Eating Out in SE19 – Westow House Pub

Crystal Palace, Baby!

Westow House in Crystal Palace is the living embodiment of everything a pub should be. Like the glory days of the village tavern where crusty hobbits would gather for flagons of ale as it was the only building around with a roaring fire on heathenous medieval nights, Westow House is a pub for actually living in, as they were meant to be. An ale-filled extension of your home.

The Hare and Hounds, Lingfield, Surrey

The Hare & Hounds, Lingfield, is a charming, powder blue pub, sitting unassumingly along the slip road outside the quaint, Midsommer Murders-esque village of Lingfield, famed for its racecourse. Inside is a colourful explosion of mismatched furniture, oriental flourishes and borderline kitsch-tacky details which somehow coalesce to produce something like the sitting room of my dreams -all of this arranged neatly around a large log fire.

Malmaison London. Shaken, not stirred.

Jumping up and down permitted

There’s something a bit odd about staying in a hotel in your own city. It’s also quite pimpy, so the best thing to do when given the opportunity, as I recently was to the London Malmaison, is take someone you fancy the pants off (rather than your mum), raid the mini-bar, drink too many cocktails and really good wine at dinner then spend most of the night dancing ’til you pass out in bed to the dulcet tones of One Direction on the randomly picked turn-down service TV station.

Mince Pies 2011. Suet and Butter and All that Jazz.

Brandy! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Christmas peoples! It’s that festive time of year again when Ole Frankie Sinatra gets wheeled out singing Jingle Bells, I wee my pants at the sight of Christmas lights and see every evening as an excuse to pop a cork. As per tradition, I have made my first batch of Mince Pies 2011 and contrary to previous years I am saying “meh!” to vegetarians and pork-sensitive types the world over and stuffing my pies with suet – just because I can.

Hotel du Vin, Cambridge. Shmokin’

Shmokin' (and Freezin'!)

There are a few lessons I need to learn in life. One of them is that I don’t like cigars, a fact that I seem to forget EVERY time I drink single malt whisky. I get carried away by the peaty booziness and convince myself I am really in a dusty Havana club, then light up a bad boy. Then I cough up a lung and the illusion dissipates faster than a fart in a wind tunnel.

Hotel du Vin in Cambridge is so damn comfortable, cosy and indulgent we barely actually saw any of Cambridge at all, remaining ensconced within the hotel walls. A cigar bothy in the back garden proved a haven of such deliciousness that I once again fell prey to Cohiba-shaped crime. I could have swum laps in the bathtub, moulded into the bed and I finally learnt to use a Nespresso!

The First Itinerant Epicure Supperclub

Yes, I know, I am a hundred years late on this one! However… Over winter I will be trial running a series of dinners in the hope of setting up a monthly supperclub. If you’d like more info, DM me on Twitter. Here’s the menu for the first one – will be posting images after the fact!

Cornish Ale, Song and Harvest Festival at Bedruthan Steps, Cornwall

A view from above...

A sea view does so much to lift the spirits. Crashing waves or serene waters, blue skies arching over deep green water or storm-battered spray, either way I find the ocean is the most soothing and intoxicating balm. Both depressed by London, M. & I head out to Cornwall for a very short, but much needed escape overnight at Bedruthan Steps hotel. 4 1/2 hours on the very comfy seats of a First Great Western train and bingo, we were greeted with the cool drizzle and vast swathe of pancake-flat sand of Mawgan Porth’s beach, overlooked by a higgledy-piggledy mass of cottages, a pasty shop, surf shack and obligatory old man pub, and the square 50′s architectural oddity that is Bedruthan Steps hotel.

A Taste of Mauritius With Shanti Maurice

Let's Dance!

In this grey and wistful time of year, with England enjoying the average annual rainfall of a small tropical country on a daily basis, what we need is a bit of brightness, sunshine and good living. What better then than an evening in the company of the delightful Shanti Maurice team, their colourful dancing girls, exquisite Mauritian cuisine, rhum-laced cocktails and pampering? The invitation was like a breath of fresh air in an otherwise gloomy month and we huddled into Moti Mahal, one of my favourite Indian restaurants in London, to enjoy a night hosted by Shanti – a boutique lifestyle resort in the virtually untouched “Soma” South of Mauritius.

Displaced at The Fish Place, Battersea

Fish tank

Battersea by night is an odd little place. The dark, industrial riverside, winding silently through the backyards of garden centers; badly lit wastelands flanked by lego estates, then suddenly, at the end of a fuzzy golden-flickering road, a towering skyscraper and the low-drone of a heliport. Yes, a heliport. Apparently, this is where Al-Fayed and Abramovitch park their little zippers when in town. Perhaps they even stay at the ultra-random, sausage finger-shaped HeliHotel in front of it too, then zipline across the dank Thames, Bond-style, to Harrods for a spot of shopping. Either way, tonight I am in this bizarre back-of-beyond to sample the delights of The Fish Place, a relatively new joint specializing in super-fresh British fish, in season, and a break-the-rules wine policy.

The Fox and Anchor, Smithfield

Foxy architecture

Last time I had dinner in Smithfield I ended up playing a Ukelele in the backing band of 1920s cabaret diva Tricity Vogue at the Smithfiled Tavern. Today I am two doors down, on a slightly more quiet Tuesday evening, in the company of old blog-dinner companion A. to sample the “Gastro-pub” delights of The Fox and Anchor. Unlike many pubs of its ilk, which have undergone the transition to proper dining establishments, this one remains firmly a pub, thank god, and hasn’t gutted its interiors to make way for exposed floorboards, trendy “greige”-washed, faux-french rustic tables and daunting emptiness.