It Gets Betterish

[The title is stolen from a wonderfully acerbic YouTube site.  Pregnancy: It get's betterish.  Karaoke: It gets betterish.  Drag Queen: It gets betterish.]

Friday another day of sunny breaks, cloudy periods, London overcast and chilly, but never wet.

James Bond drove one.

Into St. James, Regent St, Liberty, Soho.  One shoppe was selling the (overpriced) bathing suits Daniel Craig wears in Skyfall; is it a conversation piece or do people actually think they’ll pass?  The spectacular new Whole Foods off Piccadilly Circus (the old one in Soho was a bit of a rabbit warren) has not transformed British food halls in general but was a welcome opp to get something decent for lunch at tennis where the food options are myriad and limited if you get my drift.

The doubles, Bhupathi Bopanna (quite a mouthful for the Portuguese ref) versus Mirnyi Nestor, was surprisingly engaging.  It seemed the veterans had the edge, mentally if not physically.  Nestor, after all, is 40, and I guess until Raonic can rack up the stats, remains the most accomplished Canadian tennis player to date.  It was, after all, his eighth ATP Tour Final appearance (even Djokovic has only done six).  I remember Mirnyi as a singles player, with flashes of John Isner talent, mixed in with Pat Cash-like faltering.  No, Aaron Krickstein unevenness, for those that have been watching tennis long enough to remember.  Max's erve held up well, I think both teams were in the 78 per cent range on first serves, but neither Max or Daniel could eke out the winners.  It was theirs to lose and they did.

Doubles here, and whether this is standard practice outside the grand slams I don’t know, but doubles here are final point on deuce, “receiver’s choice,” and in the case of split sets, like this match, which went both ways, a final 10 point tiebreak.  It seemed, given the volume of deuce points, and especially with Mirnyi’s strong serving, that had the Russian/Canadian been able to play out the Indians they could have won.  They didn’t.  10-5 in the tiebreaker.

The 320 m covered walkway from the tube to the entrance

Where are they stored?  What happens to them when retired? How can I buy one?  Where will Stephen let me put it?

The feature singles was a battle of the itches: Tomas and Novak.  Truthfully, Djokovic’s reception rivalled Roger’s the day before, which caught me off guard.  While they were warming up and while the lights were flashing statistics and the Compere as they call an MC here blasted win loss info, boxing match style, I thought of the poor Brazilian sponsor RJ.  Lacoste got the ref chairs.  Corona got logos on the net.  Fedex got the players seats.  Ricoh got the ump’s chair.  But there was nothing left for RJ (the national sports logo of Brazil), so they gave them a box.  Just a plain white painted box plunked centre court left side.

The first set Djocco as many called him played spot on focussed tennis.  He is slighter in person than you would imagine, lithe, and although Berdych is no giant he did look hulking comparatively.  His ability, consistently, to play the lines, within an inch, and his seeming fearlessness at running down balls, was much better appreciated live than televised.  I begrudgingly have to admit, he played like an actual number one player, ego or not. 

Berdych, alternately burr-ditch and beer-dick by the umpire, was sluggish.  It looked a little disappointing to the crowd but he came alive second set.  It was one of those moments when commentators speak of a change in on court energy, something hard to sense on a screen.  Tomas simply began hitting every ball back with finesse, he played cross court to cross court and set up well-constructed points which left Novak helpless.  Still, he couldn’t sustain it and Novak moved up.  Tomas came back strong and evened it to a tiebreak.  He went up two breaks in the tiebreak.  The crowd was shockingly rapt, peace to a pin drop, as he attempted to serve it out for a third.  But ultimately he was playing against the number one.  And, just like that, in seconds, the breaks disappeared and Novak served it out.  We were on the edge of our seats and then we were out of our seats.  It was two sets in under two hours but exhilarating.  I don’t think anyone left feeling as cheated as I did with Janko yesterday.

Fan zone.  The 02 is a bit of a matryoshka doll, brilliant in its execution.

Back to the hotel then to meet Manuel at six.  Of course Spanish six p.m. isn’t necessarily GMT, so after a bit of waiting I called his mobile only to find out he was still at his parents.  His suggestion was that instead of him coming to my hotel and us going to the bar in Knightsbridge that we previously agreed to, instead we both walk halfway between his place and mine and meet.  Well that is a recipe for disaster in London.  I could have been waiting on Pont Street half the night.  Instead we agreed to meet at Joe’s Caffe.

It’s a lovely walk down Basil St, behind Harrods, along Walton St, through the mews, and into South Ken from the Sheraton.  There were many curiosities to behold, all over the top eccentrically displayed and price prohibitive.

Well protected artifact

 I was the first bartender to work at Joe’s Caffe, when it opened, in 1986.  The late clothing designer/owner, Joseph, was in daily, we entertained many big wigs, Paul Smith and wife were in several times a week, indeed staff wore Paul Smith clothing (I may still have the blue polk-a-dot tie), the Saatchis were regulars, etc.  The design was austere and modern and I will never forget the short, succinct wine list that was the epitome of French-ness.  Nor, during fashion week, when David Bowie came by for dinner.

General store: Stuffed rabbits and Serge Mouille lamps.  Also, porcelain terriers.  Go figure.

But that was then.  Joseph is dead, the restaurant has long past its glamorous heyday, and is now a friendly local haunt for locals and wannabes to sip Aperol spritz’s and peruse their Brompton Rd shopping.  I had a nice chat with the bartender and manager because, naturally, Manuel had been detained.  But he did show.  And we had a nice chat too, coffee klatsch style, no focussed Martin Amis Christopher Hitchens debate here.  First at Joe’s, then around the corner at part of a mini-South Ken empire, Zefi’s, where over an hour and a half Manuel attempted to eat dinner while regaling me with stories of fashion, family politics, colonialism, neurotic Canary Island divas, property values, the friendliness of Albanians, shopping, VAT, the attitudes of Catalans, the virtues of the Galicians, the peculiarities of the English, the ups and downs of Italian relationships, the authenticity French can bring to a pub, the unpredictability of Romanians and Bulgarians, the intelligence but distance of Canadians, the methods and means to ingratiate yourself with restaurant owners, debt, parental issues, fraternal tension, three euro shirts from Benneton and fine Saville Row tailoring, use of the term salve as opposed to ciao.  Among many other topics.  I did mention at one point that the tennis was good.

Manuel Cortes Mesa aka Tom

Antony Sebastian Ashley

We eventually got through dinner, then returned to his place so he could change, we tried to get into “Tom’s” party, whomever Tom was, although throughout the evening Manuel did pretend to be him, he spoke to me at length about world history with a BBC series on the subject playing simultaneously on the iPad, self-medicated, tidied and untidied, opened shopping then put it away, applied eye drops, then we up and returned to Zefi which in an hour or so had transformed from a Sloane Ranger-ish hotspot restaurant to a full on club with DJ, packed, noisy, and not a UK born national in the lot.  To say that I can enjoy this sort of thing anymore is like saying Sarah Palin had the stuff of the presidency.  I did have to call it a night, but there was a certain pleasure in the walk home in the cool quiet night, especially when I ran across both an Airedale and a wire-haired Fox (although the walker was staff, and didn’t actually know the breeds; it was, after all, South Ken.  Studio apartment for 1.75 million quid anyone?).

Early storyboard for The Shining

Tennis as Spectacle

Thursday AM I made the trek to Cricklewood to see Diana, Simon’s mum.  She is still her old self in many ways, but in other ways lost in a bit of a fog.  I also saw a young woman who claimed to be his daughter but I truly couldn’t believe it.  Midday to tennis.

Spoiler alert: I did not see Murray Djokovic.  Because the Tour Final is a Round Robin of two groups of four, with 1/3/5/7 and 2/4/6/8, that means that since I have tix for both sessions on Thursday I will see Nadal and Murray, because Novak and Roger would be in the other group.  But then of course Nadal pulled out.  That left Novak with Andy, bumped Federer and his half picked up the extremely uneven Tipsarevic.

To start, they start with doubles.  On the one hand, doubles doesn’t get enough credit and is rarely shown on TV.  Brilliant dedicated doubles players can be brilliant.  But doubles is also littered with various castoff singles players, and worsened by teams where partners are forever switching it up.  It gets almost impossible to support anyone except for the Bryan brothers, who by dint of blood (and I guess temperament) are true to their team.

The 02.  Rock star venue.  Lights blink on Aces and Break Points.  Pretty much the bizarro version of Wimbledon.

First match was Paes and Stepanek against Lopez (not Feliciano, who isn’t playing at the event but was, for no apparent reason, on site, sitting with the Spanish Armada) and Granollers, the Spaniard with the French name.  The first set was dull as Paes/Stepanek took it easily; I think there were no break points and most games played at love.  But things picked up in the second, with not one but two breaks, although the Spaniards simply couldn’t capitalize, and Paes sealed the deal.  Stepanek, it might be noted, is I believe the only player on the tour (and maybe the only player under 30 period) that wears the long, baggy Pete Sampras shorts and tucks his shirt in.  He has the look of an Eastern European PE teacher, circa 1972.

The real tennis, and the sold out crowd, savoured the second match, Ferrer versus Federer.  With Nadal pulling out this should have been a Federer Nadal duel but was in fact one more nail in the coffin of the never ending Ferrer losses to Federer.  More insulting to Ferrer is that Roger didn’t bring his A game.  His first serve percentage was pathetic and he fluffed and muffed an unusual number of easy returns.  His second serves dribbled over the net, often under 100.  Still, Roger’s less than perfect game is still too much for most mortals and Ferrer, although he did try valiantly to recover, and brought the second set to a tie break, even having the upper hand twice, succumbed to the inevitable.  Roger, with only one ace in two sets served up two in the tie break.  Must have had dinner plans.

Ian McKellan was seated a few rows down from me.  Fluorescent orange top and tight stretch pants that looked like leotards.  He spent an unusual amount of time on his smart phone and the older gentleman accompanying him looked, at one point, to perhaps suffer from narcolepsy.

Pre-Sir.

During the break I tubed back to the hotel for a snack and to freshen up.  Given the timeframe it was a bit ambitious.  I arrived back just as Qureshi and Rojer were battling the Bryan Brothers.  Lively, fun, and with a few serious doubles net volley duels, the Bryans sewed it up quickly in two.  Following, in recognition of their eight year run as number one doubles partners and now going into the record book as the most successful doubles team of all time, they were given both a trophy for their year end status and a crystal goblet as ATP fan favourites. Justin Gimelstob, looking trim in a well tailored suit, did the honours.

They were followed by a strident and aggressive Tipsarevic and a loping, downcast del Potro.  Janko, who did a great impression of Novak at an ATP event a year or so ago--

  Phone rings

  Novak answers

  “Hello?  Who is this?  Barack?  Barack who?”

--brought no humour to the court, but neither did he bring much in the way of tennis.  Although there were some long rallies and there were all of nine break point opportunities in the first four games, it was poor shot selection, over-hitting, and a raft of unforced errors, that did Janko in.  6-0.  A bagel at the year end event!  Top eight in the world my ass.  A sea of Barclays men, the event sponsor, who appeared to be getting a fine corporate wine and dine in a restaurant upon my arrival, filtered into the arena, all navy and gray suits (is there no other acceptable fabric for the City?) twenty minutes late and virtually missed the first set.  It looked like a pod of Orcas, like private school boys in their uniforms which, I guess in a way, it was.  But they didn’t miss Janko not once but twice toss his rackets towards his stringer in disgust.  A streaker might have been what the match needed; some relief to the angst and tension of Tipsaravic and Delpo’s seeming lack of commitment.

Janko came alive in the second, showing some clever and athletic moves, but even so it was just a glimmer of how good he can be.  Meanwhile, Delpo did little more than hit returns, hard, fast, and accurately, to quickly go up a break and take the match in a 6-4 clincher.  A little sour for the occasion I think.

From my seat.  Actually much better than my pathetic pocket Canon shows.

Hopped on the Jubilee home.  Oh, three nights in, and Knightsbridge is "home" already...

I Get High

Although it's spelled haight (the t is silent, the Welsh is hwcyntha).

And someone said fashion was dead...

Wednesday.  The best part of the morning was that no one knew who won the election.  Oh, and it was sunny.  Colder than Vancouver, proper November eight degrees cold, and, weirdly, all the leaves are not only on the trees still but they’re green.

It was exciting, even thrilling to be back in London and for it to be gorgeous enough to beckon walking.  Headed towards Sloane Square then along King’s Road, coffee at Nero, shopping, back towards Harrods, into the West End and then all through Covent Garden.  Did not pay 345 pounds for a Burberry cashmere scarf or a similar amount for Vivienne Westwood shoes.  Had lunch at Canteen, a sort of nouveau and improved version of pub fare (warm roast pumpkin and chicken salad in a light Dijon dressing, very tasty if a tad overdressed, although I think a pie or pasty would have been the thing).  Asked the Italian bartender Riccardo, who was across the street lifting stock shirtless, if I could take a picture and he said “no time” although there was plenty of time.  Frontline reported on the Russian oligarchs taking over London, and while they are around, or at least I should say there are many Russians in Aston Martins and with shopping from Fortnum’s, in my particular hotel they are shadowed by equally rich Arabs.  But while that’s a decidedly obvious element, it seems the city is also littered with surly Italian servers mispronouncing coffee and saying “afters” as a question.

Lamp standard on The Mall

City of statuary (look up)

Above and below: The building that was, once upon a time, the Texas embassy

Part of being high on London is simply getting re-acquainted with neighbourhoods, sites and buildings that I still remember discovering first time round, thirty years ago.  At the same time, I learnt two new things about London today: One, the lamp standards that line the Mall have, in reference to England’s naval past, ships atop each one.  And, second, when Texas was briefly a republic, it actually had an embassy here.

There is, believe it or not, a back seat; makes our shopping cart look Aston Martin-ish

Decided to catch a matinee and checked out the half price booth which was four deep in undecided tourists and tix for the play I wanted to see at over 20 pounds, so walked the two short blocks to the Comedy and scored a day ticket, stalls, unrestricted view seat for ten quid.  The Comedy is a cramped little theatre with pillars and narrow stairs.  Eric Peterson brought Billy Bishop there in the early 80s, to critical acclaim but public bewilderment.  I saw Joseph Fiennes in an unmemorable production six or seven years ago.  I was hoping for better.  Both with the Fiennes vehicle and the play today.

A Chorus of Disapproval is the sort of play that you expect an A student drama PhD to write.  In fact, many of Ayckbourn’s plays are sort of like that, as if he was voted the most likely to succeed in his class, and did, but became not necessarily the best of his class.  A strong cast in a Trevor Nunn production but really, the reason you are there for is for Rob Brydon (the second funniest man in Michael Winterbottom’s The Trip).  He truly is amazing, charismatic, spot on timing and with a language skill adept at making even a contemplative sigh hysterical.  In fact, he broke up a fellow thespian in the first act.  Many seniors (in the matinee audience) could be heard whispering “she’s very good” and “he’s very good” whenever someone performed to the second balcony but Brydon was so consistently good he defied the whisperer.  That said, start to finish, despite the many laughs and a bit of scenery chewing from the supporting roles, it wasn’t quite up to the splash of four star reviews littered across the marquee.  In a Google search afterward I came across the apt phrase that at the expense of breadth of story it lacked depth of characterisation.

The Queen's Head off King's Rd.  Many fine memories, including having our drinks collected un-drunk at time.

Bird lights

Pistorius claims they give women an unfair advantage

It's a little Verd, a little Wagner

Disney London.  Downsizing after Lucas took $4 billion off their hands.

Onto dinner.  If you Google “eat out alone London” you will get in the first page of hits a suggestion to take dinner at Joel Robuchon’s Michelin lauded L’Atelier.  Which I guess is a good recommendation as it’s certainly not the sort of place I would have ventured into alone without a search hit.

The place is discreetly tucked away behind where Charing Cross Rd meets Shaftesbury Avenue, sort of the nexus of the West End, Covent Garden and Bloomsbury.  In glossy black with red undertones there is the feel of something both elegant and Asian pastiche.  It has a sort of Interview magazine cover feel from the 70s, faux oriental grandeur.  If you’ve seen the film that Yves St. Laurent’s partner made about YSL after his death, you’ll know the style.  It’s of an era. 

Stock photo.  I did not have the courage to bring a camera.

There is a bar restaurant on the ground floor, a restaurant proper upstairs and a bar proper on top of that.  The ground floor, with a kitchen about the size of a bachelor apartment, with around 12 chefs “plus” all sautéing and reducing and whipping and foaming, is a hive of regimental activity with many "yes chefs" and quiet acquiescence. Although spectacularly expensive, there is a prix fixe theatre menu from 5:30 to six.  A subdued and appreciative crowd surrounds the bar.

While thinking about what to order I had a Sardinian white Vernaccia which was listed “in the sherry style” and although I am baffled by that description it was indeed both dry and deeply interesting in that nutty, woodsy way sherry is, although not for a second was it anything but white wine.

Not famished, and absolutely certain everything would be scrumptious-ed up with butter and oil, I took the starter and main for 28 pounds.  It was no surprise to be served, first, an amuse bouche of foie gras, port wine and parmesan foam.  The foam, the omnipresent high end restaurant tendency towards foam, which has long outlived its welcome, actually worked very well, as it cut the foie’s richness without detracting from it (but so would any number of lightly bitter flavours, without the salt).  The port was sort of lost on me but swirled together it was perhaps the most decadent (non-)milk shake I’ve ever had.

A starter of chestnut veloute, a celeriac puree and chestnuts with the veloute poured over top.  Chestnuts are one of those enticing aromas that beckon you on the street; you buy a bag; you bite into one; and pthhft—they’re absolutely tasteless, dry, mealy and banal.  But here, with the dimension of celery, and the richness of the soup, it all combined nicely, with the mealy-ness of the nuts lost in the smooth richness of sauce.  I felt there was a tiny hint of cardamom in there to boot.  Trust Rubuchon to make chestnuts delectable.  With that a Touraine which was good, not a star.

For main a saddle of lamb, pan roasted, I watched the chef finger it lovingly to test its doneness, served with roasted potatoes (the anticipated lemony overtures were brief to nonexistent) and a side of buttered root vegetables which were as good as homemade which is I guess a backhanded compliment.  Overall, the dish was excellent, but I can’t help but say the lamb was ever so slightly, just a smidgen, too done.  Recommended was a Cote du Ventoux.  In Canada, CdV has long been an underappreciated value wine and I remember many good vintages back in Toronto as a student, but I don’t think it had the oomph to stand up to the saddle, it was a trifle too weak, and I think that is one recommendation that just didn’t pair perfectly.  There was no dessert, no chocolate with the bill (the French tradition, what a letdown!) and, as you can see, I didn’t take one picture.  But everything I ate, and watched come out of the kitchen, was a work of art.  Great dinner.

The joys of paying only 10 pounds for the afternoon were tempered by having to pay full price for the evening, a remount of an RSC production of Twelfth Night with Mark Rylance and Stephen Fry (the half of Fry and Laurie most North Americans don’t know).  It was at the Apollo, where Stephen and I saw a remount of The Country Wife a few years back, a wonderfully intimate theatre but with a centre aisle in the stalls that cuts out halfway.

“Twelfe Night” plays in rep with Richard III.  God knows how the cast that did Richard at 2:30 then quickly turned it around for three hours of Twelfth later that day; something of the dedication actors have for the craft I guess...  The theme, much lauded, is to replicate the purity of a version from Shakespeare’s time.  Thus, all the roles are played by men, there is actual candlelight (dripping, often, wax across the stage) augmented by artificial, period costumes, there are two tiers of seats specially built for the sides of the stage, and actors come and go through the stage and stalls.  Mark Rylance, not that well known outside of the UK (think Prospero’s Books) was Olivia, but the over-achievers were Belch and his sot pal Andrew.  Having actual musicians, lingering about, and playing actual music when appropriate (on period instruments) was genius.

Above: Fry as Malvolio.  Below: Rylance as Olivia

I was seated (excellent seats BTW, perfectly centred with a spectacular view) next to a young man called Oscar who was taking notes and I asked him if he was a theatre student and he told me he was the assistant director!  The actual director, Tim Carroll, did an amazing job.  So, all in, it was the type of rare theatrical event that makes you want to return to the theatre repeatedly, and encourage the art, it put me in a hugely upbeat frame of mind, it was just that good.  Like fly into London for it that good.  However, there is this one little problem: Twelfth Night is not the best comedy.  In fact despite the gorgeous language and many amusing scenes, particularly as it unfolds, there is something grossly overwritten about TN--and as it hits the three hour mark you do wonder to yourself whether a sincere edit (taboo to the purists, I know) was in order.  Somehow, unlike say in The Tempest or All’s Well, you don’t connect with the characters or their plight or really care.  Even the subtitle, As You Will, is like the lax and lamer version of As You Like It.  In the end, despite Fry’s performance, you don’t have any feeling, good or bad, about Malvolio.  Worse, you don’t really have any concern or interest about the mistaken identities coming to light and the glimmer of all’s well that ends well to the thing.  It has been three decades since I last saw TN and, truthfully, I think it fair to say it will be my last.  Still: If you’re going to do TN, you couldn’t do it better and this really is a runaway must-see event.

Laura Ashely Approved

That Was Then

Patsy and Edina go Shopping

Given that I was going to be out of the country a whole week, Nan took it upon herself to make sure no one went hungry.  She roasted a turkey, and served it with cheese cauliflower, baked carrots, Brussels sprouts, a turnip casserole, corn, roast beets, mashed potatoes, gravy, and a regular stuffing as well as a rice stuffing.  Homemade cranberry on the table with a spectacular November fruit plate.  And for those with the room, a choice of either lemon meringue or pumpkin pie (or even brownies) whipped up for dessert.

Going Away Repast

Calm Before the Storm

Afters

 

Of course there is no picture of Nan and Pop, Brent and Jane, Robyn and Paul, Kyle, Emily, Tyler, Nikki, Shawn, Vivian, Stephen or myself.  Or even Wilson or Kalli.  Just the food.  But the company was excellent nonetheless!

Monday was a beautiful November Vancouver day (oxymoron I know), perfect for Mr T and I to walk Stanley Park.  Nan and Pop came by mid afternoon to drop me at YVR, where there was little to-do and check-in, embarkation, departure were fairly smooth.  Dinner up front was a smoked salmon and green salad followed by a choice of cod, steak, ravioli or Cornish game hen.  I took the latter, which came with a slew of quinoa and green beans.  They had a pretty interesting Sardinian white on the cart as well as an uber-powerful California cab sauv which more or less did me in.  Didn’t stick it out for dessert and got, for better or worse, a four hour nap, but the AC flat beds are a miracle of airborne space and privacy and I wouldn’t have even had that in the back.  About an hour before arrival a continental breakfast (there was, also, an omelette with chicken sausages and potatoes of all things on offer) and we landed believe it or not forty minutes early and it took less than 10 minutes to get to the gate (take that YYZ), fast track check-in which, unlike two years ago, actually was fast track, express train to Paddington (yes, it really does go 15 miles in 15 minutes), cab to hotel (same price as the train...).

Checked into the swanky Sheraton which has the (enviable?) address of 1 Knightsbridge.  It is, architecturally, an early form of what PC notoriously referred to as the carbuncles contaminating London.  But the room is more than comfortable with a spectacular view towards Hyde Park and what was once the Hyde Park hotel now Mandarin Oriental.  Harvey Nichols directly across (with its window dressings reminiscent of an Edina and Patsy shopping spree).

Mid afternoon met Simon at Caffe Caldesi, north of Selfridges on Marylebone Lane, although in my jetlagged state it felt like a very late supper.  It had the air of the cafe in Amelie ("even artichokes have hearts" for those who cherish that sort of thing) save a little person at the bar.  We had some decent bar food, red wine, and talked for about four hours.  Afterward I saw Simon into a taxi, wandered down to Oxford St where it was still abuzz, checked out some windows, then tubed it back to SW1.  Jetlagged and exhausted I had a thoroughly decent nine hour sleep.

A superb antipasti

Retired Porn Star Simon Kennedy

Window at Harvey Nicks.  (or is it Nichs?)

Linda Reeves "approved"; most people hang their shoes too high...