffins here. Too cold for them, too cold for me. Plenty of gannets, but that’s a less interesting photo. Here, you can have it anyway.





Okay, I need to head back before I get blown away into the choppy waters of the North Sea and before the car hire place shuts down for the week-end. There is the matter of my flight home early Sunday and classes to teach the next day, etc etc. I can’t afford a missed connection.

If I hurry up, If I do not pause for pictures, I should be okay.
Fine, just one last look. It's the sheep that make me stop everytime.





Zipping south now, radio’s on, music comes through, the sun is now behind some clouds, but I had my moment in its wind-battered rays. I am content.

…Until I hear a big bang. And the car begins to rumble and wobble.

A blow-out, damn it. Right there in the Yorkshire moors.

I suppose I should be able to change it myself. But I can’t. It’s one of those skills that you acquire, never use and promptly forget.

Can one sweat on a very cool and windy day?

It would take another page to describe how I got myself and the car into a nearby garage where a gent did the proper heave ho up, pop it out, pop a spare in and off you go.

I would have arrived at the Car Hire within four minutes of closing had I not gotten lost in York proper. Fortune had it that in driving aimlessly up one carriageway down another, through roundabout after roundabout, I found myself in front of the rental agent just as she was packing up to leave.

The cabbie who rushed me to the York station for my 1:33 to London was a gem. But I feel sorry for him. He was convinced Hillary Clinton would make it to the presidency and so I bet him a pint on it. He’ll lose, of course.

from a British train: have Internet, will travel

That I made it on time is quite the miracle. But I did. Even more miraculous was my returning the car in York seconds before the rental agency closed. I had sort of an interesting mishap out there, by the North Sea. I’ll write about it later, tonight. This short post is to tantalize and to prove that indeed, the London-bound train does have WiFi.



Robin Hood Bay: bright sun, strong winds

a day in Sheffield: knives, unions and halls of learning

A short post. Most of the daylight hours were spent at the Law School at the University of Sheffield.





The drive there and back was a challenge. Under wet skies, navigating the narrow lanes of Yorkshire and the main highway linking England, The North with England, The South and finally, working through the city itself, I gave many thanks to the wonderfulness of TheAA.com – far better than Mapquest, it marks points precisely, allowing you to check off petrol stations and such, just to reassure you that you are on track. Only… I needed someone to read while I drove.

My apologies to the cars that were forced to pull over the one time I got distracted and forgot to drive on the left side. My thanks to the university hall porter who got my car out of a parking pickle. ‘Tsalright, luv. I used to drive lorries you know.

You have to wonder how this city, which I have always associated with knives and textiles, the industrial revolution and the birth of unions, has managed to keep pace and not lose ground even as industry has moved elsewhere. I understand that it is now a travel destination, a cultural center. With a remarkable university.

And as elsewhere in England, in case you have enough of urban life, a ten minute spin will put you right back in the rolling hills. Because for the English, nothing clears the mind and inspires the senses as much as an invigorating walk.





Do you have a walking stick? All British people have walking sticks, don’t they? -- I ask my Sheffield colleague, who graciously indulges all such off the wall questions of mine.
My friend has one, but she’s Dutch.

So much for images.

At night, I come back to my White Swan Inn at Pickering and order a half pint in front of the fire. Black Sheep will do? Yes, absolutely.




Followed by Whitby crab and herbed roasted guinea fowl, topped with a "pudding": chocolate with "boozy cherries and clotted cream."




And port. One has to keep some images in place.

from Pickering: picturing England

A work day for me today and so you get a short-ish text with a photo recount of Thursday.

It will surprise no one that, having meetings in Sheffield, I would choose to stay two hours away in the deep Yorkshire countryside. Perhaps I can say that I am being frugal. A country inn, the White Swan at Pickering, is inevitably less costly than comparable city accommodations.

But really, I am a sucker for these village inns. They are high on ambiance and atmosphere and it hardly matters what the weather is like, I am happy sitting in front of a fireplace there, listening to local chatter, waiting for the dinner hour.

I do read about where to find good food ahead of time. One must, in order to eat well here (and truthfully, anywhere. Great food isn’t the norm, especially in northern European countries).

The White Swan sources locally and uses some of the best purveyors of meats and seafood on the islands. And the prices are remarkable – nothing like London. More like Madison.

And they have WiFi.

So, my day, yesterday:

A London breakfast on the run: note the toast. There is always cold toast.




I take the train on a wet wet day – the Flying Scotsman. Only I get off at York, rent a car and drive up toward the moors, to stay here:




…with a view out the window onto the village market square:




Remarkably, the skies began to clear a little. And so, in the late afternoon, I venture out into the moors and dales. First, the dales:








The colors are still pronounced in the dales. Sort of like our early autumn. But high in the heathered moors, the season is over. In the setting sun, they appear golden.




And everywhere, I have company:




The sun sets by four. I drive to the coast, just for a quick look at a fishing town, Whitby, now in the darker shadows of the evening:




Then back to the White Swan, where a fresh and honest meal begins with Scottish Loch Broom scallops




…and moves on to what they do so well here – longhorn beef, from a farmer five miles up the road. The dish has plenty of potatoes (in goose fat, yes, of course) and glazed beetroots.




I could not pass up a cheese. I took just one, the handmade Wensleydale Braffords Camembert, with chutney:




For dessert – apple and bramble oat crumble with cinnamon and almond ice cream.




I’m off now. It’s hardly light out, but the drive is long and there is the matter of work to be done.

from london: after may miles and many plates...

Cities change, even as they appear not to. You walk out the tube station, you look around and immediately you sense that something is different.

Who says politics don’t touch a street? I move carefully, deftly, trying to avoid the mad rush of traffic and I think – even tolling cars that come downtown hasn’t helped. I hear by next month you’ll have to pay 25 pounds just to drive through central London. Blair's last ditch efforts to make a difference? Some will pay. Some will gripe. The traffic will continue.




I walk for hours – down Sloan Street, bordered with parks that are under lock. For residents only! Give me a break… I’d forgotten about that part of England, the do not trespass England, the England that in a private park will put up a sign saying – children not allowed in this part of the park.

English children. Two minutes, I am out on the street for no more than two minutes and I hear it: don’t put your hand near your face! Can’t you see how dirty it is? I applaud the world of respectful children, I do! I dislike tremendously brats, set loose to do their damage, but surely English children hear more about what they are doing wrong than about what they might do right.

It starts to get dark around 4 at this time of the year. It’s still the tail end of fall – did you notice? Trees are not yet entirely free of color. It has to be at least 20 degrees warmer than in Wisconsin right now. But it’s windy and so I walk with a quick step.

I cover a lot of ground, from the parks, to the western tip of Chelsea, to the river and up past the parliament buildings. I’m tossing about thoughts of a past life, one lived here for months at a time, the England of the seventies and eighties, a different England, a different life.





Down the long tunnel to the tube, once the underground now the tube – is the imagery that different? Three pounds per ride, my oh my, New York seems dirt cheap. So I buy the Oyster pass – a new deal whereby you load up a card with cash and you scan it every time you ride, at a discount. A crummy deal for tourists who forget to cash in their used cards and load way too much money on it because it’s hard to predict how many rides you’ll need. But Oyster passes are the England of today and so I go with my oyster. I like the imagery – an oyster, riding the tube.

I am restless. I haven’t eaten anything since the croissant at Paris airport and I haven’t slept since the night before I taught my last class.

I show up for my dinner reservation early. Who cares. I am there, they are there, feed me please.





Rasoi Vineet Bhatia. This is his place and I have been wanting to eat hear ever since I first heard of it.

It’s Indian food prepared with utmost care, with the freshest ingredients and with supreme talent. Enough talent to make those across the Channel sigh deeply and admit that this is stuff worth traveling for. I’ll second that – if I had to go back to the States the next day, the trip would have been worth it because of the dinner.

I’ll pause with the text and run down the tasting menu that I selected. There should have been seven dishes, but as you’ll see, there were more. I was over-fed, over-wined and completely undercharged. Why? We see that you are enjoying this so much, can we make you another? And how about this wine – try it, it is a fantastic accompaniment. What do you think? How about this dish, how did you like it?

It was a stunning presentation. I cannot convey flavors on Ocean. But take a look. I have inserted some notes that I scribbled into my little notepad as the evening progressed. That’s for the foodies out there who care. A superb place. Makes me want to do a story on the man behind the stove. Someday.

* * * * *

Oh, so warm here. Mmmmm. Yes, yes, come in, come in, we have a nice warm table for you. Hmmm, since when do single women get the best table, up front by the window? I am appreciative.

Chips and two chutneys. The green one is spicy hot, the orange one is mango smooth. I must not eat the whole basket. I must not. Yes, sure, let me try the aperitif with 16 herbs and spices. Yes, show me what the chef can do. A tasting menu. I suppose I should take the smaller one – seven dishes. It seems like a lot right there...




Lovely flavors. A simple potato mash over a cracker. With spices. Nice…
Madame, we will wait until you finish your aperitif before we begin the menu. We have some nice wines selected that really show off the food.




Wow, that is a dazzling scallop. Lentils, mmmm, with an Alsatian Riesling. Bliss, heaven.. I need eat no more, this will have been worth it.




What’s this? Wild mushrooms? What mushrooms did you use? Oysters, shitake, and a bit of truffle. Yes, I can see that. Sort of like Indian risotto. With tomato ice cream on top! Wonderful.



Spiced crab and lentil soup. The crab is melting in its tenderness, mmmm..




Oh! Spectacular! A grilled lobster with ginger over chili and a broccoli mash – this has to be my favorite! Perfectly grilled. Not overdone, oh, what are you doing? I see, a dash of spices at the table, sort of like grinding fresh pepper, only this is a dusting of something nutmeggy brown.




Tamarind glazed quail? Oh, how lovely, over a potato mash and here are the little Indian breads with mint and a yogurt spread. Perfect!




An extra dish? Really? And another wine to try? The first three were magnificent. A samosa with goat cheese over pear chutney. So tasty!





Lamb and morel korma laced with truffle oil, steamed rice cakes, coconut chutney…

The woman at the table near mine leans over and asks – are you a food journalist? I tell her that I do like to write about food. Look at me, spilling over onto another screen and another here on Ocean. But does Ocean count?

The waiters are hovering, but they hovered even before I took out my camera. Besides, restaurant critics do not show up with cameras. They hide behind masks. I am initially shy with my monster Sony SLR, but the staff smile and tell me to feel free with it. And, this cook is over the top excellent. He has the world chatting about his wonderfulness. He does not need to worry about a ditzy woman out with her camera exposing some heretofore unrecognized flaw.




Another extra? Mango, yes, I taste it… coconut ice cream. So refreshing…




Crispy chocolate, chenna and roasted almond samosa with Indian tea ice cream and a 1977 Domaine Oinos stands up to the chocolate… I am getting sleepy… You know, back home, people never appreciate dessert wines. They keep chugging at their Pinots and Burgundies… I bring home a dessert wine and it collects dust in my closet under the stairs (a makeshift wine cellar!). No thanks, don’t open that, they say.

Oh, but I am sleepy now! Thank you, thank you! What’s this? The check… What do I make of it – they charged me even less than the price of the small menu… and I ate and tasted and sipped so much more!

What a place. No tube for me. I hike home through a quieter London. A sleepy London. Sleepy me.

I wake up at three and give up on sleep. Time to post.

layover

I spend a lot of time in airports.

However, all those flights do add up to a lounge privileges and I have to admit, I find these rooms to be comforting places -- a sweet imitation of home.

You can settle in, create your own little nest. In your spot, you can leave your bags, walk away unencumbered, you can eat, drink and, as demonstrated this morning at the Paris CDG lounge – take a nice hot shower when your connecting flight to London gets inexplicably cancelled and the next one isn’t for hours.

Some might sigh in exasperation and say -- ah travel. London hours lost, Paris airport hours gained, in abundance. But I don’t really mind. I’m listening to French, munching on a croissant and drinking good coffee. A virtual trip to France, thrown in. And eventually, there will be a London. I think.

UPDATE: here at last, as you can tell from this solitary photo, taken seconds ago from my tiny corner hotel room.

on my way to the isles

I haven’t set foot on English soil since…the previous century. It’s not on the way to anything. I know, poor excuse. Here’s another: It’s too expensive. And the weather – I have vivid memories of days when I put in precious shillings into space heaters in cheap hotels to bring out warmth there. I was newly married and life was a bubble, but in Great Britain, it was always a cold bubble. Another vivid memory: me, knitting a scarf for my new husband when I was a mere child (at 23 or so) in the cold rooms of the Scottish libraries where he was doing research. I should have been working on my own dissertation ideas then, but instead I was hell bent on knitting a scarf. (I have never completed a knitting project since.)

So England hasn’t been a destination for me. Not even a stop-over. But when I realized that I had a law school task there to attend to this month, I leaped.

And I have to admit, I’m tremendously looking forward to it. Perhaps it is a nostalgia run. All those memories of afternoons spent drinking cuploads of tea and munching on scones with cream and jam in years where it did not immediately matter (these days one such cream tea would make my wardrobe obsolete, of that I am sure).

More likely, it is that England again emerges as quaintly novel. I had to read up on how to get from the airport to the city because I did not know. I read with fascination articles about the emergent culinary scene in London. It hadn’t really emerged when I was there last. At least not in my price range.

I am about to board the plane and I am full of enthusiasm. For England no less. I would not have written that ten years ago. Puffins. It’s all about the puffins.*

* This is a reference to the fact that off the coast of Yorkshire, there are puffins. I am determined to spot some.

off to the land of clotted cream

Classes done, suitcase packed, liquids and gels poured into 100 ml containers and placed in a zip-locked bag, camera battery charged, bills paid, train schedules checked, restaurant table booked for tomorrow (yes, really -- I would do just that), and the next day (I attend to my stomach) and the next (I have no spontaneity) and the next (couldn't resist).

Unless Air France now serves WiFi along with the free champagne in its lounge, I will not be able to post until tomorrow, from London.

Tally ho and all that.

i’m running, even as i write this

Going away in the middle of a week is insanely difficult. The coordination and advance work are taxing to the max. I am in that treadmill period.

In running from one place to another, I came across this person on the Library Mall.




I asked him – so what cause are you representing? He said—just hugs. I didn’t fold into his arms, there is full view, but maybe I should have…

Tomorrow, after class, I’ll run to the bus that’ll take me to O’Hare where I will hop onto my connecting flights to London. It could be that I’ll find no posting opportunities until I get to London the next day. It could be.

I’m only in England for a handful of days, but I’m taking Ocean with me. How could I not… Drizzly wet England, London, Yorkshire – perfect for me at this particular moment, don’t you think?

a lesser human being

Most days are a blur of routine acts. They are undistinguished in that, if I stay the course, if I do not let some devilish thought fester and take control of my time, I can, at the end of the day at the very least say – I did no harm.

Looking over this day (and it’s not over yet), I can see failure sprinkled up and down every contour and crevice, every hour of its short sunlit expanse.

Chronologically: I slept in. I can’t remember the last time I did not take charge of my day until it was nearly the next meal, but today had slow start written all over it.

Pushing aside the granola, I instead went to the local café, ordered a latte, bit into a greasy muffin and read the travel section of the NYT. Cover to cover.

On an errand at Best Buy, I fell in love. So much so that I could not take my eyes off of…it. A small, two pound baby, easy to transport, easy to cuddle. Completely unaffordable.




True, I did not purchase it, but I was tempted beyond belief. Suddenly, $59 per month for four years seemed entirely reasonable.

Eventually, home alone, I decided to call a person whom I should be calling on at least a weekly basis, but whom I do not have the moral courage to call more than once per month. Alright, sometimes less than that. And naturally, I did get in trouble for my general incompetence as a human being (including the noncalling thing). Explaining why I was terrified of dialing said number more often was absolutely the stupidest thing I could have done. The party in question hung up on me.

The odd thing is, if I had to do this day all over again, I would do it in exactly the same way.