Being a Londoner, being proud

No, I wasn't born in London. No, I didn't grow up here but arrived fully formed, though not quite the rotund size of today, at the age of 23; I was chasing my particular rainbow, one I never managed to reach, but that is another story for another time. Somewhere along the way I fell in love with this city, for better or for worse, and have loved it passionately ever since , even during the years of living away, elsewhere, of only being part of it for days or weeks at a time.

What is it about London that draws people from all over the UK but also from abroad? What makes us so want to be here?

One of the answers, made clear this week with the terrorist incident in Westminster, is London's calm response to tragedy, the absence of hysteria and knee-jerk reactions. London and Londoners, long used to being a target of some disaffected soul or other whether with religious, colonial or political gripes, are largely unflappable, calm and determined. This has been the same as long as I can remember, from the IRA bombs of the seventies and eighties to the misanthropic deeds against people who were simply different. The feeling is : We are Londoners, we are not afraid, we will not be cowed, but will live our life even if you do your worst. I admire that, and share it to the core.

I can, of course, wax lyrical about London's beauty, its lovely buildings and gorgeous parks, but these tell an incomplete and misleading story, for they largely depict one side; a more affluent, genteel city. But London is human, flawed, imperfect, with great swathes of boring housing or intense ugliness hiding away from the centre, away from the prying visitor's eyes. And it is the humanity within the ugliness that is another great aspect of this city, that is to be found in all sorts of unexpected places, in neighbourhoods and communities all around the place, rich and poor. This is a big, cold city, of course it is, but scratch the surface and there's warmth to be found. Not obvious, gushing and temporary warmth, more real than that, warmth that needs to be earned and cherished, and appreciated.

For anyone who knew London in the sixties or seventies, the current abundance of great food in all shapes and sizes will come as a massive shock - in the seventies Golden Egg or Wimpy bars were, for the average person, the almost exotic, gourmet highlights! Yet today the food in London is second to none for all, from street food all the way up to Michelin-starred restaurants, unmatched for variety and sheer quality anywhere in the world. This is a spectacular transformation and another reason to appreciate our city - good food. There is a catch, though: success has brought higher prices, as the property boom has fueled rent increases (+ rates) and Brexit (due to the devaluation of the pound) is adding to the cost of all imported foods & wines, making eating and drinking more and more expensive.

History is almost everywhere you look in London, all around you, in many forms. You can feel its effect on the city, the power it exerts, yet it does not hold London back but blends in with the new and propels it forward. In the best alliances of old and new the effect is spell-binding, magnificent, rarely twee, which is why so many of the new developments seeking to internationalise it are misplaced and awkward - in my opinion they should be limited and regulated. London carries its historic burden well and makes it part of everyday living, so it becomes inclusive and familiar, seducing you into living with the past as a friend, embracing it and, in the process, becoming a Londoner.

That most of us love our adopted city is a given, perhaps not always in the same way or for all the same reasons; this does not mean that we are blind to its faults or drawbacks - no real Londoner ever is. In a calm and measured way we seek to right the wrongs, improve life for all where possible, and want to try and keep London as the special place that it is, protecting the past and local character as a living, evolving thing. For London was rarely static, as a quick glance at its history will show you, but a dynamic entity constantly absorbing incomers and making them its own. Not all were necessarily good people, but enough were, so that most made a positive contribution over the course of their lifetimes to their adopted home city.

This clumsily assembled collection of words is my homage to the special city I call home: London, I salute you, respect you, cherish all that is special about you, and am honoured to be considered one of yours, a Londoner, unafraid, proud.

International Traveller, on the cheap

My family has been international for over 300 years, travelling and working all over the place, and I myself first travelled to foreign shores at the age of two and a bit - to Baghdad, if you must know - many moons ago, so I have a good pedigree on that score (woof!). My present, rather impecunious situation does not entirely preclude me from continuing this tradition, as regular readers will have discovered; I love travelling to places old and new, absorbing culture (yes, food and wine IS part of culture!) and meeting up with old friends or making new ones, though the budget is necessarily a rather tight one unless someone else (an employer or other) is paying.

When my old mate Fabio (not his real name, but in the shadowy demimonde I inhabit we have to protect ourselves...) suggested I should visit Italy so we could get together after several years, and by the way take a look at a potential business opportunity I immediately got the Lear refuelled and waiting for me at the end of the runway/Looked for a cheap ticket to Milan that did not involve pedalling or arm-flapping. Oh, get real, what do you think happened?

Thus it came to pass that last Tuesday I flew into Malpensa airport, having first experienced the delights of Luton Airport; this was a new experience for me, and almost enjoyable. The good people who run the airport are currently working hard to make it even more enjoyable and I look forward to admiring the fruits of their labours when they have completed this difficult task. Malpensa is not in a dissimilar position and almost as enjoyable; situated quite some distance north of Milan it is, at least the part that I had the chance to peruse, rather dingy and dispiriting, not at all reflecting Milan's wealth and power. I am reliably informed that there is a newer terminal there somewhere and I'm sure it is much more impressive.

My car complete with driver (grazie, Fabio) was, of course, there to greet me in style and lead me to a local restaurant to recharge the batteries. This was a simple establishment with good, plain food in massive portions, not your normal jet-setter habitat, and fitted the bill perfectly. To celebrate and show my delight at being there I ate the 'ear of the elephant', which was quite delicious if, as you can well imagine, somewhat big. And before you start calling all the animal welfare people and getting them all excited, this delicacy's real name is escalope Milanese style, a thin breaded piece of veal that is shallow fried and crispy, not the ear of a real elephant. Not that veal everywhere will find that reassuring!

Left to my own devices the following day by the busy-busy Fabio I concentrated on what I do best: being lazy. Until a long stroll in the late afternoon, taking in a lovely park near the Milan Aero Club (more of that later), I barely moved; I did do a lot of thinking though (yes, really!) and worked on aspects of my cultural development by watching some films on TV. I think I did good work there.

That evening I went to a smart dinner party in the centre of Milan, in a beautiful apartment and hosted by beautiful people, friends of Fabio's - he knows a lot of people! The evening was, at last, of a level befitting my jet-setting lifestyle, including some great food (no, I'm not going to tell you, thank you, and have you salivating all over your computers), interesting conversation, decent wines; I enjoyed it a lot, despite the fact that my rusty (very!) Italian prevented me from following all the flow of the conversation. This also stopped me from participating much, probably to the great relief of the others present. Let's say I impressed suitably with my reserve and wisdom...

They did want to know about Brexit, but more of that another time, when we are all ready for more on that subject.

Thursday was a business day, with an early start and miles to cover; my driver was capable and swift, taking me to my appointment at the right time; alas, however, the nice Italian man we were meant to be meeting was not on time, but running late. Still, when he did arrive the meeting went well and we parted with promises of eternal devotion, or at least an agreement that there just might be a possibility of a chance of some interest in doing business together somehow. And don't bring up my lack of money now, it's bad manners!

We were recommended to try, my driver and I, a good local restaurant for a spot of lunch in the shadow of a local, somewhat ramshackle, castle; it turned out to be really very good, pleasant and not unreasonably priced. We ate beautifully prepared and presented plates of pasta with excellent taste and texture, and enjoyed it hugely. The glass of red nebbiolo I tried was also pretty decent, but the poor driver couldn't drink, because he had to drive me all the way back to Fabio's. As the driver was, in fact, Fabio, and he was going back to his own home, it all worked out in the end.

The evening brought a different outing for dinner, to the rarified environment of the Milan Aero Club where Fabio is a revered member. The dining room was quite empty apart from a group of Fabio's pals, all into flying, and a family with a young hyperactive child past its bedtime and determined to prove Herod right. I was made to feel welcome by Fabio's Fellow Flyers, or at least tolerated, and was given the opportunity of having yet another elephant's ear but declined, imagining all your sensitivities (and rude comments), and had a peppery steak instead, followed by a tiramisu which was pleasant and nicely presented, if not thrilling.

I have come to realise that it is quite difficult to have a really bad meal in Italy, that you generally eat rather well, and that most establishments are very fairly priced - yes, I know it's a sweeping generalisation - except perhaps for the upper end of the market, of which my experience is limited. Italians like to eat well, will travel to do so, and demand appropriately high standards according to the status of an establishment. The wine is also important and even humble osterias have good quality wine glasses that bring out the best in the wine - and the customer! Perhaps at the very top end France is still champion, but Italy dominates the middle and lower middle ranges with excellent ingredients and comforting, tasty cooking. Except for chips (french fries to the uninitiated), if my limited recent experience of patatine was anything to go by: industrial, pre-cooked or just plain boring! I look forward to eating some good ones soon, in order to retract this...

So my busy three day visit drew to a close with a quiet morning at Palazzo Fabio and a short ride to Malpensa airport, where my jet was waiting to whisk me back to exotic Luton, and a train back to London. For little more than the cost of an inexpensive meal for two in London I managed to visit Milan, annoy the natives, ravage the ears of their elephants, and was back home before you had even noticed I was gone. What a little jet-setter I've turned out to be, continuing the long family tradition; alas I am also part of the international menagerie of the nouveaux pauvres!

The Friends of Dionysos are 20 years old

Whether he was a god or not, Dionysos certainly has had many good friends over the ages, none more so than the greek gastronomic society and core of the Hellenic Academy of Gastronomy, Les Amis de Dionysos (and if you don't speak French: The friends of Dionysos). This year they were celebrating their 20th anniversary and decided, together with their annual 'Pita' celebration (a greek new year ritual) to have a memorable but not extravagant event worthy of such an august occasion. 

What was decided upon was a lunch on the last Sunday in February at a magnificent wine estate a short distance north from the Athens metropolitan area, the Kokotos estate (www.ktimakokotou.gr) near the village of Stamata. Apart from producing decent wines, extra virgin olive oil and honey, the estate hosts special events, wedding receptions etc. in their lovely surroundings, arguably even more stunning in late spring or summer, with nature wearing its finery. Still, even a cold wintry day could not completely eclipse the beauty of the Attic countryside and the elegant estate facilities thereon. The indoor space was also simple, elegant and set up beautifully to receive the many friends of Dionysos in style and comfort, as you can see from the photographs.

The food for the event was provided by outside caterers, with the unenviable task of matching the beauty of the surroundingson a plate, but one they managed to fulfil beautifully. Upon arrival guests

were greeted with tiny quiche Lorraine, little crispy filo pastry mushroom-filled parcels and small espresso cups of pumpkin soup with coriander. The menu proper kicked off with a gorgeous fillet of lavraki (branzino/loup de mer/european sea bass) with a lemon butter sauce and herbs, served with vegetables and tomatoes; you'll find a photograph of this somewhere. The main course was wild boar in aged red wine, oven-cooked for 12 hours and bursting with flavour, followed by a comte cheese aged for 24 months, served with a small salad and a vinaigrette using walnut oil. The dessert was chocolatey - much to my pleasure - with strawberries marinaded in brown sugar and cognac, a fitting conclusion to this splendid meal.

But of course the food would be nothing without the wines, a symphony without harmony, and what a selection we had on the day! Each wine was introduced by one of the senior Friends, together with a bit of background information on its producer and how it was tasting on the day.

I was honoured to present the first wine, a sparkler from the Jura, that isolated little part of France which is producing some great wines, as yet still reasonably priced, with style and panache. This was a Cremant du Jura BBF from Domaine Andre et Mireille Tissot, released to the drinking public only after a certain amount of time has elapsed to show at its best. It's a classy, elegant sparkler, with fine mousse and a a clean round taste, a real star of the region and a wine I would have regularly, if only I could.

The second wine was a Chardonnay from Domaine Labet, again from the Jura, Les Champs Rouges 2013. From a difficult in quantity year for the area this was a stylish mouth-filling chardonnay like a 

good burgundy white, golden-hued and round, but still with the right acidity to cut through the lemon butter sauce of the fish and enough taste to balance the combination perfectly - a success, what?
The red wine chosen to go with the wild boar, again from the Jura, was a Cotes du Jura 2005 from Domaine Jean Bourdy, made from Pinot Noir, Poulsard and Trousseau; ripe and sensuous, but not over fleshy, this was a glorious Jura red, subtle yet tasty, complex and long, old-fashioned yet perfectly modern. If this sounds like a contradiction, it's because this wonderful area is just that: a place that time forgot in some ways, yet not backward, a small idealised part of France and french winemaking before the greed turned -admittedly often great - bottles of wine into must-have objects for the world's newly enriched gangster, bankers, oligarchs or whatever. And what a joy to have a fresh, yummy 11 year old red still young in colour without having to remortgage the house...

The next wine, the only Greek wine of the day and served from a double magnum (2014 vintage), was a complete surprise to me as it came from an enterprising estate in the Pella region of northern Greece and is made from the excellent white grape variety Assyrtiko, more commonly associated with Santorini. In Pella it produces wines fuller in flavour, rounder and less minerally but still classy and distinguished. This cuvee is called Lamda, is experimental and has been aged in old oak barrels for 10-12 months to produce an intensely dry, complex, vigorous wine which was a great match for our cheese course. The  family domaine of Ligas is doing good things there in northern Greece, in the protected geographical designation of Macedonia and will soon become known to a wider audience, such is their quality and class. One unusual thing to note is that the Assyrtiko vines for this wine are not in either basket form as in Santorini or in rows like average

vineyards but, like the vinho verde vines in the north of Portugal, on trellises like climbing plants (creepers). Another oddity is that Lamda is made with skin maceration in the way of red wines; I'm told that subsequent vintages have a quite pronounced orange character. Lamda is a rarity and difficult to obtain, as only about 4,500 bottles are made every year.

The final drink of the occasion was a lovely Vieux Marc du Jura from the Domaine Philippe Butin, another tiny Jura producer who farms under 6 hectares and who continues a long family tradition of winemaking 'from father to son since 1836'. The vieux marc is essentially like aged grappa, an eau de vie (water of life, a  distillate) from the grape skins left over from wine production. Rougher that eaux de vie made from wine (e.g. cognac), it is softened by ageing in oak casks; the Jura version is clean, intense, with good fruit flavours and a kick to finish. The espresso I was served was a good companion it.

The event was rounded off with the traditional cutting of the Vassilopita, a large sponge cake type thing, with a coin hidden inside it to give luck to whoever finds it for the new year. Once again lady luck did not smile upon me, and the lucky person or persons (I think that there were two coins hidden in this enormous homemade version were at the other end of the room...

We were all given a piece of this lovely creation, nevertheless, and I took mine home to enjoy, together with a little nougat cake from the island of Sifnos, a splendid halvadopita that has no equal in my experience. From a small traditional sweet maker called Theodorou, this is a little hand-made masterpiece, where texture and taste blend harmonically and explode in your mouth, then melt gently away.

I would have loved to have just sat there drinking coffee and marc into the evening, and chatting away to all and sundry, but it was not to be. The speeches and presentations were finished, as was the marc, and people started drifting away as if they had something better to do, the fools. My companions, seized by this collective madness, pulled me away to make our way back to Athens. The last 20 years have gone quickly, but we certainly celebrated their passing in style, in a rare event for recession-hit Greece.

As we were walking back to the car I couldn't help thinking that Dionysos, looking down at us from Mount Olympus would have been well pleased with his friends - we did him proud.

Donald Grump

You couldn't make it up, could you, and life is indeed stranger than fiction sometimes. What follows is, of course, pure fiction and could not possibly be based on actual people, real or imagined.

Once upon a time there was a man named Donald. He was a man on whom all the wealth of the world had been showered, at least according to the way he told it. The Donald loved to tell anyone who would listen about his great wealth, his intelligence and how great he was generally, and would get really upset if people doubted him and his talents. If the people going anywhere near him were women he would even show his appreciation by groping or kissing them to make them feel better, for he was a kind man, and because he could, for he was rich and famous.

One day a genie appeared in front of the Donald and said: 'I am here to reward you for your intelligence and kindness, as obviously wealth is not enough, so I will grant you one wish that will allow you to fulfil your role on this earth. So what will it be, bubba?'

The Donald thought long and hard, for he was a very smart guy; was this a trick offer? Was somebody trying to pull a fast one and trick him into a bad deal? Or had any of the bad people he had shafted in one way or another over business dealings set him up to make a fool of himself?

This thinking made the Donald tired, but any way he looked at this it seemed good to him. He had a free wish and no obligation to this strange immigrant-looking dude in the exotic clothing standing in front of him, so why the hell not do it? This was a win-win deal if ever he saw one and he, being a smart guy (worth repeating to make a point), was going to do it; he was, after all, a well-known deal artist!

'I'd like to be the most powerful man on earth' said the Donald, 'and I'd also like an amazing head of hair to go with this to complete my happiness'. The genie tried to protest that this was more like two wishes rather than one, but the Donald was having none of it. 'You give me what I asked for, or I'm suing' cried the Donald, clearly exasperated and impatient, for he was a man who knew his own mind and a master deal-maker, a good hombre.

The genie sighed, smiled and shook his head in amusement and disappointment, as only genies in fairytales can, then spoke solemnly. 'Very well, you may have your wish, but to my specifications' and waved his magic wand this way and that, before disappearing in a puff of smoke; this made the Donald worried, for not only did it prove the genie to be real, but his words were also difficult to explain - what precisely did he mean? And could you sue anyone who could disappear like that?

He soon discovered the answer to all his worries and gained the reward that he had earned: power beyond his wildest dreams and an amazing head of hair. But his wish did not make him happy, and he developed a grudge against the world, with emphasis on the Mexicans, mistakenly thinking the genie was from there. He became so irritable and a real misery guts, that people gave him a new nickname and he became Donald Grump, always griping about something and especially about immigrants not doing what he wanted them to.

At least the whole world, maybe even the universe, acknowledged that his head of hair was truly amazing, frankly unbelievable.

And we all lived unhappily ever after.

With a little help from my friends

Life is a funny old thing and, irrespective of whether things are going well or not, it can be difficult and full  of problems. Some of these problems may be simple day-to-day things, others events that threaten to engulf and destroy us; all wear us down and chip away at our self-confidence and wellbeing. When the problems hit is precisely the time we need our friends around us.

During the good times friends can appear plentiful and supportive, especially when we hardly need it, and they are more often than not to be found in our corner rooting for us. This is, of course, the easy bit; everyone likes to bask in success or affluence, particularly when they can enjoy the lifestyle without the effort that goes into making it happen. Oh boy, when the champagne's flowing people love to be around to quench their thirst.

But when the music stops and the good times dry up it's a completely different story. Acquaintances and many people we thought were friends disappear, invitations dry up, comfort is in short supply and real friends sorely needed. And you can't create them when you need them, no, they need to preexist, to care already, to be ready to give when you need support.

There are people who go through life with few, if any, friends. Some are without real friends despite having a glittering circle around them, a busy social life and all the wealth in the world; others are destitute and lonely, in a cycle of solitude and despair. Ungiving by nature, they are surprised when others do not wish to give to them and feel aggrieved by the lack of generosity. Few relish the loneliness that comes from being friendless, especially when age becomes a factor.

Time to own up: I am not like that at all. My life has long been full of wonderful friends and, should I pop my clogs tomorrow, I can truthfully say that I have been wealthy beyond my wildest dreams in my friendships - for me friends constitute our biggest treasure in life! Material goods may come and go, but when you have friends you can survive almost anything.

Do not scoff, as this is something that is ignored when things are rolling along nicely but becomes obvious during tough times; alas it is a lesson not always truly learned or appreciated.

In the last few years I have had good reason to ponder this, as my life took turns for the worse, then more, then more again. While my health did not suffer in any significant way and I managed to keep a balance in my everyday life, my friends were always there with advice, support and even financial help. Had it not been for them I am certain I wouldn't be here today, not in any meaningful way: that I am not a broken shell of a man I owe to all those who, in small or major ways, have helped to save me from drowning in life's stagnant pool.

Some people have lent me money on open-ended interest-free loans, others have paid things for me. Advice, support and concern have flowed around me from day one, keeping me protected and warm inside. One friend offered me use of their office, to use more or less as I pleased, another allowed me to use and share her holiday flat for over three months, a third has issued an open-ended invite to use his flat in Switzerland whether or not he is in residence. And what of my friends in London who have put me up for free for the last year and a bit? Priceless!

My debts of gratitude are many, but my friends have no wish to be named or lauded; their kindness is because of our friendship, and because they know that if the situation was reversed I would do the same for them without hesitation.

Along the way I have lost some friends, primarily through their death, and this grieves me greatly despite the fact that this is natural after a certain age. I miss them all, cherish the memories of our times together but wish they were still here to create new ones.

So look after your friends, treasure and nurture them, for you never know when you might lose them or really need them. I don't know if the Beatles were talking about this exactly, but if they did they were right: 'Oh I get by with a little help from my friends....'

Lunch is a battlefield

Ah, where do I begin? Do you really want to know all about it? Should I tell?

Recently I went on a trip to Greece prompted by several things that needed to be done there regarding my now long forgotten (well, I try anyway) business activities. The downside of the trip was that I spent many hours in tax and other government offices, waiting for my turn to come so that I could submit my documentation for it to enter the system. The upside was that I was able to attend a superb function - you'll read all about it in the next few days - and to spend some time with friends, in Athens and elsewhere doing one of my favourite things: eating and drinking.

Most of you are by now aware of me as a sophisticated man of the world, deeply involved in the world of fine food and wine, and expect that when I write about a memorable meal it will always involve relatively expensive things, especially wine. This is a fallacy I am happy to shoot down, though I do love wines and food of quality irrespective of pedigree and price tag.

On Sunday 26th February my friends Jon and Sophie organised a group of us (about 15 in total, actually) to go for lunch at Kossi's taverna on the island of Andros (a 2-hour boat trip from the Athens area), where we were all spending a long weekend. If you love good, plain food AND are a meat eater this is an amazing place, run by wonderful people and well worth a detour. If you expect fawning waiters, crystal glasses, fine china, delicate tastes and pictures on the plate - don't bother!

In the middle of nowhere heading inland from the main port of Gavrion (bustling in summer, ever so quiet in the winter) a short distance past a village called Ano Fellos and some other houses/hamlets/monasteries is Kossi's taverna, on a farm belonging to the family. This is a wonderland where they rear all sorts of animals and do it with love and respect, though many are destined to end up on a plate; all are free-range and treated well, like members of the family, with some ending up as pets. The whole extended family is involved in this project, always with a smile on their face and a kind word for everyone.

In the taverna the serious business is eating: salads (seasonal and otherwise), local greens, dips, cheese (fried or just smothered in olive oil), wonderful chips and fried courgettes to start with, followed by meat in several forms and cooking norms according to your preferences. Most meat served here is reared on the farm, but they do occasionally run out of things and buy in selectively, so ask if you visit.

This is comfort food for meat eaters on a large scale but on a small budget. We ended up paying 15 euros a head (say £12.50) for more food than some of us were able to eat, plenty (and I do mean plenty) of decent jug wine and other bits and pieces to drink, and dessert (yoghurt with honey or homemade sirupy fruit). While admittedly most of us had the cheaper biftekia (juicy minced beef patties, 2 of per portion, each a 1/4 pound or more and served with chips), some had entrecôte and at least one had goat cooked in the oven. My biftekia came with a fried egg on top, to be immediately imitated by the friends sitting next to me, and a perfect combination. All the food was fresh, well prepared and cooked, and served with the traditional Kossi hospitality; very little indeed was left by the end of lunch, and we were very happy, seriously stuffed, customers.

These are good people who run an excellent establishment. If I lived nearby I would certainly visit on a regular basis for the warmth of their welcome and the quality of their food. I would also support them for their attitude towards their animals - something rare in Greece - and because they listen to their customers and strive for improvement every day. And, most importantly, because they do everything with a smile, no matter how busy they are.

Our lunch was full of bonhomie and laughter, human touch, interesting conversation and jokes, and the wonderful sound of people eating and drinking contentedly. This is the kind of battlefield I would like to return to again and again, and again.