by Mary Bailey
Bring money. Buckets of it. That’s the best advice I can give anyone going to London soon. Our dollar against the pound is atrocious and we are talking one of the most expensive cities in the world. Don’t let this stop you. Absolutely not.
London is worth it.
I went to London to receive the Wine Spirit Education Trust Diploma. It’s a rigourous course of study in wines and spirits, (following the WSET Foundation to Advanced levels, which I teach in Edmonton). I had tackled it part-time, flying to Vancouver to write the exams. (Not the easiest way, but when I started, the only way. Now, there are diploma classes in Vancouver and Calgary.) Juanita Roos’, owner of Color de Vino, story is similar. ‘Why not go to London and receive our diplomas in person?’ I’m sure there was wine involved when we came up with that idea. That we might meet Jancis Robinson and Pippa Middleton had something to do with our decision.
We gathered our sheckels and left on a snowy morning in January. That’s the only bad thing about traveling to London. You arrive early in the morning. We hadn’t booked the night before and the hotel had no rooms until check-in later that afternoon. We dropped our luggage and stumbled to the restaurant for toast and coffee (£50) then it was off to Old Spitalfields Market. Thursday is antique day.
Have you read that a lack of sleep is equivalent to being impaired? Maybe we had one glass too many of Champagne on the flight. Or, we really didn’t need that whiskey (the wine selection in the United Lounge in Chicago is terrible). Anyway, tired and, perhaps, a bit hungover, we knocked about Old Spitalfields, marveling at the most eccentric and hilarious British junk; families of gnomes spray-painted black, vintage rock posters, vinyl, old clothes, fur in various stages of rattiness; silver plate galore, tea cups, art, books, much taxidermy, including our favourite: stuffed baby chicks, hideous, but summing up my state of mind at the time. I felt exactly like that stuffed chick, staring out at the world with empty eyes. We couldn’t even think of having lunch at St. John Bread and Wine right across the street, nor do more than pop into the fabulous grocery store Verdi’s, right next to A. Gold, which sells a spectacular line up of all-British, small- scale provisions. Too tired and stupid to buy anything, we were finally able to stumble down the High Street to the tube, get into our rooms and fall into bed. We needed energy for dinner that night at Hibiscus.
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London has a stellar concentration of Michelin-starred restaurants, game changers such as St. John and the River Café, Indian food both high and low, exceptional wine bars, food markets and wine shops. Plus we had a laundry list of recommendations from friends and colleagues ranging from detailed instructions to, ‘I don’t remember the name but it’s great and right by the tube, really easy to find! (We never found those places). Plus you need time for serendipity. How to fit it all in?
Make a spreadsheet.
Sure, you could depend on luck or fall into the nearest Prêt a Manger but we were determined to enjoy amazing food made by some of the best chefs working today and drink interesting wine we couldn’t find at home. London is ground zero for the natural wine movement. (We chose Hibiscus based as much on the wine list as anything else.) We wanted to try English bubble. As we are both easily distracted—by alleyways, shiny things, store windows, street food, architecture, wine, the scent of baking, a well-dressed bloke, dogs and so on— reservations were in order.
Some were easier than others, some online systems never worked; some were impossible to book at a decent time. We were booked for Ledbury at 10pm. Two days before, we realized it wasn’t going to work. We cancelled. Yes, a tragedy, I know. We bypassed the trendiest wine bar in London, Sager & Wilde, not enough time. Ditto Chiltern Firehouse and Clove Club. Others we couldn’t get into at all. We missed Arbutus, which has an Edmonton connection; the chef, Patrick Leano used to work at Hardware, but we just couldn’t fit it in.
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And, we got lost a lot. Juanita made fabulous routes — which tube to what bus then how long a walk. But when we popped up out of the tube, or got off the bus, we invariably went the wrong way.
We would investigate something or stop to take a pic, then have no idea where we were. Asking a Londoner for directions is a bit like asking an Italian for directions — in Italy it’s ‘1000 metres down the road’. In London it’s ‘turn right at the Pizza Express.’ Both wrong. Yes we have heard of GPS and maps, but they are really small on your phone and you have to take your sunglasses off to read.
Actually, there’s a lot to be said for traveling by whim, especially in a city like London where there is always something fabulous around the next corner. It’s how we found the woman trying on her wedding dress at Vivienne Westwood.
Right, back to Hibiscus
The thing about tasting menus. They require a high degree of trust in both chef and sommelier. Hibiscus, Claude Bosi’s Michelin-starred restaurant in Mayfair, rewards trust in both chef and sommelier. The food? Subtle. Delightful. Delicious. Impeccably prepared. It started with the bread and butter. Remarkable. Creamy not cheesy, not oily, just, buttery. It redefined buttery. “It’s from Shropshire,” said the waiter.
Claude Bosi’s first restaurant was in Shropshire.
Edmonton wine geeks meet London wine geek. Sommelier Bastien Ferreri shared our enthusiasm for discovering what’s new — the natural, the bio- dynamic, the cosmo-culture, the orange, the murky, the slightly funky fizzy. We wanted to know what was up and he delivered, selecting wines from Campania, Alsace, Corsica and southern France. Some were fun to try, once, others were exquisite wines, and all were fabulous pairing.
The atmosphere was warm, playful, the people friendly and caring, the food and drink one of a kind. At the end of the night the host presented us with a small gift, nougat made with sweet winter vegetables, beet and carrot and parsnip, along with our own printed personal menu. At that moment, it occurred to me that if they had offered to walk us home, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
The Pilgrimage to Hammersmith
I have a treasured copy, dog-eared and oil-stained, of the blue River Café Cookbook. So do most people interested in Italian food, because, as Daniel Costa puts it, they cook as if they are in Italy. The River Café is as famous for its alumni (Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Jamie Oliver, April Bloomfield), as for the food, and for the prices. Cole Notes version of the story: Rose Grey and Ruth Rogers started the restaurant as the employee cafeteria for her husband Richard Rogers’ architectural group in a warehouse complex by the river in west London. Almost 30 years later it continues to thrive. We went for a British Sunday lunch.
Sunday lunch at the River Café felt like an anthropological experience — Margaret Mead studying an exotic tribe. What was the net worth of the room, filled with well-preserved people air-kissing, wearing expensive watches and beautiful tailoring. Juanita, facing the room, kept up a running commentary on the gorgeously dressed kids. Lord Richard was in the house, in a grass green sweater, having lunch with family. Rose Grey died in 2010. Chef Rogers carries on, wearing chef ’s white in the open kitchen and working the room, saying hello to friends. Fish and pasta were the order of the day as were three desserts (ok, we overdid it a bit) including the richest, most delicious ice cream. Maybe they bring the cream from Shropshire.
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London Markets
The bus went by several cheek-by-jowl curry shops and money-wiring places but by the time our stop came around the shops were Jill Sander and organic veg. We were in the chicest heart of Notting Hill and a short walk from the Saturday Portobello Market.
Every little café looked delicious, all with a two-hour wait. We had a gin and tonic at the Ginstitute, (really, how 4:26:22 PM could we resist) then a curry dog later in the market after trying on fur hats and looking at old silverware.
Portobello Market isn’t about food, it’s about people watching and fun junk. The Borough and Spa Terminus markets are all about the food. Spa Terminus was formed by disgruntled Old Spitalfields food vendors who left to form their own food-centric market under a series of railway arches in Bermondsey. It’s part of a more ambitious scheme to bring back food production to this part of London, using rail to supply the rest of the country. Wholesale during the week, with some retail on the weekend: several coffee wholesalers; natural wine vendors Dynamic Vines and 40 Maltby Street; fruit, veg and cheese merchants, St. John Bread and the intriguing Bermondsey Gin.
Borough is the market in all the movies, filled with butchers, bakers, wine, beer, coffee tea; ice cream makers; fruit and vegetables; provisionists selling truffles, and oils and vinegars; cheese mongers including Neil’s Yard Dairy; flowers, and food stands selling kid, duck, paella — a veritable edible delight.
Remarkably, these markets are outdoors, and filled with people eating, drinking and chatting outside in temps just above zero. I say remarkably due to Londoner’s apparent disregard for weather compared to the average Edmontonian’s aversion to being outside in anything less than 22 degrees.
Also at Borough is Elliot’s, a smallish resto with a menu ranging from wild rock oysters and Isle of Mull scallop to mallard, 35-day-aged Dexter beef, and winter greens like puntarelle. We had several courses with a half glass of every natural wine the waiter could muster. Midway through lunch he’s hauling out bottles of elixirs from France thinking we’d like to try them. Handmade by Laurent Cazottes, who grows the fruits and vegetables, crushes all by hand, then distills in a small copper pot still. We had to try the tomato version.
Another pilgrimage, this one to St John
We had dinner at St John, the restaurant in London which pretty much started the nose-to-tail movement and the resurrection of British cooking. Some will fight me on that, go ahead, just try. We were eager to taste, well, everything, so we ordered a glass of each of the St John-labelled wines as we had heard they were good, and the same number of empty glasses so we could share and taste with each course. Our server couldn’t quite get with the program (or maybe they were short on glassware, at one point we did have over 20 glasses on the table). I looked over to see the entire kitchen staff peeking out to get a look. Generally kitchens do this if you are 1) a famous and noteworthy chef, or 2) an idiot. Notwithstanding, we did have an amazing dinner and a few too many glasses of Champagne in the cosy bar. The St. John owners are known for their conviviality and eccentricity. The denizens of the bar? Same. It’s probably good I don’t live in London as I would be there every night, probably wearing a funny hat.
Swanning about Sloane Square
We stumbled into Sloane Square in Chelsea while looking for something else. (Just a typical day in London town for Juanita and Mary.) I love those early Princess Di references about Sloane Rangers, so we had to have a drink there, in a bar called The Botanist, filled with attractive people and interesting- looking drinks, which turned into an evening as we chatted with many of those interesting-looking people and drank those attractive drinks. Excellent Negronis, by the way.
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Wine bars and wine shops
We were keen to visit a long list of London wine shops and wine bars. True to ourselves, we got to four.
The historic Berry Bros. & Rudd was tops on that list. We chatted with a rather terrifying American woman who was curious about our wanting to go to the River Café; ‘it’s so far away,’ she said. We bought corkscrews, and a few special wines to bring home.
Terroirs was close by, one of the first bars in London to celebrate small production, bio-dynamic and natural wine. We spent a few hours tasting and chatting with the enthusiastic manager in the cosy subterranean room.
At the tiny Newcomer Wines at BoxPark in Shoreditch we discovered an all- Austrian selection. We wanted to stay longer but had reservations across the street at Lyle’s.
On the other end of the scale is Hedonism, an extravagant and absolutely luscious wine shop in Mayfair. We spent a few hours drooling over the collection of high-end French, Italian, American and Australian wines and tasting at the Enomatic downstairs. We hoped to meet Derek, a staff member originally from Saskatchewan. Julien, who showed us the lay of the land and opened the vault filled with pre-war Burgundy, Bordeaux, Madeira and Champagne told us it happens all the time — fellow Canadians, but total strangers, stopping in to say hi to Derek. It must be a Canadian thing.
Monday night was graduation night in the impressive 12th century Guildhall. Pippa did not pick up her award in person (security concerns they said) and Jancis’ term as WSET honourary chair ended last year. Instead it was a kiss on the cheek from the new honourary chair, Gerard Basset, MW, MS. We weren’t disappointed.
After the presentation of the diplomas, photos, Tio Pepe reception, more awards and final Champagne reception, we walked along deserted streets towards the Moorgate tube. We were going to stop at a tapas place close to our hotel called Pepito, which another grad had recommended. Rising up in front of us, like a mirage, was a pub. A pub, a real British pub! We hadn’t actually been in a pub yet. We stopped in, got a pint and realized we were too late for Pepito. Down to the tube and back to the hotel. We finished up the night in the hotel bar eating crisps and chatting with a sketchy guy from Athens.
Why did it take me so long to go to London? Certainly the cost, a week in London pretty much gets you three weeks anywhere else. Usually my trips are to where they grow wine not just drink wine.
And, I had this idea that because we speak the same language it wouldn’t be different enough, or exotic enough, or whatever. Obviously, I am an idiot. More than a dozen trips to Italy later, I know it takes a lifetime to get to know a place. I’m just starting with London now. So many things we didn’t do, so many places we didn’t experience. Then again, you could easily spend an entire week getting to know just one neighbourhood.
One thing I know for sure, when people ask New York? Or London? I say London.
Tomato editor and WSET diploma holder Mary Bailey’ still says London.
This article was originally published in 2015.