I’m having mood swings. Pinot Noir vs Merlot. I love Pinots from Chile, New Zealand and even Burgundy (when I can afford them). I am equally starting to appreciate the right bank of la Gironde, the home of Merlot? In any case, both grapes are a welcome change from Cabernet Sauvignon, Malbec and Sangiovese for example.
Of all the restaurants where I have sat beneath a canopy of Maple leaves, Le Perron in Geneva is undoubtedly the best, or come to think of it, actually the only one. Having said that, I suppose I should be grateful to be sitting outside at all in October in Europe.
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A letter arrived. Not an email. Not a text message. Not even a telegram or a greeting card. A letter, hand written, addressed to me, and delivered to the office.
Of course, I remember the days before this eloquent and pulchritudinous form of communication was rudely re-branded snail mail. Nowadays, I have to admit that I cannot recollect the last time I received a hand written letter. This particular letter resulted in an uncommon sequence of events that lead me to Tingewick, a pretty country village in Buckinghamshire.
Tingewick, close to the intersection of the three counties of Bucks, Northants, and Oxon, is an architectural melting pot. 16th century thatched cottages huddle awkwardly next to 1940’s council houses like new kids meeting at school. Grand mansions look down on their tiny peers who appear to doff their tiled roofs in deference. Residents include a well known rock guitarist, a lottery winner, and my estranged Godmother.
The somewhat entertaining, but supercilious and frequently AWOL Sunday Times restaurant critic, AA Gill, rarely extends his gastronomic tentacles beyond central London. So I was surprised to see that he had, according to a poster at Piccadilly rail station, nominated San Carlo in MANCHESTER as the best Italian restaurant outside the capital. Surprised not only because he had ventured so far north as to get the apocryphal nosebleed, but also because San Carlo is far from the best resto of any type anywhere.
 
At my local sandwich shop I have been lunching on fruit, sandwiches, and crisps (hey if you’re American I mean chips, ok?). I am not particularly loyal to any brand of crisps so I was tempted by an offer from Seabrooks which suggested that by collecting 8 packets I could send off to claim a pint sized mug.
The wine bar in the lower ground floor of F & M Foodhall on Piccadilly is so cool, and I’m not talking about the ambient temperature. Staffed by a range of nationalities with a variety of experiences in wine. Our Polish waiter, Artur Zarzycki “vaz early on hiz vine joornee” but seemed to know plenty despite his claimed one year of experience. And he almost knew how to operate a camera!
Queuing outside F & M on a Sunday at midday (the bloody shop opened late by about 2 minutes 30 seconds), because we had an hour to kill before our reservation at St Alban (more anon). So, as all the restaurants and cafes in F & M were being refurbished, we dashed down to the wine bar “1707” where, for £23.90 (inc. service) we got to try a fantastic range of wines. Who says the posh shops are expensive?
Stumble It!