QUINTESSENTIALLY | Insider | Culture

Noises Off @ Old Vic, London

Michael Frayn’s 1982 play is rightly regarded as one of the greatest comedies ever written.

Dealing with the attempts of a failing theatrical troupe to present a hoary old farce, ‘Nothing On’ – under the tutelage of a past-it director – it combines verbal wit with a quite astonishing array of dramatic devices that illuminate the failure of the cast and crew to keep the show going. Frayn’s particular genius is to have three separate ‘Act Ones’, the first being a disastrous run-through at a dress rehearsal, the second being the action of the play observed from backstage, and the third being the incompetent presentation of it towards the end of its run.

If this sounds at all pretentious, then rest assured it isn’t in the staging. Lindsay Posner’s new production at the Old Vic provides comic bliss from start to finish, thanks to an incredibly well-drilled and very game cast, all of whom relish the opportunity to demonstrate split-second timing and remarkable comic poise. It is slightly invidious to single out particular actors from the uniformly strong company, but Celia Imrie’s grand dame thespian playing a comic housekeeper, Robert Glenister’s philandering director Lloyd Dallas, Karl Johnson’s elderly drunk and Jamie Glover’s petulant leading man are all particularly hilarious.

And, oh yes, it’s funny. Along with One Man, Two Guvnors, it’s the most uproariously hilarious night that I’ve had at the theatre this year. I’d seen it before about a decade ago with a starry cast including Lynn Redgrave and Stephen Mangan, but I don’t remember that production reducing me to the helpless paroxysm of mirth that this one did. By the end, the simplest of objects – a plate of sardines, a bag, a telephone receiver – have become so freighted with comic significance that their very appearance sends a roar of appreciative laughter through the audience.

Saying anything more detailed about the play is not only unfair, but verges on the incomprehensible for the uninitiated. All I can say is that this is a guaranteed hit, and yet another splendid addition to the run of excellent plays at the Old Vic. For this, Mr Spacey, many thanks.

www.oldvictheatre.com/whatson.php?id=80

The small town of Woodstock, a short journey from Oxford, could accurately be called the beginning of the Cotswolds, complete as it is with honey-coloured stone cottages, a barrage of chi-chi antiques shops, the sort of cosy pubs that come complete with log fires and somnolent dogs as standard and, of course, history in spades. Famously, the town is also home to Blenheim Palace, ancestral seat of the Duke of Marlborough and birthplace of Winston Churchill, and its magnificent grounds offer a truly breathtaking walk through the Capability Brown-designed gardens, making for a glorious experience regardless of the season.

Woodstock boasts its fair share of high-end hotels, including The Feathers, but the place to stay if you want a genuinely special and unique experience is the fabulous Hope House. Dating from the early 18th century, it was built at around the same time as Blenheim Palace, but obviously exists on a far less grandiose scale. Part of this refusal to compromise on service and setting can be found in the small-scale way in which it’s run – it consists of three suites, all named after notable local figures and places, and one separate apartment in the building next door, the Six Bells, which is recommended for longer visits.

We stayed in the Blenheim Suite, which is a genuinely wonderful experience. Offering everything you’d expect from a really top-grade hotel, from a Blu-Ray player and iPod dock to a four poster bed and stunning marble bathroom, it’s conceived on a far more impressive scale than most hotels. There’s a sense of size and space to it that makes a night (or weekend, or week) here feel more like a visit to a private home than staying in yet another faceless entity, and the warm welcome from the staff completes this feel. Everything from the Smeg fridge which doubles as a minibar (a sensibly priced minibar, not the usual exorbitant prices) to the excellent full English breakfast included as standard in the small adjoining restaurant is about as good as it gets, and certainly made for one of the most enjoyable nights that we’ve had all year.

While the hotel can cater to groups for bespoke dinners on request, most guests are steered towards the nearby King’s Arms restaurant for sustenance, and it’s easy to see why. Offering a menu perfectly pitched between heartiness and subtle innovation, head chef Brian Arnold keeps hunger at bay with such excellently presented dishes as poached duck egg with creamed spinach and crispy bacon, Kelmscott pork belly with black pudding and cider sauce and braised shank of lamb with rosemary mash. Make sure that you leave room – even if you have to share – for the chocolate quartet dessert, which boasts four different but delectable kinds of decadent treat. The wine list is copious and sensibly priced, with some unusual bottles on offer; an easy recommendation is the Chapel Down Pinot Noir, an unusually gutsy and vibrant English wine that goes well with meat and fish alike.

A visit to Woodstock is always a peaceful and pleasant experience.   If you need to escape from the bustle and hassle of urban life, if only for a weekend, then come here and begin to relax. It’s easier to do than you’d think.

www.hopehousewoodstock.co.uk
www.kings-hotel-woodstock.co.uk

“Shall we have some Champagne? Yes, I’ll open a bottle.” Jean-Christophe Novelli has just swept through his chef academy; his accent and charisma enough to kill any suggestion it may not be wise to indulge quite so much before a masterclass with the world’s sharpest knives.

A moment after we have all sat down he begins to confer on us his great artistry, and the exquisite fineness of these knives. An onion is dispatched with startling speed to be used in a novel take on Christmas gravy; he includes both cocoa powder and vanilla.

Jean-Christophe Novelli believes the knives, which he designed in conjunction with Ziganof, are the only knives anyone needs to express themselves in the kitchen. The Japanese cleaver, paring and carving knives offer all the versatility you need.

Soon after he grabs a carrot, and after what look like a selection of random incisions, he presents a perfect orange flower. With this demonstration of what is possible it is our turn. We make our way to our chopping boards, it feels like an old episode of the Generation Game; I expect Bruce Forsyth to burst out at any moment – he doesn’t.

At this point I should admit I was expecting to be underwhelmed with the knives. As a keen cook I have good quality knives which I keep as sharp as I can, I didn’t think these could be that much sharper; I was wrong. They are, in fact, extraordinary, the blade is perfectly balanced, incredibly flexible and as soon as you start to slice, terrifyingly sharp.

Made with Damascus steel, a technique developed in the Middle East but perfected in Japan for use in the famously sharp Samurai swords, the knives combine ferocious sharpness with flexibility.

The technique, which sees malleable steel folded over a harder, brittle core, produces impeccably sharp knives. The Japanese cleaver has a core of TG10 steel, the hardest possible, with 66 layers of steel folded over the top. It is proof that excellent craftsmanship is, in itself, an art.

Classes at the academy are as diverse as French and West African cooking. Any fears over the authenticity of what you are learning are immediately dispelled after talking to the teachers. I asked Felice, the Italian tutor, what he’d do with polenta and was given a recipe from his youth in Italy, “Cook a mountain of polenta and put one sausage in the middle, whoever can eat their way to the middle gets the sausage – that one sausage can last for weeks”.

Presented in an attractive box these knives, which are made to last a lifetime and more would make an excellent addition to even the most well-stocked kitchen.

www.jeanchristophenovelli.com/partnerships/ziganof-knives/

I was unsure what awaited me inside the Marriott County Hall Hotel. The highly considered bespoke finish of a boutique hotel rarely finds its place in a world renowned hotel chain with over 500 lodgings, and as we so often find in anything with huge mass appeal, the gatekeepers of your gourmet dining privileges, of your unequalled balcony view in your equally resplendent suite are often either sleeping, or not alive at all.

And so, pleasant surprise when, upon arrival we found that our suite looked out onto the Thames, the river below lit up with reflections of London’s most famous landmarks; Big Ben’s clock tower, Houses of Parliament and the impeccable silhouette of Westminster Abbey. So, to lay it out, this is quite simply one of the best views of the city, and possibly the most tranquil one outside of the Lake District – the commuters and tourists seeming so far away – a trump card for any inner city hotel. As you turn back to the room itself, you are greeted with the ultimate in traditional comfort and modern technology. The two king-sized beds, swathed in Egyptian linen, and the expansive sofa area, each with a plasma screen for a multiple viewing experience.

Down the corridor, there’s the newly refurbished gym, the 25 metre swimming pool and the spa for those that want to look drop dead gorgeous. On the way, one notes that although the contemporary features are plentiful, they do not detract from the overall vintage feel that weaves its way through the hotel. Nearly a century old and having endured quite extensive refurbishment, the building still houses a wealth of original features; not least the library where we had a rather unusual evening meal, surrounded as we were by both the grand and the understated – the open fireplace, period decor and original floor to ceiling bookcases which enclosed either side of our table, with the light-imbued gift of one moonlit river floating by just outside.

The waiter, both charming and attentive, served the delicious three course meal – appetising courses coming one after the other with light and fluffy crab cakes, fresh smoked salmon, beautiful cuts of lamb and beef, and a scrumptious, melting chocolate soufflé – not forgetting some altogether sumptuous winter cocktails, including spicy apple and a classic Aston Webb Collins.

And so, after a very British meal, in very British surroundings, and a very calming sleep spent in crushed linen, we decided it was time to leave, quickly finding ourselves among the crowds on Westminster Bridge, only then realizing just how great an escape this hotel offers, how peaceful are its quaint corridors, how uncanny its objet’s du desir, and how profitable even one night away from city mania is to the mind, soul, and spirit.

London County Hall
Westminster Bridge Road
London, SE1 7PB

It was sometime in early October that I sat down to dinner at Brasa in Fulham. I took the window seat, and she sat down very demurely and ordered a glass of Syrah Rose. I had the same, but it didn’t matter what I was drinking. Outside, the autumn light made the streets burn red and gold, and I half listened to her relate a date she had once been on. ‘One quite like this’ she said, ‘but the outcome was much more predictable. He wore a hat not dissimilar to your own, but his smile was softer, brighter, and his eyes made signs that he actually cared for my storytelling.’ She giggled, and paused over her starter of grilled baby squid, capers and shallots. I stuck my fork into the potted rabbit terrine, and called the waiter over, ordering another bottle of something, plucking at my cap, rubbing my chin, distracting myself by making small, sad shapes in the sourdough.

I realised then that words were needed, so I tried some pleasantries… ‘your necklace, is it…I mean, I have seen one quite like it…oh, it’s a real diamond?’ and then, with the gulp still in my throat, and my eyes turned to the little boy and his mam on the corner outside…‘they will be opening a new members club here.  Do you watch Made in Chelsea? No? Oh, well they will be attending the launch party.’  I then hungrily did away with the 14 Oz Galloway Sirloin (“one of the best I have ever tasted” I said to myself right then), swallowing a large glass of Montepulciano d’Abbruzo as I did.

That night was one of those nights which end without much more being said or done or won.  ‘Probably because the food and service did all the winning for me’ I reasoned later on, lying in my bed with a ridiculous smile pasted across a very confused face, remembering how she devoured the triple chocolate brownie and vanilla ice cream while I did my best Bruno Mars impression. ‘Nobody’s gonna tell me I can’t’ I had said apologetically, finding her smile too desirable to really make sense of my failed attempt to force feed her a spoon of white chocolate mousse, ginger crumble and strawberry coulis.

Now, nights come and go, and autumn winds turn colder, and a man keeps up his swagger by buying a tailored three-piece tweed suit, a new ‘long hat’, and for more informal occasions, tries the almost-unsightly almost-revolutionary prescription of crossing a waistcoat with a Lacoste polo shirt. Such was my attire when I stumbled up the stairs to the newly designed Broadway House Members Club just a month later.

My lips were curled up menacingly, for I knew she would be there again, probably standing in a red dress at the rooftop bar, sipping on a house fusion of chilli vodka, pink grapefruit tequila and lemongrass & ginger rum. The dress was purple, distinctly rich-looking and two emeralds glimmered on two perfect ears. She was framed by the West London skyline, draped in a cool mist that lingered about her bare shoulders. I was aware that this was going to be difficult, for there were three others marked on her horizon, with slicked back hair (the fineness of which reminded of a rare black stallion), polished shoes, and cigarette lighters that seemed to be set in pure gold. I didn’t notice the barbecue, the trays of champagne and the smell of apple wood chips diffused with Chanel No. 19 perfume. All I saw was the cherry in her mouth, the outrageous smoothness of her being.

Now please, indulge me a moment. The setting was spectacular – rarely have I been to a member’s club with a rooftop and waiters on hand to mix a homemade orange cocktail infused with Jack Daniels, marmalade and old-fashioned Victorian lemonade. Nor have I seen so many cool cats drift so far away from Shoreditch, each with their own peculiar brand of necktie. Nor has the feeling of complete and utter ‘love’ followed in one person’s wake, she, half-floating towards a gentleman lying nonchalantly on a black bean bag, his obvious prowess a razor to my heart. She held eye contact with him all the while, smiling, passing him a drink, before turning, her eyes opening wide, her lips pursing with amusement. ‘How long are you going to stand their staring at me? And what on earth are you wearing! You look utterly daft. Come here you mad boy!’

Later that evening, it was just me and her and the moon, with a couple of Nordic looking chaps in close proximity that didn’t appreciate my very particular method of grooming.  ‘Are they going to be here all night?’ I ask casually, ‘I mean, it’s obvious that you can’t resist me. Even I can tell you that.’ ‘Well, you’ve definitely improved since last time’, she murmurs, sipping some Vina Pena ever so elegantly. ‘You can even put a sentence together this time. Really massive fail last time.’ ‘I know. I shouldn’t have worn that hat.’ I return, smirking bashfully. There is silence, and I offer to find her another drink.  ‘No, I’ll get you one.’ She giggles, and sides away, her profile making me fall down onto the black bean bag. ‘You must be outta your mind my lady.’ I say softly, obscurely, almost tearfully as she goes down to the cocktail bar.

Broadway House Members enjoy the use of wi-fi, a licence open until 1am, priority dinner and party bookings at Brasa, access to Eight Members Clubs in Moorgate & Bank, and perks including hotel deals, members’ wine tastings and cocktails master class evenings.

Brasa London
474—476 Fulham Road
London SW6 1BY
Phone: 0207 610 3137

A lot of you will understand what I mean when I say that there’s a rather large vacuum in my Sunday nights. With Downton Abbey off our screens until Christmas, I have been left craving that old-world glamour and faded grandeur to which I had become accustomed. So, with no other suitable period dramas on the horizon, you will understand my delight when I received an invite to a Night at the Opera Gala Dinner at The Landmark.

Evoking the bygone era for which I’ve been pining, the outside of this stunning 19th century redbrick hotel is both impressive and imposing. Picture the scene, champagne flows at a reception in the Winter Garden, the venue for the evening. Surrounded by lush palm trees, people laugh and mingle against the background tinkling of the piano. Suddenly a hush falls across the scene. Dinner is served.

And what a sumptuous affair it is! 6 courses of exquisite food with matching wines to complement each dish. As I look around, I feel more and more like Lady Mary sitting in her dining room enjoying her usual elegant culinary fare. I decide that the cantankerous looking old lady on the table to our right can play the Dowager Duchess. The chap in the corner table even looks slightly like Matthew if you squint – perhaps not.

Dinner starts with a tastily spiced Jerusalem artichoke foam, pickled pear and coriander cresso, followed by a delicious salad of beetroot, whipped goats cheese, honeycomb & walnuts. I didn’t think I even liked beetroot. And then, whilst I was pondering my fickle taste buds, it began. A female voice soaring above the piano’s accompaniment, reducing its audience to silence. I must confess that I’m something of an opera lover. Puccini to be precise, regardless of what that may say about my tastes. You say a lack of gravitas, I say accessible to all. But that’s by the by and not wholly relevant.

A 20 minute interlude of Baroque opera performed by the talented artists of Opera Bespoke ensued, mesmerising the diners as they listened to popular arias by Handel and Mozart. Drawing to a close, we were left slightly dazed, struggling to adjust back to the realities of dinner. But once the food arrived, our attention soon snapped back to the mouth-watering sight before us. Hand dived scallops, crisp pork belly, pineapple & ginger, followed by aged fillet of beef, almond croquettes, broccoli & baby onions. The food was lip-smackingly good, and as we savoured the taste of these gastronomic delights, the music began once again.

French opera was the theme for this interlude, including classics such as “Flower Duet” by Delibes, (think British Airways) and “L’amour est un Oiseau Rebelle” from Bizet’s Carmen. As the diva strutted around the room, gracing chosen gentlemen with the gift of a red carnation, (including my smug boyfriend I hasten to add), I was left in two minds, desperate for the performance not to end, yet eagerly anticipating the delights of dessert.

A chocolate and blood orange mousse later and I’d forgotten all about Carmen. In fact, my ambitions at Lady Mary-esque deportment went straight out the window as I gobbled down the pistachio Bakewell, calvados cream and Granny Smith apple sorbet. Needless to say, the Dowager next to us still managed to maintain her crotchety demeanour, possibly aided by my relinquishing any futile attempts at well-bred elegance. No matter. The grand finale soon seized upon its captivated audience, with the esteemed performers belting out several of my much-loved Puccini numbers to bring a glorious end to the evening.

The Landmark’s Night at the Opera Gala Dinner is a night that will transport you to the delights of by-gone days. It may not be Downton, but its refined elegance captures the period completely. And you don’t even need any aristocratic credentials to enjoy it! Just don’t tell Carson that…

The Landmark, 222 Marylebone Road, London, NW1 6JQ

Glenfiddich’s malt master’s hands are shaking, a look of love and fear flits across his face. If we were in a cartoon a bead of sweat would be rapidly forming on his brow. The reason? He’s pouring out a dram of one of the rarest whiskies in the world – and every drop of this light amber nectar is precious.

The whisky itself is splendid, it really is the drink of the gods and it seems they knew they were dealing with something very special; the cask was filled on New Year’s Eve 1955. My first impression of this 55-year-old dram was surprise. Despite its age it is an incredibly pale gold, the result of using a plain butt; a cask that has been filled two or three times before being entrusted with this, it’s final duty.

This lightness continues through the tasting. A quick swirl sets its aromas free – beautiful floral notes mixed with slight citrus are the first to play on the nose swiftly followed by a slight sweetness and smokiness. With anticipation building to breaking point we take our first sip. The flavours dance jubilantly on the tongue. Was that a hint of vanilla nestling among the sweet oak and slight smokiness? The excited hubbub gives way to awed silence as we take in quite how privileged we are to have tasted this whisky.

This remarkable liquid is being released in a very small bottling; just eleven are to be sold, to celebrate the 110th birthday of Janet Sheed Roberts (one for each decade of her life), the oldest living person in Scotland and granddaughter of the company’s founder William Grant.

The celebration of Janet Robert’s life continues in the design of this run. The beautiful leather box the whisky comes in is based around her travelling trunk and the bottle decorated with aquamarine – her favourite colour.

Attention to detail is the watchword here with the individuality and rarity of each bottle emphasised. The bottles are hand blown, hand numbered and come with an individual artwork inspired by Janet Robert’s graduation gown; she was also the first woman to graduate from Edinburgh Law School; a miniature of the whisky and a booklet detailing Janet’s life are also present.

The bottles are to go to auction individually with the proceeds to be donated to a selection of charities. The first of the eleven bottles will be at Bonham’s whisky sale in Edinburgh on December 14th with proceeds going to Water Aid, a charity dedicated to providing safe water for the world’s poorest families.

Whisky of this kind has become a hot investment opportunity. With some bottles adding as much as £10,000 to their value in just a decade. The unfortunate result of this trend is, however, that much of this whisky will never be enjoyed. Instead it will sit as a part of a large collection or accumulating value, a fate which, to me, seems a great pity.

This whisky, expected to sell for upwards of £30,000 per bottle is a fitting way to pay tribute to the extraordinary life of Janet Sheed Roberts.

www.glenfiddich.com

When Lewis Hamilton said he and his money were moving to Switzerland, “for the quality of life,” there were a few raised eyebrows and just one or two wry smiles. Let’s be honest, it isn’t exactly the first incentive which springs to mind.

So, with this prejudice guiding my opinion, my recent trip to Bern turned out to be a revelation. Whisked away from the airport in a slick Jaguar, I felt a strange sensation – calm. It’s something you forget living amidst the hustle and bustle of London, where everyone goes about their business in stony silence, hurrying their way through life as quickly as humanly possible.

It’s a sensation that pervades the whole of the UNESCO heritage site. Gone are the rude commuters and aggressive pedestrians. The city is blissfully serene, with cobbled streets and quaint little shops tucked under a covered walkway. This peacefulness is deceptive, fooling you into thinking you were in a provincial town rather than the capital of Switzerland. So just to remind you of where you truly are, there’s a bear park slap-bang in the middle of the city, where four furry examples of the city’s namesake reside.

It would be easy to think that Bern lacks a distinctive charm, but closer inspection reveals a latent sense of humour which is idiosyncratic of the city. Wander around the centre and you’ll find a colourful fountain depicting an ogre devouring some local children. Climb the Gothic Münster tower to discover a fantastic view of the Zeitglockenturm Clock Tower, with its rotating bears and squawking golden cockerel which flaps its wings on the hour. Bern is good-natured and charming, just like its residents.

During my stay at the Bellevue Palace Hotel, this pleasant feeling of calm continued. Located next to the Swiss parliament, the hotel is steeped in neoclassical grandeur, making it the undisputed choice for its neighbours’ esteemed guests. There’s an overwhelming sensation of refined elegance, which extended all the way up to my gorgeous suite with the most spectacular views overlooking the River Aare and the magical Historical Museum of Bern. Back downstairs, a walk through the sun-strewn atrium brings you La Terrasse, the hotel’s exquisite gourmet restaurant. Ipads are on hand for guests to watch a live web camera in the kitchens and send messages down to head chef Gregor Zimmermann and his team. It’s an innovative touch, which perfectly illustrates the Bellevue Palace’s synthesis of traditional appeal and modern facilities.

Continuing our travels, we moved on to Interlaken. Situated just an hour outside Bern, it’s the perfect destination for combining the great outdoors with a city break. Catching the train, we journeyed through valleys and alongside lakes, taking in the scenery and the mesmerising green blur of the pines as we escaped the city. Stepping off the train, the air was crisp and pure, welcoming you to this mountainous haven. Here, the Victoria-Jungfrau Grand Hotel & Spa sits between two beautiful lakes and at the foot of the eternally snowcapped Jungfrau, however, the main draw is its phenomenal spa, which provides the perfect compromise for those who want to enjoy the stunning views without leaving the comfort of the hotel. I indulged in an hour and a half of ESPA’s Authentic Swiss Alpine Herb Compress Massage, which soothes away tension through a combination of peppermint, nettles, lemon balm, thyme, marigold and mallow. It’s a treat for the senses, subconsciously reminding you that this alpine retreat is all about relaxation. It didn’t take long for all my tension to ebb away and as I enjoyed a light lunch in my bathrobe at the casual Spa Café, I felt completely regenerated.

As wonderful as the spa is, you’d be seriously missing out if you didn’t head out into the mountains for some exploring. Offering a range of adventure sports to suit all fitness levels, from mountain biking to white water rafting, there’s really no reason to stay indoors. We chose to hire e-bikes from Flying Wheels, electrically powered bicycles which have a variety of settings to help you up some of those more challenging hills. Following the Brienz river, we visited the picturesque Iseltwald fishing village as the sun was rising, giving the horizon a luminous and ethereal quality. It’s a truly beautiful setting, and the Chalet du Lac where we stopped adds a quintessentially Swiss feel, with its cosy, wooden interiors serving delicious hot chocolate. Quite frankly, I found it difficult to drag myself away from this idyllic spot, but the promise of waterfalls had me back on my e-bike, eying up the imminent onslaught of many a steep incline with steely determination.

The Muelibach Falls are hidden away, nestled between the trees in a location only accessible by foot, but I can assure you, it’s worth the effort, providing a truly stunning view. By the time we’d got back to the hotel, we’d built up quite an appetite, so the traditional Swiss cheese-fondant we enjoyed that evening was a delicious relief. To be quite honest though, we were spoilt for choice, as the hotel boasts three fabulous restaurants, each accompanied by a fantastic list of local wines. The Cuvée Madame Rosmarie Mathier was a particular favourite, and provides a perfect introduction to the wonderful world of Swiss wine. Spoilt, relaxed and well-fed, I slept deeply that night, surrounded by an aura of complete well-being. 3 nights in Switzerland and I had never felt better.

Perhaps we shouldn’t judge Lewis too harshly after all.

http://www.bern.com/en/

Bonfire Night feels, to me at least, like the true beginning of winter. It is an evening for mulled wine, scarves and the smell of roasting chestnuts, a night to stave off the winter blues. The ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ that follow the explosion of the latest firework are sounds which massage the psyche, preparing it for the long nights to come.

Gin is the perfect accompaniment to this relaxation. One of its essential infusions, juniper berries, have been recognised for their soothing, restorative powers for centuries. As far back as the 11th century Italian monks were using an early relative of gin for it’s curative powers. These restorative properties came to England in the 1600s when soldiers fighting in the Eighty Years War noted the calming qualities of the spirit, a discovery that gave rise to the phrase ‘Dutch Courage’.

It seems fitting then that they should come together to create a perfect way to start your winter, and more specifically your Bonfire Night, with a bang. The Forge in Camden, is hosting a gin-making workshop where guests can learn the art of creating the perfect bottle of gin while enjoying canapés chosen to best compliment their tipple.

Lessons will be courtesy of Ian Hart of Sacred Spirits Company, a micro-distillery based in North London’s Highgate. Having already won numerous plaudits and awards for their remarkable gin and vodka, you can be sure that you’re learning from the best.

Guests will be shown how to create the perfect blend of fruit and spices for your gin. New flavours will also be on the agenda as the innovative distillers show you how to blend unconventional flavours such as nutmeg and frankincense; perfect for creating a modern spin on traditional gin that will see you through into Christmas.

This promises to be a real treat for gin lovers across the capital, so make sure you don’t miss out.

5th November, 2011
4:30pm – 6:30pm
Tickets are GBP 25

www.forgevenue.org

Conrad Leach’s latest exhibition, situated in Gauntlett Gallery, moments away from the buzz of Sloane Square, delivers a great sense of British nostalgia and grandeur from the off. On entry, large acrylics adorn the walls, displaying a vibrant, unique and distinguishable style. In his first solo exhibition in nine years, Leach has taken the forgotten past and brought it to the forefront of our minds, using a contemporary artistic style, that he himself labels, ‘Pop’.

On initial glance, the exhibition seems to be one of ‘boys toys of the past’; the Bluebird 301, the spitfire, the Norton Manx motorbike and the Brough Superior (the actual bike takes pride of place in the entrance of the gallery). However, as you weave your way through the gallery, you discover that it is more than this – there are famous faces and events that conjure up a whole host of memories, a compilation of the best of British in the interwar era, some of which have long been forgotten.

At a time when idols were those that risked their lives for the thrill, the question of their own mortality did not seem to enter the equation. Leach broaches this in some of his paintings, one displaying the ‘lucky’ number 13 on the front of a motorbike and another holding a skull in his hands in place of a helmet. It was at this point, on my way through the gallery that his work started to feel particularly significant and increasingly poignant. In light of the untimely deaths in the motor racing industry recently, the thrill of chase from days gone by are not as far away as perhaps we thought and the fragility of life is ever present.

Interestingly the gallery itself caught my eye. As I am led downstairs to see further pieces of work, you step into a cosy country snug – a fireplace, with Winston Churchill staring back at you and a vintage leather sofa, over which hangs a gesticulating, Steve McQueen; the gallery compliments the art work and vice versa. The combination of ideas from Leach and Richard Gauntlett, owner of the gallery, results in an exhibition full of character and a respect for the people and the machines of the 20th Century.

Taking one final look at the ‘indelible’ Union Jack, all in black, I left the gallery feeling pride in my country and those country men of days gone by. The heroic figures that led their lives with such reckless abandon are celebrated in this exhibition.

Leach’s paintings will provide talking points in years to come – however you choose to view them, they certainly represent a Paradise Lost.

Gauntlett Gallery, 90-92 Pimilico Road, London

http://gauntlettgallery.com/