A Blithe PALATE

Interlude in Paris

Wednesday

Let’s go Paris.  We are so close.  Let’s go.  Let’s take the Chunnel and spend a day in Paris.  I can’t be this close and not walk the streets and smell the cigarette smoke and pastry scents of the city.

We’ll leave early in the morning on the train and we will both be enraged by the unceasingly noisy tourist group seated in the same car as we; their incessant geese-like cacophony driving us to the brink of madness.  And what is that odor?!  A metallic medicinal smell that will make both of us wrinkle our noses.  The woman in front of us will eat seeds and toss the empty hulls on the tray in front of her.  Unfortunately for us, she will sometimes miss and one or two will ricochet backwards and fall between our feet .  I will be suffocated by their inability to comprehend personal space as their friends crowd around our seats to talk—shout – at each other, the harsh tones of their language neither mellifluous nor pleasing.

When we exit the Eurostar train three hours later, Lan will meet us at the gate and you will finally meet my childhood friend, whom I have known since we were eight, who is like my fourth sister; a standing reinforced by the family gatherings to which she and Quang and Mia were invited when they lived in New York.  And Lan will finally meet  you.  She was there with me six years ago when I wrote out that infamous list.

We will take the RER one stop and walk to her flat, located on Boulevard Hausmann in the eighth arondissement.  We will both laugh uproariously at the posted bill for the Steven Seagal concert.  Did you know he could sing?  Neither did I.  As it is he can’t even act.  I suppose he wishes to do a David Hasselhoff?

Lan will be concerned that we haven’t got enough time to do anything.  I will reassure her that our intent is simply to see her and to see Mia.  Lan will want to take us to Sacre Coeur – but she and I will both notice that you are green around the gills; and you will ask to sit for a few minutes to rest while she and I run out to have lunch together.  She and I will eat in the neighborhood.  The bistro where she wishes to take me is too full to accommodate us, so we will make our way across the dirty, rough-hewn stone street to the other bistro. 

“I don’t know if this one is any good,” Lan will warn.  I, confident that I have never eaten bad French food, will not be worried.  A bavette with sauce l’échalotte for me please, and sangnant, with the pommes sautées.  Lan will have the same but with a plate of vegetables s’il vous plaît.

When my plate arrives, the potatoes will look wonderful; until I realize that they are mushing up, swimming in a pool of blood of a too rare (I never knew there is such a thing) steak, and oil.  The shallot sauce is limp and purple, with no fragrance.

As we eat our lunches, I will frown at her and say, “Oh Lan.  I think I have just eaten my first bad meal in Paris.”

And she will sigh and tell me, “Consider this French fast food.  Things have changed.  There are a lot of businesses here and they no longer linger over déjeuner, they have only an hour and so these restaurants will make food as fast as they can and they sacrifice what it means to be French for fast.”

I will be too appalled for words. When we return to the flat, you will be laid out in deep sleep on her couch, the victim of a bad cup of coffee picked up earlier that morning.  And while we will be distressed for your illness, Lan and I will be too pleased to see each other and we will leave you to sleep while we trawl the city marveling that a year has passed since last I was here with her. 

“Let us have tea,” I will suggest.  We think we will go Mariages Frères, but time will be limited as Mia needs to be picked up from her costume party at 6:00.  It is nearing 5:00 so we will change our plans and run to Fauchon instead because it’s closer to her home.  But then Lan will say:

“Oh I have not been to Ladurée yet, shall we go there instead?”

And I, having heard so much about these famous Ladurée macarons will be seduced by the notion.  In the Ladurée store, a hungry horde swarms the counter demanding the pastel colored confections on the other side.  We will go upstairs to the tea room, the dark wood paneled walls decorated with Empire wreaths and arrows, drawing light only from two large windows facing the avenue.  Grande dames wrapped in couture and hauteur sit side by side with stylish and effortlessly chic young women.  I will be the only tourist there as far as I can see; most of the others are situated firmly below purchasing macarons.

What tea will we have?  Enamored of the notes in my beloved Marco Polo tea, I will have the Thé a la Vanille and she will be more adventurous with her tea and select a smoky blend.  Page after page of desserts will beckon to us but I am most interested in the Elysée which sounds like a large brick of chocolate – gananche, biscuit, mousse and glaze.  Lan will have the Millefeuille with rum pastry cream.  And while we will adore our respective teas, the desserts are frighteningly sweet, lacking the subtle flair that made my experience at Fauchon so exquisite.

“This is for women who like supermarket cakes,” Lan will note and I will laugh because she is right.  Desserts are no good here.  We will note that they are famous for their macarons.  “There is a another place that has better macarons.  It is called Pierre Hermé.”  It is too short a day to make our way to Pierre Hermé so we resolve it do it another day. 

When we return you have slept off most of your illness and we will find a seat at that neighborhood bistro for dinner – how European to eat at 9:30!  Foie gras!  Foie gras!  See there it will be on the menu!  How the hell can you eat herring?  And this bavette and pommes sautés with sauce poivre is as delicious here as the afternoon version at that other bistro was not.  After dinner, we will wander the city together, Lan and I linked arm in arm; you and Mia side by side discussing the finer points of fish with teeth and what your favorite spiders are, her five year old hand dwarfed in your gentle mitt.  There is Place de la Concorde and there is the Tuileries Gardens.  And there, there in the distance you will see the clichéd and yet oh so lovely Eiffel Tower.  Over there is Cleopatra’s Needle.  And down this street – up ahead, that is the Opéra.  And behind the Opéra is home.

Thursday morning, before we depart, you will eat a real French baguette, crisp and warm.  As Kaly once noted, it is “beyond redemption,” the day after it is made.  But who has ever heard of leftover baguette?  And on our journey back we will have two crisp baguettes stuffed with jambon and I will fall asleep on your shoulder until we arrive back in Waterloo station.  Will you find that funny, too?  That the Chunnel terminates in England at Waterloo?

Paris is not made for day visits.  Ah, but to say that we made a quick jaunt to Paris – yes, that we will be able to say.  I will cross that one off my list – “Go to Paris for dinner.”

Let us go to Paris, you and I.  Can’t we?

Keiko at The Wolsley

Monday afternoon

Among the things I enjoy most about the food blog community are the very wonderful and very kind friends I have met online.  Keiko, of Nordljus, was one of my first such friends.  After a year of missed attempts to meet in London, we are finally able to meet up.  Keiko suggests meeting at The Wolsley for tea.

Hubby meets with me outside our hotel and asks about my foray at the British Museum.  It's hard for me to keep the hysteria out of my voice as I recount the presence of the mummy.  He's trying very hard to be sympathetic but he's on the verge of laughter.  He thinks it's funny that I am as fascinated by ancient Egypt as I am terrified of the same.  Like an adolescent boy who has discovered the joy of taunting girls with reptiles, he finds grabbing me and shouting, "Anubis has  you!" while I scream irresistible.  He might not find it as enjoyable had he been my date the night I saw "Stargate" and proceeded to scream in shock when one of Ra's guards is seen for the first time with his jackal headed helmet.  My date got to deal with a babbling idiot for five minutes.  Needless to say, there was no second date.

"Well let's go meet your friend," Hubby says when it becomes apparent that he is neither sympathetic nor empathetic.

"Meet me by the Eros in Picadilly Circus," Keiko's message had suggested.

Both Hubby and I remember the fountain of Eros on our ride into the city from Gatwick.  I am reliant on Hubby's natural New York instincts to guide me through the subterranean transit system and the surface streets.  His navigational abilities far surpass mine.  And while he is not as unerring as Kaly, she has the benefit of a frequent visitor's familiarity with London.  It's very interesting, the differences between them:  Kaly, an adoptive New Yorker, moves like a darting little fish, wending her way in and out of the pedestrian London traffic and requires me to follow her efficiently and quickly.  Hubby, a native New Yorker, simply drops a shoulder and surges forward, parting waves of people as I follow in his wake.  Broad shoulders and a purposeful stride are useful.

Seated at the fountain, we are discussing our planned excursions for the week when I see a woman searching the area: it's Keiko.  A quick hug, exclamations at meeting and we're off.

The Wolsley is not so far away, only a few minutes' walk. It's a lovely building, a cafe-restaurant with soaring ceilings, wide windows and marble work.  Keiko orders the risotto with girolles; having had that the night before, I pick a coq au vin; and Hubby has the duck confit.  Keiko, whose photographs are absolutely stunning, shows me her camera and manages to snap some photos of an oddly compliant Hubby (who never likes his picture taken).  A few minutes pass as I ooh and aah over her camera before a waitress approaches us and explains that photography is not permitted in the restaurant.  Chastised, we put away our cameras but not before Hubby did a wicked imitation of the waitress.  Our entrees are delicious though the coq au vin is a bit rich -- very hearty, very heavy. 

Keiko is as elegant and as sweet as the confections for which she is known on her site.  She brings gifts for me:  tea and elderberry syrup.  I cannot wait to go home and make something special to go with her wonderful gifts.  I am so excited to meet Keiko -- it's the same joy I got from meeting Stephanie from Dispensing Happiness -- a fellow foodie! 

When we part ways with Keiko, Hubby notes, "She's so very nice."

And I think, all the food bloggers I know are absolutely lovely...

Of Mummies and Museums.

Sunday morning

Hubby and I arrive in London at 7:30 am.  Sunday is our day of rest.  Breakfast and lunch we skip in favor of sleep.  But dinner finds us at J. Sheekey's where I indulge in a creamy risotto with girondelles and Hubby wolfs down a summer lobster salad.  Day one of eating is a simple affair:  eat well and eat lightly.  We have seven days of eating ahead of us.

Monday morning

The day begins early.  I have an appointment at the British Museum.  Through an odd turn of events, I have been granted permission to see the Stela of Paser.

First, I am led up three flights of a tiny spiral staircase into the spacious office of the Department of Ancient Egypt and Sudan.  Two walls are lined from floor to ceiling with books; the room is filled with bookcases, tables, maps, globes and busts.  One bank of windows streams light into the room.  Four people are perched at their desks, quietly flipping through catalogs and books, making occasional taps on their keyboards.  I am asked to sit at a table and told that the Stela will be arranged for my viewing shortly.  To my right are the scholars and their desks; to my left are old books, spines cracked, leather worn.  All the titles relate to Ancient Egypt.  And there, appropriately enough, is a bust of Giovanni Battista Belzoni -- one of the noted archaeologists who was responsible for finding the piece I am there to see.  Moments later, an older gentleman comes into the room and introduces himself.  He is the caretaker of the ancient Egyptian artifacts and he motions me to follow him.  I think I am being led to another sunny room where the Stela has been laid out for my viewing. 

Instead I am guided down into the bowels of the museum.  I begin to feel like the chief character from a horror movie as I follow the caretaker, who leads me down the basement, then through one, no two, gates -- both requiring unlocking -- until we reach the last metal gate.  Searching through his jumble of keys he at last finds a smallish one.  Inserting it into the metal lock, he turns the key and pushes aside first one iron accordion gate before turning to the other and doing the same.  Only a few half lights are on; the room is dark but I can see that on either side of me are six or seven aisles stretching the length of the room, each containing high grey metal shelves of ancient artifacts.  And in front of me is an open space, more of that metal shelving forming a cubed space about six feet wide and five feet deep.  In the center of that space is a table.  And on top of that table is a mummy.

My skin crawls, and my heart begins to race.  The bandages are tight and taut around the body, arms crossed before its chest. The linen strips are old, yellowed with the age of four millenia.  Were I less terrified, I would note with tenderness the care and craft that went into binding this person.  Who was it?  Was it a man?  A woman?  Some person of great note?  Or a minor courtier?  Did this person imagine that four and half thousand years later, he -- or she -- would have been moved from the great burial chambers where he was to live in immortality and deposited on a basement table?

"How long will you be?"

My throat is dry and I cannot stop staring at the mummy perched on the table.  "Uh...not too long."

I am scared to death the caretaker's going to cheerfully leave me here by myself with this...corpse.  And my nightmare seems about ready to come true as he says, "Oh that's all right, take all the time you need.  Some people come and stay for hours.  I need to get some things done.  I'll just turn on some lights for you.  Do you want a chair?  A crate to sit on?"

No, I would like a big sword and a gun to kill any undead creatures who decide to reanimate and send them back to Anubis. 

"There's your stone," he says, pointing to wall behind me.

I turn around.  There, next to the gate-door we have just entered, the Stela of Paser is propped against the wall.  For a moment I can ignore the wrapped body on the table behind me. 

Imagine a piece of art, or an artist, whom you love; and then imagine that you have been given the opportunity to view a hidden masterpiece, one available only to a handful of people on earth.  I think that as I get older, I get more maudlin.  And still, even terrified and bothered by the dead, bandaged thing behind me, I am infinitely touched as I kneel down before the stela.  I felt like this the first time I saw the Rosetta Stone.  The first time I saw the Chandos painting of Shakespeare.  The first time I saw the Ginevra de Benci, and then later, her successor, the Mona Lisa.  When I saw forty-seven Faberge eggs grouped together.  I think at these moments, I feel connected to the past -- to the collective soul?  The basement is where the stela resides; it has only been on public view once in the last several years.

The stela comprises two pieces of stone, broken in half, and mounted on a cement block to protect the remaining fragments.  It is lined with eighty one inch squares vertically and sixty-seven horizontally.  The outer edges are all worn away or nonexistent, having been broken too long ago, but it is surmised that the tablet might once have been eighty squares by eighty sqares.  Inside each square are meticulously chiseled hieroglypics.  The stela is a hymn to Mut, and according to the top line of instructions, the hymn is to be read three times -- that is, there are three ways to read this hymn.  The Egyptians were fond of wordplay and so it is believed that the hieroglyphics can read horizontally, vertically, backwards, or forwards.  The third hymn was presumed to have been the outer edge of hieroglyphics.  But they do not exist, having long ago been destroyed.

I am too afraid to guess at their meaning, ludicrously afraid that I, in some amateurish attempt to decipher the pictograms -- I recognize that symbol!  that's the letter 'K.'  And the letter 'L.'  And that symbol there -- it means house.  And that symbol -- that is for Ra. -- might awaken the sleeping mummy behind me, incite some great curse.  I have clearly watched too many horror movies.  Still, I am surprised every minute that I sit there poring lovingly over the stone tablet, that the mummy remains prostate and unmoving on the table.

"Is it normally here?" I ask, indicating the wall.

"No," the caretaker says, pointing to the hall outside the gated room.  "It used to be against that wall."

It strikes me funny.  An ancient piece of work not encased behind lucite walls, connected to alarm systems.  This is literally a storeroom of such pieces.  It's like walking into someone's storeroom of junk.  This feeling is even more reinforced when the caretaker walks with me down the aisles and allows me to exclaim over shelf after shelf of tablets, stoneware, paintings, marble, icons, statuettes, stone cups and sundry other things.  It's breathtaking.  The only disturbing thing I see is the last, unlit and darkened bay.  The funereal feeling is appropriate:  three giant sarcophagi are situated here, the one closest to me, black and fierce, its lid open.  I walk away from the caskets quickly.  They're too frightening, large, dominating.  So final.

"Oh," says the caretaker, noting a gorgeous white slab on top of a crate as we pass by.  It is cleft in two at the top but its hieroglyphics are sharply and clearly inscribed.  I am thunderstruck at how clear the writing is.  "That's been lying there for some time.  We'll need to shelve it again."  Then he points to an open box next to the slab.  Therein are five broken pieces of grey stone, each bearing hieroglyphics carved into the stone.  "Those have never been on public display."

A bay on the other side of the room yields an astonishing vision.  Six or seven clay tablets, broken, but clearly a grouping of paintings.  Were they torn down from a crypt wall?  Were they already in pieces on the ground when the excavators came and found them?  How can that blue still be so vibrant?  Those colors so astonishingly vivid?  How can those fish and those birds be so unchanged from then?  Shouldn't they have evolved?  But ibis still look like that -- and so do the fish swimming in the picture of the Nile.  Why should things be different?  Even the caves at Lascaux feature animals that haven't changed in fifty thousand years.  Upon seeing the surprisingly modernistic paintings in those caves, Picasso was reputed to have said, "We have invented nothing."

I imagine scarabs scuttling across the Theban sands.  Scarabs were a symbol of immortality.  These artifacts, which have not been on public display for decades -- and in some cases, never -- oh, all the past in this room whispers forlornly:  You found us -- now let us tell you our secrets!  What's worse? To be unfound in the Egyptian desert from which they were plucked, or to be discovered and left in the obscurity of a museum basement waiting for someone to catalog and study them, waiting for some patron to give money to an exhibit so that they may see the light of day?

I don't have much nerve to study the Stela without the caretaker present in the room; after a half hour of scribbling, I finally lose my battle not to run screaming out of the room and the caretaker is surprised by how quick I am.  "That was fast! " he notes.  "Sometimes people come and stare at the same thing for days."

They probably hadn't watched enough monster movies.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I exit the museum.  Hubby and I are to rendezvous with a friend for lunch.

Grumble.

I grew up eating offal.  For Mom, who was feeding five kids, it was cheap.  Luckily, she's a miracle worker when it comes to making delicious dishes from leftover animal parts.  She grew up in a family of ten -- and her mother taught her how not to waste anything -- and how to make it taste good.

Hubby doesn't sigh with joy when he eats beef tongue, as I do.  He doesn't appreciate Mom's meltingly tender meat and ragu sauce.  Philistine.

We were running through our list of desired eating experiences in London.  He was cool with everything till I said, "Fergus Henderson's restaurant, St. John."

He cocked a brow, and looked thoughtful.  I knew his brain was trying to connect where he'd heard that name.  Uh oh.  "Is that the guy in Bourdain's book -- "  Damn.

"Yeah, the guy who cooks offal."

"NO."

"Oh come on!  Look at the menu!  Turbot and Monk's Beard.  You like turbot."

"No."

'"Are you sure?  Look!  They have Crispy Pig's Cheek and Dandelion."

His glare can be so eloquent.

I guess I'm eating there by myself.  Any London based foodies interested in joining me?

The English Countryside

Tuesday

Woburn is a lovely little town. We're meeting with colleagues in the U.K. and this trip is too brief. I wish I have more time here.

Our partners take us to dinner at The Birch at Woburn, located on Newport Road. They assure us it is one of the best restaurants in the area. They aren't wrong. It's a small, family owned restaurant that is at once rustic and elegant in layout and decor. It's unpretentious and inviting, as is the food. The chef has great ingredients and makes the best of them. I order the Bacon and Stilton risotto (unable to resist) and the evening's special fish: Grilled Monkfish. I am not disappointed. The chef provides further proof of my sister's assertion on my last trip that British cooking can be superlative, when cooked simply and well, devoid of unnecessary sauces and culinary obfuscation.

Greg steps away briefly to take a phone call. Being the good friend that I am, I order dessert for him: an Espresso Kahlua torte. Naturally, it is important to do a quality assurance check. By the time he gets back, half the cake is gone. But I can genuinely assure him the cake isn't poisoned.

Wednesday

It’s dark, only five-thirty, when my colleague David and I set out for our walk. I slept four hours last night; it was all I needed. I’m still on East Coast time so it isn’t much different from taking a nap; I fly home to Hubby in a few hours so a walk through the estate of Woburn Abbey suits me. David likes waking early and exercising. Never mind that he's on Pacific Standard time. He still gets up at five and walks two miles. He'd be repellent if he weren’t such a nice guy. Greg and Chip think we are nuts. I already knew that about myself.

I am wearing the ugliest pair of sneakers ever. Having forgotten my own and without access to a pair of wellies in which to traipse the countryside, the hotel managed to find a battered pair of paint encrusted trainers in the lost and found. Personally, I think these were lost on purpose. They are too big for my feet, a good three sizes bigger. My flat loafers are slipped inside; it's a tight fit. I think it will do. So what if I look like ridiculous? Last night in the bar when I tried them on over my heeled shoes, David, coming in late and unaware of the slip-on situation, paused, a little shocked. When informed of the shoe-over-shoe scenario, he said relieved, "When I walked in I had to tell myself, 'David, don't react, but man she has big feet!'" I am five feet tall. The shoes extend four inches past my toes. Covered in bright blue paint, they look like clown shoes.

We set out together and at first the shoes -- both sets -- hold together. Then, a half mile down the road, the inevitable: unaccustomed to having feet twice their normal length, my body rebels; the heels begin to scrape and I know the mother and father of all blisters are being formed. We pause briefly to allow me to discard the outer shells. The loafers will get ruined but better to damage shoes than heels. Without the blue boats weighing them down, my feet soar and I'm keeping up a good clip with David.

We are on the grounds of Woburn Abbey, the ancestral seat of the Dukes of Bedford. Fourteen generations of the Russell family have lived here. Can you imagine inhabiting the same family home, even an absolutely palatial one, for so long? The Russells have owned and walked and ridden along these rolling hills for centuries, each generation leaving a ghostly imprint on the place for the next.

I wonder if the first wife of the fourth Duke of Bedford traversed this same course? She was the favorite granddaughter of the formidable Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, wife of the hero of Blenheim. Sarah schemed to marry her off to Frederick, Prince of Wales, and the marriage nearly came to fruition before his alarmed father extracted the Prince. The young lady was titled, rich and the daughter of the Earl of Sunderland. Her name was Lady Diana Spencer. And like her distant relation of the twentieth century, she died young, only twenty-five when tuberculosis claimed her.

Can landscapes have theme music? If they did, this wintry landscape would best be served by the second movement of Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor -- my constant companion these last few weeks. The melancholy stillness is broken when a rabbit suddenly streaks in front of us --

"Look at that bunny go!" I exclaim.

"Actually, that's a deer," David says. "Remember I was making fun of their small deer at the meeting yesterday?"

"Yeah, the rodents of unusual size."

It turns out that the little deer is one of nine breeds who lives on the estate. We crest a hill as dawn breaks and we pause. Up ahead are six of the biggest stags I have ever seen in my life, about fifteen feet away (but don't take my word for it since I'm terrible with gauging distances). They're beautiful -- tufted chests, graceful, majestic.

"Wow." It's all I can think of to say.

"Yeah. I felt like eating humble pie after I made fun of their rodent deer."

Further up the road we see another gathering of stags. They don't pay us much heed as we round a large tree and head back. The blue clown shoes are where we left them.

Every time I come to this country, I fall a little more desperately in love with it.

Lunch with the Tudors

After two decadent dinners and a day spent traversing London, Kaly left on Saturday morning. It made me sad: our time together had been deliciously comforting in a way that can only be if you share context and history...Why don't you appreciate the people your siblings have become when you haven't been paying attention until you're both so much older and your lives have taken divergent paths?

We woke early and had breakfast together before she went off. Without a companion to urge me to attack the day, I climbed back into bed and took a much needed nap. Waking at noon, I looked at the neat little list my sister had compiled for me: ‘Lunch at the National Portrait Gallery Café. Visit Apsley House. Charing Cross bookstores.’ Plus ça change….

Without Kaly’s unerring sense of direction in the city, my travel was not nearly as facile; but it didn’t matter. Her instructions on where to go and how to get there were precise. Entering the the National Portrait Gallery Café, I found it suffocated with hungry museum visitors who all seemed to be intent on having late lunches, like me. Desperately hungry and unwilling to wait, I exited and went into the Portrait Gallery. I knew there was a restaurant at the top; a friend and I had had tea there several years ago after I dragged him through the museum, intent on seeing every picture of every British monarch from the fifteenth century to the twentieth. That Pete still calls himself my friend is due in no part to an expansive generosity of spirit; even Hubby might not have been so forgiving. Climbing the stairs, I passed portraits from the Victorian and Jacobean reigns on the first floor; and on the second floor, I was delighted to realize that I would be passing through the Tudor gallery to get to the restaurant. The gallery is lined with portraits from the 14th and 15th centuries, from the last Plantagenet rulers, to their successors, the Tudors, and the Tudor court.

Portraits are a wonderland for me. Maybe others see paintings of long dead people who had some significance in history once upon a time; or maybe they are interested in seeing the works of famous court painters like Van Dyck and Winterhalter. I see personal histories – loves, lives, triumphs, disasters, and tragedies, played out in the public eye, a canvas and oil version of today’s celebrity magazines and True Hollywood Story programs.

Consider the painting of Sir Thomas More’s family. The original Holbein portrait was destroyed in the 18th century and this version, painted by Rowland Lockey in 1593, is based on Holbein’s original grouping, but depicts five generations of the More family. Passed by quickly, it’s just a painting of a dour looking family. But look closer and consider: Thomas More was a learned humanist who wrote the book and coined the term “Utopia.” In standing fast against accepting King Henry VIII’s self-proclamation as the supreme head of the Church of England, he knew that his refusal meant the end of his career – and eventually, his life; his daughter, Margaret Roper, one of the sitters in the painting, rescued her father’s head from its pike over London Bridge. What sits before you is not just a family grouping; it’s the history of a family justifiably proud of its learned and pious devotion.

Anne Boleyn, dark-eyed and alluring side by side with the regal but older and less attractive Catherine of Aragon -- any wonder that Henry VIII was so fascinated? Richard III, "Crookback," maligned by Shakespeare as the murderer of the Princes in the Tower -- portrayed by Sir Ian McKellen, sexy as hell; but in this painting, showing neither deformity nor evil purpose in his pensive portrait: how much of a propagandist was Shakespeare?

And in the provenance (the history of ownership), there is an even richer minefield of the same high drama that defines a human condition (usually tragedy). There is a Holbein “cartoon” which once graced Chatsworth, home of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire. The cartoon is simply a full scale sketch of the Tudor kings (Henry VII and Henry VIII) and their consorts (Elizabeth of York and at the time, Jane Seymour). Composed of papers glued together, the cartoon is one half of what eventually served as Holbein’s blueprint for the fresco painted at Whitehall Palace. Pinholes were pricked along the outline of the drawing and dusted with chalk to insure an accurate outline transfer to the wall. When the ninth Duke of Devonshire died in 1950, mere weeks before a lifetime settlement established to protect the family and their estates from death duties took effect, the Cavendish family was dealt a staggering blow when death taxes were assessed at £4.72 million in cash. Houses that had been part of the family’s legacy including Hardwick Hall, home of their ancestress, Bess of Hardwick, were given to the National Trust to defray costs, while thousands of acres, and priceless works of art were sold. One of the items they were forced to part with to pay these taxes (which weren’t fully paid off until 1967) was the Holbein cartoon – the same which now hangs in the Tudor gallery of the museum. This is a significant work: look and you will see that Holbein’s rendering of Henry VIII, legs apart, hands clasping his belt in a bold, aggressive stance, is the defining image of the king, in much the way Gilbert Stuart’s painting of George Washington is the de facto image of the president.

All this pathos, drama, and history in three rooms.

The Portrait Restaurant is located on the top floor of the museum, accessible by a flight of stairs at the entrance to the Tudor gallery. It is distinguished for its views of the Trafalgar Monument, Big Ben and the London skyline. The restaurant was slammed – so I put my name on the waiting list and went to the bar for some water. As I waited, an elderly lady took the seat next to mine, and picked up the menu. She turned and announced to me, “It would be quite easy for me to get drunk but I shall have coffee instead.”

I’ve seldom had the pleasure of being introduced to Batty Old Ladyship by the entrant herself and I was enchanted. She looked longingly at the list of martinis – then murmured to the bartender to bring her a coffee. Further conversation did not ensue as the hostess came over to inform me that my table was ready. Had I been in a less anti-social mood, I would have invited her to join me; I can’t even imagine what superb stories she might have told.

The restaurant offers a two or three course prix fixe menu, and at three o'clock, an afternoon tea menu. In my wistful mood, I wanted comfort food; and the dish of fresh tagliatelle with wild mushrooms and lima beans, fit the bill. It came, lightly coated in a cream sauce, bright yellow noodles punctuated with green peas and lima beans; topped with fresh shaved Parmigiano, it suited me perfectly: rustic, simple, soothing. Oddly enough, eating by myself made it easier to photograph my food (I didn't dare when out with Kaly). The pasta was followed a simple dessert: vanilla waffles topped with roasted figs and vanilla mascarpone.

Afterwards, I made my way back to the Tudor gallery to spend some time with the portrait of Katherine Parr. It's a full length painting, for a long time thought to be of Lady Jane Grey -- easily my favorite historical personage from this time.

What a great way to spend a Saturday by yourself in London.

Eating in London

“It’s just that Scottish food tastes like it was cooked on a dare!”

I laughed when I heard this on a Saturday Night Live skit years ago. I mean, offal cooked in sheep’s stomach? But then Hubby and I went to Edinburgh for Honeymoon Part 3 (part 1 was in Napa; part 2 in Normandy; and we’ll continue honeymooning the rest of our lives) in 2003 and I fell madly, wildly in love with the city, the people, and most of all, the food – even, and absolutely haggis. Scotland’s long alliances with France shows up in its haute cuisine and we were deeply enamored of our experiences at such restaurants as the Witchery.

Now, maybe you can subsitute “English” for “Scottish” and I might find the thought more believable: meat pies, steamed suet puddings and stunningly heavy foods; but on further reflection, I think this is also unfair because the truth is, it’s been a long time since I’ve actually eaten what might be considered traditional “English” or “British” food. Then came last Tuesday.

In town for business meetings, we were taken to a pub for dinner our first night. Now, a pint of plain (Guinness) I can take any day of the week with joy; but accompanied by rarebit and Spotted Dick is just asking for trouble. I had ordered an Angus burger, copping out to what I imagined would be the easiest dish on the menu to tackle – but what came out were two pounds of flattened beef on a hoagie roll. Too horrified to pursue the “burger,” I ate the chips (fries) instead. The next morning found several of us in a state of pain – the food the night before being entirely too heavy, too rich, too much. And none of us had had enough sense to eat carefully -- we gorged.  On top of this, we were struggling with the time change and the gargantuan meal the night before probably didn’t help.

“I want to know something,” I muttered to Greg the next day. “How is it possible that a nation whose empire once stretched across the world…could be so maligned by and for its cuisine?”

“I have a theory,” Greg said.

“And that would be?”

“Seafaring nations have lousy cuisine.”

“That’s so not true! What about the Norsemen?”

“Um…hello?”

“Ooh. Good point. But the Portuguese!”

“Name one Portuguese dish.”

“You know, you might be on to something.”

I brought this up with my sister over dinner Thursday night.

“I disagree,” she said. “English food has changed a lot. The fact is – it’s simple food, simply cooked and thoughtfully prepared – that’s what real English food is now.”

And I know this – there are culinary geniuses in English kitchens doing amazing things. One of my stated ambitions is to eat at a Gordon Ramsay restaurant! But Kaly persuaded me otherwise Thursday night when I arrived.

“How are you feeling?” she asked when I told her I wanted to try for a Gordon Ramsay dinner.

“I’m okay.”

“No, I meant, how’re you doing food wise?”

“I’m okay, but still kinda finicky. The tastebuds are still undergoing rejuvenation.”

“Okay, then let me suggest that you save Gordon Ramsay for another trip. The fact is, unless you’re 100%, it’s a waste of time and money. So let me take you to my favorite places.”

She took me to a small French bistro where I ordered Bisque d’Homard, gratin dauphinois, haricots verts and a pan fried sea bass. This was probably one of the better bistros I've been to - the food was honest; well prepared and not bludgeoned to death with sauces. In fact, the Bisque d'Homard was a filled ravioli topped with a spoonful of caviar on a bed of wilted spinach with intensely flavored lobster sauce spooned lightly into the bowl. The bisque was so rich, so fulfilling, that being served as a sauce rather than a soup was more satisfying. The gratin bubbled with cream and Gruyère and the green beans...oh...there are so few things more earth shattering than well sauteed beans.

“You must pinky swear never to reveal this place to anyone.”

Kaly regarded me solemnly, holding out her little finger. I paused from inhaling my white chocolate mousse dessert to stare at her.

"I'm serious. You may not divulge the name of this restaurant to anyone.”

So there I was, 35 years old and pinky swearing that I would never reveal the name or location of the restaurant to anyone.

The next night, she took me to J. Sheekey’s, located in the theater district (this restaurant, I am allowed to divulge). The restaurant specializes in seafood and my skate -- panfried -- was simple and succulent. Kaly ordered a tomato salad with parsley and shallots that astonished me with its bold, decisive flavors.

"How is it possible that tomatos can taste like this in January?" I demanded.

"This," Kaly said as I devoured my dinner, "This is what eating in London has become."

Okay. I believe.

Chicken Nooding No No.

This is a British version of Cup o' Noodles, called Pot Noodles. Words fail me. Not the concept of re-constituted noodles...but am I the only one who finds the idea of Southern Fried Chicken-tasting noodles revolting?

London, by way of Native

…I am back, with a series of dispatches which lack of high speed access (and inclination) prevented me from posting while overseas…

My last overseas trip was last April when I made a harried dash for Paris to enjoy my 35th birthday. It was a whirlwind and meant to be: a mad, last minute decision, and one that was thoroughly, if frenetically, enjoyed consisting of little more than food, wine, shopping and the company of beloved friends.

This trip to London has been surprisingly sedate; and I am somewhat surprised by the change. Granted, much of the trip was given over to the day job duties (which alas, is not food – but corporate – related) so I did not actually get to enjoy London until my last three days in the city. My sister Kaly was also in London, enjoying the final days of her holiday; and so we agreed to spend Friday together before her scheduled departure on Saturday. As it happened, I came into the city Thursday night and so we were able to meet for dinner.

My sister suggested that I stay in Central London and recommended the Edwardian Kenilworth hotel, which I can heartily endorse – it featuring spare, Asian-inspired aesthetics, a plush bed (which, after four days of Spartan quartering in a business hotel was an intense relief), and best of all, a minute’s walk from the British Museum.

Her own hotel was a block down the street; a curiosity which induced me to ask: “Why did you have me stay here then?”

Answered she: “I wanted to see what this hotel was like in case I wanted to stay here on my next visit.”

Me: “You used me as a hotel guinea pig?”

She: “Yes, of course.”

Ah the bonds of sisterly love.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“Eat at a Gordon Ramsay restaurant, but apart from that, I haven’t any plans.”

“Why don’t you let me show you my London?”

We have not traveled together in almost thirteen years. Our last foray overseas was with our two sisters, Souris and Hani. Fittingly, given our disparate personalities, it was also the last and only occasion in which we four sisters journeyed together. Souris, thoroughly independent, parted ways from us in England, decamping for Scotland while we went on to Paris. I was obnoxiously sangfroid (irresponsible) about everything, which drove Kaly, with her disciplined scheduling, mad, an insanity further exacerbated by Hani’s equally laissez-faire travel methodology (which, like mine, consisted of staying up late, sleeping late, and going where the spirit moved us in the morning). It’s interesting how time changes things.

Kaly was the perfect boon companion on this trip with whom to pass time. She knows this country and this city like the back of her hand, navigating it with a fluency borne from countless holidays here. We share a mutual love of this country and our Anglophilia ensured a never ceasing flow of conversation about the country, its people and its history.

“You know where that name comes from?” I asked as we passed a sign for Elephant and Castle.

“Edward I’s wife, Eleanor of Spain, was born the Infanta of Castile, which sounded strange to English ears and they corrupted it to ‘Elephant and Castle.’”

These are the sorts of things that make me glow inside. Context is something you just can’t buy – even when it’s a shared belief in apocrypha.

First there was the requisite stop at the British Museum that I might indulge my Egyptology fetish and view the Rosetta Stone and the Stela of Paser (but no viewing of mummies or statues of Anubis either – nightmare inducing, as Emil discovered to his sleep detriment after we watched “The Mummy Returns” together; laugh. It is funny.). We did not visit the Museum so much as chirped hello; the Rosetta Stone was on display but the Stela is viewable only by appointment. We ran through the Grecian and Roman rooms at breakneck speed then exited to our next stop: Sotheby’s.

Kaly had been entrusted to pick up music manuscripts won at auction for a friend in New York so we went to Bond Street. Okay, it’s just insanely cool to say that I went to pick up something (anything!) at Sotheby’s even if it was by proxy.

After Sotheby’s, we stopped off at Harvey Nick’s to pick up currant jam and considered eating at their food court upstairs; but Kaly reorganized our schedule with a quick admonishment: “We can’t have lunch and tea so let’s go to the Orangerie at Kensington Palace for tea.”

At the Orangerie, I devoured a new potato and crème fraîche salad, pushing the celeriac and apple puree off to Kaly; the taste buds are still not at 100% and the spices in the soup were too pungent for me. Finished off with a raisin scone and ever delicious double Devon cream and strawberry jam, it was a perfect tea. My only sadness is that I no longer drink British tea; I’ve sworn off caffeine for a while and my inclinations have moved firmly towards the French Mariages Frères. Of course, there was no need to share this information with Kaly. Sated from our repast, in a fit of curiosity (and perhaps laziness since it was right there), we decided to tour the state apartments of Kensington Palace.

Save your money. Two words: RIP OFF. And we were not the only ones to think so; a score of tourists before us were all outraged over paying £11 to see what amounted to little more than bare, empty stone rooms. I’m serious. They really should be ashamed of themselves at Kensington Palace.

What was worth the price of admission, however, was watching the insanely stupid tourist outside who pretended to have food in his hand to entice a fat Kensington Palace squirrel to come to him. Because the oversized rodents are used to being fed by people, they lack fear and are surprisingly aggressive: we had one squirrel run right up to us and beg.

“This is normal,” Kaly said. “They’ve been trained to get food so they’ll come right up to you and beg.”

And menace! When the little bastard realized there was to be no food from us, he actually bared his teeth!

In any case, the Insanely Stupid Tourist kept holding out his hand and making the little squirrel jump up to try to grab whatever was in his hand (nothing). The Insanely Stupid Tourist giggled and tried to pet the squirrel, who, dancing for his food, was beginning to do a slow boil.

“That squirrel is going to get pissed off in a second,” Kaly said, in a voice too distinct to be discreet. “Idiot! You don’t tease squirrels used to feeding from the human hand! That’s an invitation to a biting! Rabies! Hello?”

I was utterly fascinated. It’s like watching a collision – you know it’s going to happen, you just wait breathlessly for that moment.

“Please let me watch.”

“No, we have other things to do.”

“Seriously, this would be worth filming.”

“For America’s Stupidest Human Being?”

“Please.”

“Come on.”

I trotted behind her dutifully but longed to hear a human wail of pain behind me. Alas none was forthcoming.

Careening through the city by tube, bus and the occasional death march (being a New Yorker, she is unflinching about 90 city-block walks) I became acquainted with Kaly’s London, and it occurred to me that in countless visits to London, I’ve never really seen it this way – always before there was a purpose, and a time limit in which to accomplish said purpose; but this was London by way of the native, in bustling, rain-slicked streets with no mission other than to simply enjoy the city.

I do not know about others, but for me, visiting Paris is like meeting a dashing, feckless lover; every visit is dazzling and breathtaking. But I discovered on this trip to London that being here -- ah; it is quiet, precious, enveloping and purposeful, like coming home to the man you have loved all your life. And this makes me miss that particular man, all the more.