Au Bon Accueil

One of my first trips to Paris was with friends, in the winter. I remember we made our way to the Trocadèro and walked down to the Eiffel Tower and up the Champ de Mars to Les Invalides. It was beyond freezing, with a vicious wind and grim lowering leaden clouds. However, we were young and foolish and high on an exciting journey to the most glamorous city in Europe.

Yesterday, I retraced that walk with my friend Nicolas. We were in Paris to catch the Masculin / Masculin exhibition at the Musée d’Orsay and Nic had arranged for us to eat lunch at a friend’s restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. We got off the Metro at the Trocadèro to be welcomed by a sublimely beautiful winter’s day.

You just don’t get light like that in London - crisp and high-keyed and blindingly clear. The Trocadèro’s polished marble platform bounced it all around amazingly - heaven for two amateur photographers. In the distance, the tower shimmered like a mirage in the miraculously blue sky.
After walking down across the Seine to the tower we explored the bottom section of the Champs de Mars a bit before heading off to the restaurant: Au Bon Accueil - ‘The good reception’. And what a reception it is.

I was excited as although I’ve been a fairly frequent visitor to Paris I’ve never eaten at a smart contemporary restaurant at the top of its game. Au Bon Accueil has a deliciously lacquered maroon frontage onto the street, and is a calm refuge within - simple and luxurious textures of stone and wood enclose intimate spaces. One of the stone columns had been carved by a grateful customer - a Bacchus or vaguely Assyrian monarch surveys the room. Front of house staff were friendly and efficient - you just immediately feel in very good capable hands. We quaffed a delicious glass of champagne and consulted the menu.

It seems I have good luck with fish in Paris. On that earlier trip a waiter at La Coupole (of course) suggested a fish dish different to my initially ordered salmon. As it was cheaper I went with his suggestion but if my French was up to the menu I might have avoided it: I seem to remember it was mullet with red wine and bone marrow (??!) However, it came, and was totally wonderful. On my last trip - a work outing with colleagues - I was desperate to eat at the hottest, smartest place in town and spent the day trawling my trade fair consulting restaurant guides and barking instructions to Angela (who spoke French), to try to get a table. Sadly, everywhere was booked and when we got back to the hotel that evening the colleagues were too exhausted to go out, and suggested we eat at a place next door. This turned out, hilariously, to be a celebrity hang-out from the 1950s totally fossilised in its time. Our table was treated with disdain until we ordered a second bottle of wine. Jo didn’t want a starter and I fancied two on the menu, so ordered tuna tartare for her for me to eat. It came and it turned into a tuna stand-off, it was so delicious.

But my salmon starter at Au Bon Accueil trumped all: a generous slab of salmon fillet, briefly seared (basically, sashimi). Breathtakingly gorgeous - a real work of art, with delicate dabs of different sauces, condiments and vegetables arranged as if by a florist or a jeweller on the plate. Lovely textures and flavours, really leaving me wanting more: a perfect starter.

The arrival of our poached and roasted chicken breast main course was heralded on our table by a culinary implement I have not seen before: a “pelle à sauce” (sauce shovel). This is something I can get behind! Especially when the sauce in question was the unctuously smoky mashed potato accompanying the chicken.

Again, achingly beautiful composition was backed with flawless execution: the chicken was tender, flavourful and juicy, with skin crisped to perfection by the roasting. A drift of blanched brussels sprouts leaves across a smear of sweet potato added a touch of wit and colour to the plate.

For pudding I fancied the brioche perdu, which Nicolas informed me was French comfort food (he went for the chocolate tart). My brioche was lovely, a squidgy yet fluffy square of caramelised eggy goodness, punctuated by the sharpness of mango and passion fruit. It came with a separate jug of caramel-topped whipped cream. So perfect.

We ordered from the lunch menu and both thought it offered excellent value for the price. Although we both felt that nowadays one can find similar quality food in London, it typically comes at three times the cost. Also, in my experience the lunch menus in London tend not to be as generous or imaginative.
After this wonderful meal we said our goodbyes and hurried off to the Musée d’Orsay for Masculine / Masculine. All I can say is the quality of the reception at Au Bon Accueil is mirrored superbly by the quality of the food. I’d love to go back.

Chez Jules in Birmingham

Birmingham - Eating & Drinking - Restaurants - French



Ah, Birmingham - I go every year for the Spring Fair. We decided to beat the crush travelling back to London by eating in town first. I chose this place due to it’s mostly good reviews and as a change from our more usual Indian.


Chez Jules is just off New Street very close to the Station. It’s on the first floor, and the rather grubby entrance staircase doesn’t prepare you for the handsome, large, split-level dining room upstairs. There was a great buzz, even on a pre-Valentine grey tuesday in February. We got a big welcome by the friendly and mostly efficient staff.

The smoked salmon pancakes arrived very swiftly. Obviously pre-prepared much earlier in the day and refrigerated sadly flattening the taste of the fish and it’s herby pancake wrapping.

A trainee waiter took away my cutlery at this point, so when my main course arrived I had no knife and fork. Frantic waving to flag down someone to help ensued.

My main was an accurately cooked, meltingly tender chicken chasseur. The sauce was well-judged, not overpowering the chicken. To accompany it I had the house’s famous potato gratin, which comes in it’s own little frying pan - absolutely delicious; perfect comfort food for a cold winter’s night.



To finish, a large slice of tarte tatin - pastry not as crisp as I would have liked but there was an amazing depth of toffee apple goodness, served on a wash of excellent custard.



In all, we felt it was a delightful, characterful yet unpretentious sort of place serving honest, good food. A good choice, and for the price, very deserving of 4 stars.

Check out my review of Chez Jules - I am hedgiecc - on Qype

a trip to St Peter's, Cambridge

St Peter's, Cambridge has been around for a very long time, but the local community was slightly too ambitious when they came to build it: almost from the start it seems it was too large for the community to afford upkeep. The church was downsized (literally) in the 18th-century, but still fell into decay and neglect. When Jim Ede created Kettle's Yard, he also set about renovating and saving this church. It is now deconsecrated.

The doorway is Norman (11th, early 12th century). The inner column on the left is an 18th-century wooden replacement for the lost original. The church walls were built out of reclaimed rubble - the red bricks visible in the lower right are actually reclaimed roof tiles from ancient Roman buildings in the vicinity - the Roman fortress is nearby.



One can borrow the key to the church from the desk at Kettle's Yard and enter the tiny church.



St Peter's 11th/early 12th--century font has 'mermen' carved in each corner. Not a classic Christian motif; unless perhaps they are referring to fish imagery.

This is apparently the oldest surviving baptismal font in Cambridge.



Close-ups of the font carvings - these have seen almost 1000 years of babies being christened . . .





Jim Ede was a 20th-century aesthete, apparently the first modern art curator at the Tate, and the creator of Kettle's Yard in Cambridge: he transformed four cottages into an extraordinary space; a showcase for his modern art collection. He donated the whole thing to the University of Cambridge, and to this day it remains a remarkable ensemble of classic English craftsmanship and high modernist aesthetics. There is a memorial tablet to him in the church he helped save.



"It is salutary that in a world rocked by greed, misunderstanding and fear, with the imminence of collapse into unbelievable horrors, it is still possible and justifiable to find important the exact placement of two pebbles."

~ Jim Ede, A Way of Life: Kettle’s Yard, 1984

weekend

Back from a weekend in the country – hiked in the rain with Lesley over a Civil War battlefield, and met a funny man whose facial hair growth was suspiciously 17th-century: methinks he’s a cavalier in the reconstructed Royalist army.

Liz flew back to Cape Town last night from Terminal Five and ‘phoned in a glowing report – it’s absolutely gorgeous, and she had no problems at all. Let’s hope her luggage arrives.

Tube Rage

Blissfully, I have managed to avoid rush-hour tube travel for almost 25 months. Unfortunately, however, I had to take the tube up to Euston on Monday morning at 7:18 am.

From previous experience, I thought this would be early enough to at least be able to squeeze into a carriage at Clapham Common station, if not actually get a seat. However, we were packed so tight I was able to identify people’s preferred toothpaste brands. At least, and thank goodness, people on the southern end of the Northern line use toothpaste in the mornings!

Well, things were fine if tightly packed ‘till Stockwell, where I changed to the Victoria line. I then unwittingly stood in the personal and private space of someone else on this packed platform (he had followed me closely all the way from the Northern line platform, huffing and puffing). When the train came in this gentleman elbowed me roughly in the ribs in order to get into the carriage first, then deliberately blocked me off from getting a seat (unsuccessfully). He glowered threateningly at me. I glowered as fiercely as I could back, and thankfully before things escalated the carriage became packed and we were separated.

So – beware of Mr Angry on the Northern line: a middle-aged gent with a few wispy ginger curls clinging nostalgically to his bald pate. Doesn’t look like a yob but is a total psycho. Hope he gets seized by the authorities and forced to watch Ken’s “courtesy on public transport’ video back-to-back all weekend.

Johannesburg: sunset and storm

trials and tribulations, cont.d

I'm just back from Johannesburg, South Africa - been on a mission of mercy. My poor father has been diagnosed with multiple myeloma and is already in a fairly advanced stage: he's been in hospital with a severe bout of pneumonia and septicaemia. He was initially expected to pass away over the Easter weekend, but a change of meds pulled him through.

So, I have been resident for the last few weeks in my parents' retirement home - with no internet access and therefore no blogging.

Of course, I was out there last year aound this time, for about three months. He had had a stroke and a fall and broke the C1 vertebra. The hospital he was admitted to - a very zooty northern suburbs one - did not diagnose the stroke or the myeloma. I learn from my reading now that fractures are a primary indicator of myeloma (and advanced age and maleness), as are opportunistic infections of the lungs and renal system (both of which he contracted in a big way immediately upon entering the hospital for 'tests' - he was in their ICU for 8 weeks). So it is not comforting that they missed it, but of course we can't really complain as the condition is incurable anyway.

So. Poor old mum is not accepting the prognosis at all, so that was difficult. But on top of all this she was served with a court summons from last year's doctor alleging non-payment of his bill!! So I had that to sort as well. Luckily a close friend in Johannesburg is an attorney.

The SA medical system has given me a new-found respect for the NHS. SA is completely privatised, so everyone has to have medical insurance. Every medical practice handles their accounts differently, and the practices sometimes claim directly from the medicial insurers and sometimes don't, depending. Neither speaks to the patient, and if you ring the insurers it is typical call-centre hell. Chaos!

Anyway, we gritted teeth and dug deep and discovered Dr M had in fact been overpaid by the medical aid - significantly so. And my mother, confused by the doctor's accounts department badgering, had paid the patient portion three times over. Taken together, the bill was paid literally twice over. And now Dr M is trying for a triple!

One doesn't know whether the good doctor is trying his luck with an elderly and confused patient, or whether his own accounts department is up to something - unfortunately, I gather neither scenario is unheard of. I have compiled all our evidence into a summary of payments and our lawyer is taking to their lawyers.

It's all just beyond belief.

Jo'burg was looking good - had a look at the inner city and felt it was very clean and spruce. The municipality's regeneration project is clearly taking effect. We still had heavy thunderstorms in the afternoons, a typical summer weather pattern for Jozi but very odd for autumn.

Easter weekend news roundup

Riot at Primark - Evening Standard. Exciting times on Oxford Street! I must check out this Primark place of which you speak.

The Queen's loaf is saved - Evening Standard (no link). Apparently, HM The Queen was devastated to hear rumours that Waitrose was about to discontinue her favourite brown loaf - the "Ascot". "Indeed, so upset was she that a member of the Royal household was despatched to Waitrose to ask them to reconsider their decision, and restore the 59p loaf to the shelves."

Happily, the Ascot loaf has not been discontinued but merely repackaged - now it will be known as "thin sliced brown bread".

Waitrose says: "We have been consistently selling our Waitrose thinly sliced brown bread for many years. The bread is the quintessential English loaf, perfect for delicate cucumber sandwiches, or to serve with smoked salmon." Ha! So now we know how to make the perfect Royal cucumber sandwich for tea.

More rather intriguing Royal news/gossip in the Evening Standard:

The very curious world of the royal odd couple (no link, ES 05/04/07 p18). Where did Camilla go to recuperate from her hysterectomy? One of the three Royal palaces she shares with Charles? - or her own private house, away from Charles? The second guess would be correct. The article is interesting in that it reflects on issues arising in the royal marriage, mainly to do with his thoughtlessness. The moral this reader drew from the story: be wary of answered prayers, Camilla. One thing being the bit on the side. Quite another to be the main event.

Gay couples given keys to the Magic Kingdom as Disney relents - The Guardian Now gays can get married at Disneyland!

Chaos on sinking Greek cruise ship - BBC. It is quite unbelievable that a cruise liner can run aground and sink virtually in the Island's harbour. I definitely intend to avoid Louis Cruise Lines. Another of their boats had an engine fire in the English Channel last year, and apparently the company also owns the resort where the two English children died of carbon monoxide poisoning recently. Two French tourists are missing in this latest tragedy.

Finally, some shocking local news: Pregnant woman shot dead at flat. A few weeks ago, a teenager was shot near Clapham North station. This new murder seems to be related to a feud with a neighbour over parking. Just off Northcote Road, this is the epicentre of Nappy Valley, in estate agent speak "between the Commons", one of the most desirable stretches of property in this area. In BBC parlance, definitely "residential".

Weekend news roundup

Eclipse - On Saturday evening clear skies meant Londoners saw the first total lunar eclipse since 2001. The eclipse began at 8.18pm and was complete between 10.44pm and 11.58pm. The red shade is caused by sunlight scattering through the earth's atmosphere being reduced to mainly red wavelengths before being reflected off the moon's surface.

I missed the whole thing as I crashed at around 8pm! - Just too exhausted and couldn't take the pace.

BBC gives up appeal against injunction - The cash for honours affair gets even more interesting, and the politicians seem to be in even hotter water. "Although the precise allegations still cannot be disclosed for legal reasons, they are understood to relate to the 'heart of the investigation'.
. . . the BBC reported that the injunction related to an 'internal email' circulated in Dowing Street." - The Observer

Love is a more accurate indicator of life expectancy than smoking - Happiness s good for you! How to be happier: (a) - move nearer to the office. Commuting is bad for your mental health!; (b) - Get married - except children cause a strain on your happiness until they move out; (c) - Earn at least £25,700 a year: below that is bad, and above that not that much better - way above can actually be bad too; (d) - Get into gardening - 'flow' activities where your brain can switch off are excellent for your health; (e) Get out more - socialise, socialise, socialise! - The Observer

London - " . . . London is the clearing house of Europe, the Nineveh and Babylon of modern times, the wealthiest city on record.
. . . the Square Mile continues to boom. London has become the number one financial centre with the most foreign banks, 70 per cent of the world's secondary bond market and half the derivatives market. The City's 325,000 employees lapped up an estimated £9bn in New year bonuses." - Tristram Hunt, The Observer

The northern lights have the strangest side effects - Abisko in northern Sweden is a popular honeymoon spot with Japanese couples - "they believe babies conceived under the northern lights will become intellectuals. Hotel rooms with glass viewing roofs are popular, and every local seems to know about the collision 120 miles away in Gallivare, when a snowmobile hit an amorous couple displaying remarkable determination - not to mention blood flow - in a sleeping bag." - Ian Belcher, The Sunday Times

More Chemistry

I am starting to regret my previous belief in our new security regimen.

Mixing up a bomb while on board a plane is not as easy as mixing a Sea Breeze (as we have been carefully led to believe) - it requires time (hours and hours), skill, temperature control (lots of ice), ventilation (noxious fumes): if someone was constructing a 7/7-type bomb in the airplane loos it is likely someone would notice something odd. More hair-raising details for the paranoid here.

Although my sister (a Science graduate) told me this evening it is theoretically possible to make an effective explosive out of a bag of flour and a cigarette lighter.

Anyway, apart from the security beaurocrats (let's face it - the government is never going to turn down an opportunity to grab greater power) - commerce also benefits, as Carol Sarler in today's Observer writes:

"The absurdity that is 'tightened security' at airports is making fortunes for some. Dutifully, we leave our perfume and mascara behind, slither naked through check-in, then gallop to Boots in departures to buy replacements, while Mr Boot and his landlord, BAA, laugh all the way to the bank. The French, mind, must be laughing louder. In their departures lounge at Nice last week, one woman flogged you 50ml of No 5 and then, only yards away at the boarding gate, another confiscated it. The plane home carried such a rich scent of fury and indignation, with an agreeable top-note of xenophobia, that you could have bottled that, instead."

Defective Gaydar

A roomful of people – mixed, with a clear majority of gay men. Our hostess is partial to a good bit of ‘mo. The evening progresses, and after dessert a new guy arrives, by himself. He is the gayest man in the room: a designer, working on a forthcoming project by some rock group. Tight white t-shirt visible through the open zip of a pleated petrol-blue satin hoody/jacket type-thing (whatever, very fashion-forward). Yards of creative silver bracelets heading up one arm; earrings; sharp, precise haircut. No rings. We are chatting amiably a deux (for a bit) when a woman comes up and links arms with him; glowering at me deadpan. It’s his heavily pregnant wife.

For some reason this reminds me of my first visit to Greece.

Ivan and I were romantically island-hopping (or that was the intention). We were ferrying from Santorini to Amorgos, and had to change at Naxos. There was a two-hour wait, and I insisted we use this time to travel to the centre of the island to look at an abandoned kouros in some ancient Greek quarry. This turned out to be an adventure, and we got back to the harbour just in time to catch the boat - a tiny rust-bucket with a small tarpaulin rigged over the stern for shade. As we were almost the last people on board we were left out on deck in the sun.

I was aware of three well-built German guys – I took them for divers. Amorgos was where ‘The Big Blue’ was filmed. Obviously straight.

We hadn’t eaten since breakfast. We had missed buying food in town, and were now trapped on the rust-bucket which didn’t sell any. Some American back-packers behind us tucked in to their picnic. Ivan wasn’t happy, and it was all my fault. After some discussion we decided on some time-out and he headed off to scour the vessel in search of sustenance.

Tired, hungry, and emotional, I wiped my sunglasses and tried to blank out the Americans. Sudden movement immediately to my right – one of the Germans: now shirtless, leaning languidly against the ship’s funnel, his sun-bleached locks tumbling down across broad shoulders (I do love long hair on a man). The torso of Apollo (and I should know; I’ve just seen the kouros).

My heart leapt into my mouth. I was overcome with confusion. I desperately, helplessly tried to not keep glancing at him – don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t stare’ don’t stare – I didn’t want a face full of straight German fist.

He continued practising his poses for his forthcoming Bruce Webber photoshoot. It was almost – almost as if he was trying to attract my attention.

I only started wondering if he might be gay when I caught sight of his mate trying to hit on Ivan across on the other side of the deck.