Taste London returned to Regent’s Park this June for it’s ninth year and whilst this food festival is well established and firmly marked in the calendar of London and out of towner foodies alike, attendees can always guarantee each edition will feel new and exciting with the promise of some of the best chefs, culinary people of note and producers alike.
This year was no different as crowds gathered under blue skies to witness the likes of Big Zuu and Ben Tish demo BBQ skills, sample goods from two Michelin starred chef Henrique Sa Pessoa, enjoy offerings from some of the capitals best restaurants including STK, Hoppers and Macceleio plus masterclasses and workshops.
Taste is a one stop shop for both experienced food lovers and those just starting out in their ‘holy moly I think I’m a foodie’ journey to come together and experience the best the capital has to offer. London is known for its culinary innovation and creativity and Taste manages to break down barriers and ensure some of the best chefs are accessible to everyone. Restaurants with long wait lists and high price tags allow everyone to sample their wares.
I have always championed the notion that food is more about than what is put on the table, it is about bringing people together, sharing plates, grunting at each other in sheer joy as morsel after morsel is consumed, discussing favourite bites and personal preferences and nothing showcases this better than Taste London – sitting and watching the crowd gently sway from one vendor to the next, trying samples, sipping drinks, taking a pew on an inflatable avocado whist pondering the next restaurant to hit. Everyone is there for the same reason, to rejoice in some of the best gastronomy our fair city has to offer.
The diversity on display at Taste is part of what makes the festival so magic – this year’s highlights included Visit Portugal showcasing some of the countries best chefs along with live fire masterclasses at Flames of Portugal Churrasco Cook School, Korean American Iron chef Judy Joo, vegan Caribbean specialists Likkie Dutch Pot plus and the OG Ramen slingers, Bone Daddies to name but a few.
Winning the title of best plate for me personally was the Hoppers Goat Taco which two weeks later, I am still thinking about – pulled goat shoulder sitting on top of a roti ‘taco’, garnished with gram crisps, herbs and pickled onions – it was a sensation!
After an amble around the park and a lap to pin point all the places we wanted to try, we walked to the VIP garden, arms laden with plates of the aforementioned taco, pork ribs, Korean wings and cocktails of Kulfi Colada slushis and Punjabi punch and here we sat, sated and watching the sunset over one of London’s best events, safe in the knowledge that London still remains king pin when it comes to food.
Visit Taste London for upcoming news and tickets releases.
Nestled on the outskirts of the nucleus that is Cambridge city center in an unassuming residential area, a casual ten minute stroll through Jesus Green until you reach the hubbub of the university city, sits The Fellows House. An aparthotel that promises a home away from home for both short stay city breakers and long haul business trippers. With an array of on site facilities such as 24/7 gym, pool complete with sauna and steam room, coffee shop, restaurant and a luxe bar area, it is easy to see why.
With four categories of room on offer, ranging from standard and studio through to apartments and duplexes there is something to suit all budgets and purpose of travel. Nearly all the rooms are equipped with kitchenettes including hob, combi oven and fridge plus coffee machines, kettles and toasters – perfect for an in room brekkie in your complimentary fluffy robe and slippers. Most rooms also include sofa beds, large flat screen TVs in both bedroom and living space – no TV control arguments during any family stays – rainfall showers and the pièce de résistance, huge, sumptuous king size beds with premium linen, waiting to envelope its inhabitant(s) for a night of uninterrupted slumber. Well thought out additions such as cook books, books on the nightstands and White Company toiletries really do turn these hotel rooms into an extension of your home.
On site coffee shop, Sage is a great addition that sits at the front of the hotel and is perfect for a spot of remote working or a quick caffeine hit before ambling into the city. The barista’s know their stuff and the onsite patisserie chef ensures counter tops are laden with enticing pastries and cakes with a solid vegan offering. I like to do my due diligence on these sorts of things and can confirm I tried every cake available, all sublime, all worth the extra notch on the belt.
The hotel’s restaurant – Folio Bar & Kitchen offers all day dining, including continental and hot breakfast for guests on the B&B option. You can definitely feel that the American military audience are being catered to with towers of fluffy pancakes and streaky bacon being replenished every five minutes – no complaints from me, I just wish there had been a jug of maple syrup to drown it all in.
The restaurant’s aesthetic is impressive – flooded in natural light from both the huge overhead skylight and glass doors that open out onto the courtyard, it’s a great setting to plan your day of exploring. Bold black and white floor tiles are complimented perfectly by muted sage green booth seating and dark wood furniture. Exposed brickwork and a plethora of plants bring the outside in and a fiery open kitchen with chefs bustling about their business creates the perfect backdrop. At night, the vibe changes, the lighting is low, the flames of the open kitchen are bright and what by day felt like an oasis turns into a cosy, decadent atmosphere – encouraging it’s dwellers to sink into the comfy seating, order another glass of wine and while away the evening.
Chef Kiran Selvarajan boasts to be doing very exciting things with plant based cooking, emphasising a reduction on food waste, using local ingredients and putting contemporary twists on British classics whilst keeping things healthy and nutritious. Dishes such as tofu prawn cocktail, bean risotto and cottage cheese steak pepper the menu. And so, with all these innovative plant based offerings up for grabs, what did I order? Scallops and a steak. You see dear reader, I went with good intentions. I had an assignment to fulfill and I had every ambition of doing so but it seems this carnivore turns primal at the sight of an open grill and all will power flies out the window.
The scallops were fantastic – perfectly seared, sweet and plump, adorning a heady lobster bisque and crowned with crispy sage, this was the standout dish for me. The steak was ok – perhaps the universe laughing at me for ordering the meatiest option available – it was cooked well but lacking that char I was hoping for. A side of wilted baby gem with tahini and dukkah, a welcome accompaniment. Given my menu choices I can’t really comment on the exciting vegan offerings chef is putting forward but what I can tell you about is the chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the fellow journalists who actually stuck to the brief, an audible gasp was heard when the person next to me took her first bite of marinated tofu steak and so, I am planning my return as we speak and this time I promise to stay away from the cow… maybe.
Adjoining the Folio Kitchen is the bar, a gorgeously moody space that gives gentlemen club’s vibes but one where all are welcome. Book shelves are lined with carefully curated works from Cambridge Fellows and scholars alike, artwork of the great academics looking down on guests as they sip perfectly mixed cocktails – lethal but perfect – and nods to the discovery of DNA in the paneled walling. These design features that make the hotel so unique and truly deliver its USP, marry perfectly with atmospheric lighting, low level furniture and a pool table taking center stage. The bar and cocktail menu proving another highlight – not because I could be considered a lush but more because the atmosphere was so welcoming and the menu so well designed. Each cocktail nodding to a fellow, exquisite detail such as hand painted bees on top of creamy foam and a martini as dirty as you like.Given the long stayers within the hotel there is a community here and being in the bar felt similar to university halls but a very, grown up classy version. The concierge team greeting people by name, the pool sharks winding down after a day researching goodness knows what, bar tenders remembering drinks of choice – I’m into it.
The onsite leisure facilities are simple yet effective – a long pool perfect for morning lengths that also doubles up as relaxation pool, a submerged shelf sitting just below the surface lined with jets ready to bubble, flanked by loungers for those who are more of the sitting than moving camp, a steam room and sauna a mere waddle away and should be that way inclined a compact yet functional gym space complete with Peloton bike and squat rack.
With such a plethora of facilities on site plus specially curated activities for both hotel residents and the local community alike such as ‘Cork and Canvas’ art classes and wine tastings, you would be forgiven if you couldn’t pull yourself away from The Fellow’s House but pull yourself away you must – be it by amble or by bike (complimentary from the hotel), Cambridge is itching to be explored. Be it a walking tour to learn the history of the city, a gentle punt on the River Cam complete with picnic and prosecco or shopping the day away with some of the highstreets best plus a great independent scene plus an exceptional foodie landscape, this city really does have something for everyone. The concierge team at Fellow’s House will go above and beyond to ensure you see the best of the city, they will even laden you up with aforementioned picnic and help you book a punt or a tour. And if that isn’t enough, Visit Cambridge are helping drive traffic to local businesses within the city with their ‘Love Cambridge’ card, a pre loaded gift card that can be used in an abundance of shops – the perfect gift if you have friends or family visiting and want to ensure they can have a drink or dinner on you.
And if that’s not enough to entice you, you can check out the best Cambridge eateries here.
To find out more about The Fellow’s House, you can visit there website here.
Founder and chef Simon Boyle has a book of stories of the lives the Beyond Food Foundation and The Brigade Bar and Kitchen have changed. From giving a sense of purpose to saving lives – the formula is tried and tested – inspire and support, give trust and ambition, allow room for growth and nurture along the way.
It is easy to get swept up in the glitz and glamour of the restaurant and bar scene, especially in the bright lights of London town. The quest for the allusive star, the perfectly plated tasting menus, the wine lists to rival encyclopaedias but strip it all back, go back to how it all started and you will always land in a similar place – food brings people together. Whether it is eating it, cooking it or both, it offers a sense of community, stability and familiarity and I believe along with Simon’s guidance, it is these building blocks that help lay the foundation to a new life, one that has now supported over 6000 homeless people.
Frustrated with the notion that not only people become homeless but stay homeless and exasperated with charities handing out blankets but not actually solving the problem at hand, Boyle knew he had an opportunity and a duty to make a difference. Utilising his skills, contacts and first hand experience at seeing what devastation can do – Simon was on the ground following the 2004 tsunami – the charity and restaurant were born.
On a bustling Tooley St, moments from London Bridge station, under the watchful eye of the Shard sits the weekday brasserie with an emphasis on fire cooking, an unfussy, sleek dining room and good, honest food. Hold the foams. As guests are shown to tables by an enthusiastic and passionate front of house team, licks of flames cast gold glows across the space via the open kitchen. The vibe is bustle, in keeping with the fast moving world outside. A sanctuary from the city this is not, more a dance partner – the plates come out fast, the chatter is loud, the energy high. The passion from the kitchen and wait staff alike is palpable and I wonder if it is a direct trickle down notion from Boyle, a man so determined to see change that a fire was lit within him.
We took in the classics to start – potted ham hock and a smoked chicken caesar, given the promise of a kitchen led by fire the chicken could have been a little more bold, I was hoping for almost acrid back notes balanced by sweet lettuce, instead the flavours were subtle – not unpleasant but not the punch in the face I was expecting. The mains are where the kitchen shone – sirloin steak with a smoked lemon aioli, covered in well made chimichurri and spatchcock Suffolk chicken smothered in a sour cherry harissa, doused in cherry molasses, accompanied by charred corn. The fiery heart of the kitchen can be felt in every dish, be it the light smokiness of a sauce, a char of a vegetable or the down right blackenedness of a piece of meat – the welcome burnish of blistered skins and rendered fats tantalising tastebuds and nostrils alike.
I’m not sure I have ever experienced the flavour combination of chicken and sour cherry, when my friend ordered it I eye rolled, knowing he was doing so because he is one of those cross fitter types and a spatchcock chicken was probably the most suitable thing on the menu for his gains. How grateful I am for his need for grilled chicken because this was sensational. An absolute flavour bomb. The chicken so juicy and tender it fell off the bone, pops of sweet corn cutting through the sour cherry. My steak was good, well licked by the fire, a zingy chimy and punchy aioli to boot. Neither of us being desert people but wanting to try the full menu, we opted for chargrilled rum soaked pineapple and grilled peach melba. I find fire kitchens sometimes run out of steam when they get to the desert portion of the menu, dishes have a wisp of smoke as an afterthought or the fire is forgotten all together. Not the case here, slices of pineapple taking on caramelisation as the char alchemises the fruit sugars. Plump peaches having sat on a hot grill, take on a whole new flavour profile, the warmth still being held in their flesh, marrying perfectly with the mascarpone ice cream, that welcome sensation of hot meets cold.
The Brigade Bar & Kitchen is balancing the two worlds of social enterprise and modern day eatery perfectly. It is well priced, well thought out and well received. This is your sign to go and eat some food and feel wonderful in the knowledge that you are contributing to a difference in someone’s life.
Route YC is not only peppered with breathtaking scenery and stunning vistas but it is laden with local produce, growers and makers. Chef and food writer, Hannah Gregory takes a look at the best food offerings ‘God’s Own Country’ has to whet your appetite.
Route YC takes in some of the most iconic Yorkshire seaside towns – Bridlington, Filey, Hornsea, Scarborough, Whitby and Withernsea but it’s not all sticks of rock and fish and chips (not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’ll have it known I am very partial to a battered cod doused in chip shop vinegar), but after a day of exploring the dramatic coastline, sometimes a sit down meal with minimal risk of seagulls is exactly what is needed.
Eat me at the SJT is a local gem, a British Asian cafe that prides itself on its indie spirit, commitment to fair prices and good coffee. You can expect British classics such as mouth watering burgers, Asian staples including Ramen (perfect for warming the coldest of cockles following a brisk coastal walk) and daily specials that are as quirky (Monkey Fingers and Spunky Chicken anyone?) as they are delicious plus coffee, cakes and pastries.
There is something for everyone here, from breakfast to lunch to big ol’ bowls perfect for supper.
Lanterna is the polar opposite of Eat me at the SJT, so if you’re more white table cloths and half curtained windows, this Italian is the place for you. Classic in its offering you can expect exemplary pastas and classic Italian dishes such as veal, carnaroli risotto and pleasingly retro classics such as chicken breasts wrapped in Parma ham and stuffed with Gorgonzola. Fish is all local and as fresh as you like and desserts such as creamy pannacotta and zabaglione are the perfect finisher. Chef-patron Giorgio Alessio hails from Piedmont in Northern Italy, a region known for its cooler climate and misty autumns, meaning he is the perfect person to set up shop in our Northern climes and create comfort food marrying deep, warm flavours with local produce.
Pizza West sits high up on West Cliff, a small journey out of town but well worth it. Taking up residence in a former science museum this colourful, modern eatery is bursting with energy. Wood fired sourdough pizzas are the jam here, leopard spots marking their crusts and the scent of freshly baked down mixing with the sea air. For the purists, you will find your regular players but for the more adventurous, the menu offers interesting toppings – Bacon cheeseburger or short rib, gorgonzola and potato pizzas prove increasingly popular. The menu also offers great appetisers and sides ensuring there is something for everyone and you really will be ready to burst on leaving.
A Whitby landmark – The Magpie Cafe is THE place to go fish and chips by the sea. Overlooking the quay and the days fishing boats bobbing merrily along this is quintessential Yorkshire Coast. If crisp golden batter, fresh catch of the day and fluffy chips doesn’t do it for you, fear not – daily specials of innovative offerings such as North Sea Langoustines and seaweed butter are up for grabs. And make sure you save room for pud – a dessert menu that boasts old fashioned classics such as trifle and rice pudding, it would be rude not to.
The Homestead Kitchen is very good. Very very good in fact. Nestled away from the coast in the moorland village of Goathland, a trip here is the perfect juxtaposition from the shoreline drives that make the coast part of this route. Rolling hills and scenes that look like they could be straight out of an ITV drama (they are, this village played home to ITV’S Heartbeat). The restaurant is small (24 covers) split across two rooms with views over the gardens and moors. The menu is a perfect example of Yorkshire produce and balances refined dishes with a homely, restrained feel. Dishes such as smoked haddock lasagne married with a Jerusalem artichoke veloute and chocolate fondant with pine ice cream are as inspired as they are delicious.
Inland again, The Eskdale is a modern British pub that takes up residence in the village of Castleton. The bones of this place are old boozer but with a lick of paint, some very comfy leather armchairs and exquisite tableware, it wears its badge of Michelin Guide restaurant with pride. The food is refined, elegant and contemporary and deep dives into the produce of the North Yorkshire Moors. With plates like Pheasant Scotch Eggs and Chicken fat poached cod, it is easy to see why this restaurant has earned such a reputation. Eat here and be happy.
Restaurant Number 20 is a simple yet outstanding modern British restaurant in Port Mulgrave, a tiny hamlet one mile in from the sea. The space is intimate – one room, 24 covers. Husband and wife team, Sue runs FOH whilst chef Jason orchestrates from his open kitchen. They know what works and they do not deviate from their tried and tested method, no matter what the trend may be. Here it is three starters, three mains, three deserts. White linen table cloths, top quality ingredients that are allowed to shine rather than hide behind foams and gels. Fish takes center stage here, so fresh it could still flap if not so expertly cooked by chef Jason but if fish isn’t your vibe, fear not. The Josper grill earns it’s keep firing up and throwing out steaks and charred vegetables. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it and this restaurant certainly isn’t broken.
Ok, so technically it’s slightly north of the official Whitby Route but a ten minute detour is well worth it for Seaview Restaurant in Saltburn by the sea. Offering views over the North Sea and its distant wind farms, this is one of those places where you can get lost in the vista. But if you can bring your eyes back to the table, local lad Glen Pearson is ready to feed your eyes and your stomach with plates such as fish skin crackers, king scallop and truffle risotto and salmon scotch eggs.
Sitting in between the Hornsea and Withernsea route, heading inland is the market town of Beverly and within it, The Pig and Whistle, a local gem that boasts some of the best tapas this side of the Med, french small plates and charcuterie. Think tartiflette and chargilled octopus. It’s a yes from me. On Sunday, a special is in operation – something slow cooked, roasted potatoes and a glass of wine or beer, the perfect sunday afternoon!
Plan your next foodie road trip along Route YC today.
Fitzbillies is a Cambridge institution. With two sites in the city to manage the demand of both locals and tourists, there is an old worldly charm to this cafe. Think traditional wooden frames surrounding gilded glazing, towers of macaroons and celebration cakes and warm lighting casting a golden glow on coffee slurpers and chelsea bun consumers. You can’t really visit Cambridge without a stop here whether it’s for a sit down breakfast or a bun on the run. The cafe is famous for its sticky chelsea buns that are proudly displayed in a glass counter, each one shoe horned out with what looks to be a special tool designed especially to navigate thick syrup and pillowy dough. As well as the glorious sticky buns, a full brunch menu serves up the usual suspects – Full English, Eggs Benny and house specials such as the Full Fitzbillies (the best bits the bakery and kitchen has to offer) and the utterly decadent Chelsea Bun French Toast.
Novi is an all day eating and cocktailing kind of affair. I stopped in here for a nightcap on my first evening in Cambridge and noted how good the brunch menu looked so it was huzzahs all round when I found out I would indeed be eating it and boy oh boy were the huzzahs justified. Listen up dear reader, I do not say this lightly – these were the best Turkish Eggs I have ever experienced. And that is coming from someone who has been known to drive an hour and a half to Hackney just for the Mere St Market edition. Perfectly poached eggs perched on a bed of creamy labneh, doused in fiery nduja and crowned with fresh herbs and served with Stir Bakery sourdough for mopping – this is the breakfast to end all breakfasts. If the eggs aren’t a bit of you (not sure why they wouldn’t be but each to their own) they have a hefty menu to cater for all diners and showcasing local producers such as a Rennet and Rind cheese toastie, tofu wieners served with herby potatoes and avocado and a whole variety of loaded buckwheat waffles. The interiors are very ‘grammable’, modern clean lines, brushed brass bar tops, velvet seating and quite uniquely, a scent of a yoga studio which if someone had described to me I would have thought most off putting but in actuality, it means you can’t be anything other than zen on entering the space. Top rate coffee, the best eggs and I left feeling super relaxed – win win for me.
Bould Brothers = ding ding ding jackpot! Have I just found the best coffee shop in Cambridge and perhaps East Anglia? I think so. I don’t think brothers Max and Alex will take umbrage at me saying, these guys are coffee nerds and then some, but with their mastermind style knowledge of all things caffeine and bean related comes this absolute blinder of an establishment. Their ethos is that size really does matter. With smaller cups than you find in most coffee shops, the best coffee they can source and a more generous pour (a Bould Brothers coffee sees between 14g and 20g of coffee per drink compared to an average 7g found in other high street shops) organic, quality milk coupled with a minimum of six month intensive barista training, these guys ain’t messing about. With this level of skill and let’s face it, obsession, they could run the risk of dancing with pretension. I have been huffed at in many a coffee shop for not knowing my pour overs from my immersions but Bould Brothers is quite the opposite, welcomed with warm smiles and a clear desire to share knowledge about their craft, this place is truly special and I could not recommend it highly enough.
Hot Numbers is not just a specialty coffee shop but also a roastery, roasting their own beans off site in nearby Royston, that’s how you know you’re getting the good stuff. Simon Fraser runs it and says that he is all about making great drinks, having great discussions, all whilst sharing a morning coffee and on entering the Trumpington St shop (there is a second site on Gwyndr St), his ethos is palpable. Whilst the aforementioned Boulders felt slow paced, almost Balinese in its laid backness (not a bad thing), Hot Numbers feels hustly, you order quickly, you put the world to rights efficiently and you move on with your day, again, not a bad thing – just a different interpretation and I love that – two offerings that could so easily copy cat each other have such different identities, and with that, I implore you to try both because the coffee is sensational.
Lunch and street eats.
The Pint Shop does what it says on the tin. It serves a lot of pints. Alas, I am not a pint drinker so I can’t comment much here other than to say the menu looked very impressive and should I have had my pint guzzling partner with me, he would have been very happy with the 23 craft beers that are on rotation.
I tend not to heavily research restaurants before I review them as I don’t want to be swayed by others, I like to go into places with no expectations and let the menu and the food do the talking. All I knew about The Pint Shop is that it allegedly serves the best scotch egg in Cambridgeshire (I was told this by the concierge at our hotel) and I guessed it was going to be a menu of proper British pub classics. I wasn’t completely wrong but all those classics we see so often are elevated in clever and subtle ways. Pork scratchings with jalapeno ketchup? Yes please. Sourdough with confit garlic and beef fat butter – insert drooling emoji here. Of course we had the Classic Scotch Egg with Chipotle ketchup, very good but what I couldn’t get enough of was the flatbreads served with house pickles and red pepper and feta dip. I could quite honestly have bathed in that sweet, spicy dip. For mains, we shared the chicken shawarma kebab (any other day I would have devoured the house burger or dry aged steak but knowing how much food still lay ahead, I was being tactical). Homemade flatbreads cooked over coals, juicy succulent chicken dressed in mint yoghurt and chilli sauce, a scattering of fresh herbs and chillis – this dish was so fresh and light, it became one of the highlights of the trip. Knowing we had another four restaurants to visit that afternoon, my friend and I agreed we were here for research purposes and just to try the food, we didn’t have to eat every last morsel. Fast forward thirty minutes to us ripping pieces of flatbread and scooping up every last crumb on the plate, not even a dill frond was safe – it was that good. And so, sated and swollen we rolled to our next venue.
Nanna Mexico is a small, unassuming indie Mexican in the center of town. For those of you who aren’t too familiar with my work, I know Mexican food and I really know tacos. The bar was high and the excitement was real. On entering, I felt a little deflated, metal containers of ingredients sitting on the counter made me think this was going to be more of a ‘Tortilla / Chipotle grab a burrito at the train station’ vibe than that of the taqueria I was hoping for. Never one to walk away from a taco, I ordered a plate of carnitas, purposefully declining all the gubbins – guac / pico / lettuce etc as I wanted to really taste the meat. I very much appreciated the added layer of cheese on the tortilla and thrown on the hot plate to give a melted layer of goodness between the corn taco shell and the pulled pork. The filling itself was good, it wasn’t the best taco I have ever had but it certainly wasn’t the worst. The plates come as three so again, we agreed to try one and save room for the more food that was coming our way. Fifteen minutes later and not much left on the plate other than the drip of meat juices. Belts now fully removed, not just loosened. Nanna Mexico is great for a quick bite on the move.
Bread and Meat is another Cambridge institution and one I have been wanting to try for an eternity. It is known for doing two things very well… bread and meat, otherwise known as gourmet sandwiches.
The concept is simple, choose from Porchetta, Philly Cheese Steak, British beef or Honey Soy Chicken and choose what medium you would like it delivered and devour. And I mean DEVOUR. Again, trying to be restrained and having lost my belt to the cause already, I went for a side portion of poutine, mumbling that now familiar line ‘just a taste’, cue me cheese pulling, gravy drinking, chip inhaling like a human that hadn’t eaten for the best part of a year. As seems to be a theme with everywhere we were eating, the staff were welcoming and full of smiles, not even an eye roll when I started contorting my body to get the right shot of that cheese pull. I will absolutely be returning here to experience the full meal.
Across the road to Aromi, a Sicilian pizzeria and bakery and another place that had been on my ‘Cambridge list’ for a while.
We were nearing the end of the afternoon portion of our eating and were well and truly tapping out, knowing we had a fine dining experience ahead of us that evening, we agreed we would have a glass of Sicilian wine and a cannoli before heading back for a much-needed nap. Turns out, for reasons I never did work out, you have to order savoury food to be able to order wine and we really needed the wine, so here we are, not quite done yet with our carb loading, ‘two spinach arancini please’ I murmured through shortness of breath that only comes when the stomach literally runs out of space.
Aromi is clearly the place to be for post-lecture / pre-theatre snacks – there was a real buzz which felt very Sicilian. The arancini was a little disappointing, with no real flavour or ‘wow’ to it but perhaps this was my body throwing in the towel because I have heard others speak very highly of it. I can confirm the cannoli and wine were delightful.
Evening eats.
The Terrace at The Gonville hosted us for our last evening in Cambridge and lucky for us it did as it was also where we were staying and meant we could roll easily from room to table.
The two rosette restaurant prides itself on its fine dining menu and after a day of tacos, kebabs and fries, I was ready for my perfectly plated petit portions.
Starting with a dainty amuse bouche of chicken liver parfait tartlet, I breathed a happy sigh, nothing brings me more joy than kicking off an evening with a perfect mouthful. Is chicken liver parfait pushing the realms of culinary innovation? No. Was it absolutely delicious? Yes. As my Mother says, ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. And so, tartlet gobbled, on to the homemade sourdough with garlic butter, again – a classic, like a refined dough ball from the place Prince Andrew frequents.
Considering I don’t really like mushrooms, I can’t tell you why I was so drawn to the starter of a wild mushroom tart but drawn I was. An oaty, crumbly pastry shell encasing mushroom ragu with a sticky onion marmalade, mushroom powder, shaved mushrooms, mushroom jus – it was a mushroom sensation, a total umami hit of flavour and then some. Honestly, I thought chef must have peaked at this point but I was wrong.
Out came the mains of an ex-dairy ribeye served with short rib and pomme puree and it was sensational. I am thrilled when I see an ex dairy cow on the menu and it makes me so happy more and more restaurants are utilising it, the steak was cooked to perfection, the short rib was sticky and moorish, the pomme puree was smooth and silky – it was, the perfect plate.
Alas, deserts fell a tiny bit short. My friend’s souffle did not rise to the occasion – literally – and my rhubarb and custard tart was lacking sharpness to cut through the sweet, but this in no way diminished the meal. It was just a bad day in the pastry section, or perhaps the universe telling us to stop being such glutinous swines. I left that restaurant very happy and I only hope it continues to grow in popularity.
Where we stayed.
Centrally located with views overlooking Parker’s Piece, The Gonville is a great option to base yourself for those looking to explore the city. An easy walk from the train station, onsite parking and close proximity to all the aforementioned eateries plus the usual suspects of things to do in Cambridge – punting, evensong, walking around the colleges etc. The 93 rooms are simple and functional plus a large on-site bar and terrace means you have the perfect place to sip a coffee or cocktail before heading out on exploration.
The thing that truly sets The Gonville apart is the knowledgeable and intuitive staff who go above and beyond to make your stay memorable. And of course, no stay at The Gonville would be complete without a tour in the hotel’s 1951 Bentley R type and it’s chauffeur Zane whose knowledge and enthusiasm for Cambridge and the surrounding areas is infectious. Guests can book a tour, free of charge when booking a stay at the hotel and can expect to visit surrounding villages.
Cambridge really is rooting itself on the foodie map and only seems to be bedding those roots down even further as more and more fantastic eateries are popping up, stars are being handed out and the food elite are flocking to the city.
‘Alex Webb on Park Lane’ – it’s a punchy title and with it, brings some high expectations. Park Lane is one of those place names that has a bit of a rep. I fondly remember childhood games of Monopoly, squirming as other players rolled their dice and moved their counters over the hallowed inky blue square, praying they didn’t snap it up before I got a chance. It was card most desirable, along with its Mayfair counterpart. Once I moved to London I got to see these allusive property squares come to life, visiting the big Topshop on Oxford St, university on Regent’s St, train journeys into Kings Cross but I never really ventured to Park Lane. I was aware of it but the student loan wouldn’t quite stretch for that sort of outing. Flanked with super cars and luxury hotels, this was no place for a pov’ stricken first year. As I entered the next chapter of my London life, the working years, the W1 postcode continued to elude me as I made my home in South East London.. That dark blue area felt like a different country to me and I was fine with that.
Hopping off the tube at Hyde Park Corner, I almost went to grab my passport rather than my card to tap out. So used to navigating multiple tube exits and warrens like the back of my hand, I suddenly found myself having to consult (dare I even admit it) the signposts. Feeling like a tourist, I followed my subway exit and found myself propelled into a part of London totally alien to me. Face to face with the statue of the Duke of Wellington, I was a teenager again – wide eyed and full of wonder at this new city.
Crossing the road to The Intercontinental, the hotel housing Alex Webb and his brigade, those childhood thoughts came flooding back, “this is the fanciest place on the board”. But it wasn’t. And not in a bad way. A restaurant that could so easily fall into the categories of stuffy, posh, austere was anything but – it is relaxed, welcoming and friendly. Alex is an Essex lad at heart, a firm favourite on BBC’s Masterchef (he won me over when he filled a party popper with passion fruit powder as part of his final dish which earned him the crown), you can feel his exuberance fill the restaurant before you even set eyes on the food. As Essex meets Mayfair, warmth meets formality and blends in a perfect marriage.
Alex has had as much input into the restaurant interiors as he has to the menu and I wonder if he also harked back to memories of that board game when designing it, perhaps with a knowing smile that he has won the game. Inky blue walls decorated with quirky art including hand drawn images of him and his Masterchef trophy, peacock taxidermy (99% sure these are fake but didn’t like to ask) and blue leather menus. There is a subtle theme here and I am into it. The colour palette matches perfectly with mid century armchairs and brushed brass accents and almost in a continuation of the interiors, the colourscape bleeds out of the restaurant, through the large gallery style window and into the inky blue London night. In creating this seamless bleed of colour the space is transformed into an almost cocoon like state.
Taking our welcome glass of Hattingley Valley, an elegant UK sparking wine – Alex’s menu champions seasonal, British produce – we enjoyed our fizz at the contemporary bar space overlooking a bustling Park Lane. As black cabs and red buses whizzed past in a technicolor blur, we could have been looking onto an early noughties music video, lucky for us, no wind machines in sight as we retreated inward and took out seats in the cosy corner of the restaurant.
The menu proudly utilises ingredients and inspiration from ‘land, sea and tree’ and Alex sets the bar high with his first demonstration of this – his very theatrical canapes. I believe there is a time and place for gastronomic theatrics and this was one of them. Having my whistle whet by the aforementioned party popper, I was excited to see what tricks would be served up in his own house. Paying homage to each theme, we oohed and ahhed as our black garlic tuiles shaped into dainty branches balanced on an actual branch, the black bomber cheese tarts (which may I add, I haven’t stopped dreaming about since devouring) came in a presentation box laced with moss and our squid ink crackers, topped with fresh crab adorned a pile of pebbles, of course, all being surrounded by a swirling, mystical dry ice. Another clever move by Chef Webb, bringing a dash of magic to the table at first chance and making his diners eek and squeak like big kids, wrapping them in a layer of warmth and nostalgia.
So spoilt for choice with the menu on offer, my dining partner and I had to share three starters and we only stopped at two mains because we were both wearing very unforgiving trousers. Plates of beef carpaccio topped with pickled shimeji, pine nut puree and truffle; tuna tartare embellished with a citrus salad and avocado puree; lobster toast with black sesame and sweet chilli (insert drooling emoji here) were placed before us. We descended on our banquet with grunts and moans only ever used for food of the highest standard. Our conversation had been paused and instead we communicated with wide eyes of merriment and glee. Cutlery left untouched, we used our freshly baked bread to mop up sauces and butters, we checked no one was watching as we padded our fingertips into any crumb left behind.
Our mains were as beautiful as they were delicious. The lamb rump served with sweetbreads, lamb bacon and lamb jus was balanced perfectly with a romanesco and red pepper gel that danced across the plate – literally, well not literally but the record player trick had certainly been used resulting in a bright red spiral across the stark white plate ensuring we were eating with our eyes as well as our mouths. Atlantic sea cod with sea herbs, pickled onion, crispy potatoes and finished with a champagne sauce was one of the most elegant dishes I have had the pleasure of wrapping my chops around in quite some time and yet still, Alex doesn’t let go of his fun touches as Jemima, perhaps the best server in W1, arrived at the table with a bowl of crispy potatoes that looked sort of like green rice crispies, and there we were again, transported back to our childhood. Sides of slow cooked butter and thyme potatoes loaded with parmesan and grilled hispi cabbage drenched in blue cheese sauce and bacon are reason enough to pay this place a visit.
A pre dessert of Espresso Martini soft serve sitting proudly in mini ice cream cones was one of the highlights of the evening. A perfect bite to transition us from the savoury portion of the evening into the sweet. Creamy, rich espresso doused in a luxurious caramel, this morsel of a dish moves you through the years – the excitement of being handed a Mr Whippy from the ice cream van as a child, the buzz of an espresso martini in later years. This was Chef Webb on a plate… well, in a cone.
To complete the evening, we had to admit defeat and share one dessert and so on Jemima and chef’s recommendation we were presented with a dark chocolate sphere with praline & feuilletine and orange gel. I am not usually a chocolate kind of girl but perhaps Alex had succeeded in pulling out my inner child because this I devoured. And I know it’s been done to death but I still get off on that first crack of the bowl of the spoon hitting the sphere, I like an interactive pud, what can I say. The combination of the orange gel, the snap of the chocolate, the roundness of things on the plate, I was eating a very grown up jaffa cake and I was very happy in doing so.
Alex Webb has done what many have strived to do. He has set up shop in one of the most prestigious locations in the city and he has done so in a fun and comfortable manner. He has blended a formal dining experience with a relaxed atmosphere, layering his menu with nostalgia and memories and in doing so, takes his diners on a journey not just gastronomically but personally. For a fine dining experience in the heart of London, loaded with personality and humanity – I could not recommend Alex Webb on Park Lane enough. My only regret being I didn’t have time to visit his sweet shop – guess I’ll just have to go back.
Festival : “An event ordinarily celebrated by a community and centring on some characteristic aspect of that community and its religion or cultures.”
Twenty years ago, I went to my first music festival and was so blown away by what I saw I didn’t just vow to remain an avid festival goer for the rest of my life, I went one step further and decided that I would make a career of it. And that’s what I did. I forged a fifteen-year career in creative festival production and one question I seem to get asked time and time again is “what made you get into that job”. My answer is always the same – I want to be part of the creation of something that people talk about for the rest of their lives, to create memories of experiences that last a lifetime.
Music festivals don’t always get the best rap, especially the newer additions to the roster. Assumed by many that they are just an excuse for people to get f**ked up, listen to loud music and generally do things society doesn’t approve of. A place reserved for hippies and anarchists, unless you go to Latitude or Wilderness and then you’re just a bit posh and uninspired (these are things I have heard, rather than my first-hand opinion, FYI). These assumptions are symptomatic of the fact that we have lost sight of why festivals came to be and what they should stand for – and that is celebration and congregation.
In a world before sponsors and bottom lines these gatherings were just that, a gathering for people to come together in community and celebrate life and all it has to offer through music and song and feasting and love and respect for each other. A melting pot of everything that makes us human.
I once had a discussion with my therapist where I asked “is there something wrong with my relationship when my partner and I have our best nights in a field, listening to music and getting high?” His response? “Yes, if you listen to society’s rules, or perhaps if this was a daily occurrence but the fact that this happens a couple of times a year, where you two end up celebrating love with music and good people and heightening that experience in a way that has been done since the age of time, it actually sounds near perfect to me”. I should state my therapist is a very liberal kind of guy, but having this perspective made me realise how conditioned I had become to thinking there must be something wrong in doing the very thing that humankind has been doing for centuries.
Given my chosen career path I have been to A LOT of festivals, varying sizes, types of music, geographic locations but of course it comes back to one, the mecca, Glastonbury and so after five long years (thanks to fallow years and pandemics) I made the pilgrimage back to Worthy Farm with the intention to really drill in to what it is that makes this place so special and if we can get back to what that’s all about.
I struggle to imagine anyone who hasn’t heard of Glastonbury, but appreciate there may be a fair few who haven’t experienced it – to summarise within this wordcount what it is like is ambitious. But I’ll try my best.
A temporary city that for one-week hosts artists from every walk of life and from all over the world. A place where people come together to share elation and wonder at installations and curations. A cross section of societal subdivisions converging for the same reason, an act that in our ever-polarising society seems to be coming less and less common. And for me, that is the magic of Glastonbury, especially after the last few years. For five days you are held (and I mean held in a comforting, supportive sense, not an against your will sense) in a space where you can shut off the news, you can shut off the outside world, you can be whatever you want to be, do whatever you want to do and share it with people who are there for the same reason.
I approached my Glastonbury experience slightly differently this year, knowing this article was to come out of it, to gain an understanding of what it was that forged this sense of community with everyone there. I remained sober (for at least a day) so I could be sure that what I was witnessing was accurate and not a drug-induced state of blissful loving. Standing at the Truth stage, flanked by billboards and posters stating things such as “You can silence people but their hearts will always be free” and “hate has no home here” watching folk singer Beans on Toast it all became clear. Glastonbury is a celebration of love and a place of hope.
In between songs of political states of affairs and current climates, Jay McAllister stopped to address the crowd “the thing about Glastonbury is it is a beautiful place, a hopeful place, a friendly place, a brilliant place”. He wasn’t wrong. With Greta Thunberg giving a speech on the iconic Pyramid stage, Greenpeace having a huge on-site presence, activists informing and educating at every turn, plant doctors and spiritualists demonstrating alternative healing methods and people from every walk of life uniting, Glastonbury is so much more than a music festival, it is a place where people can believe in a better world, they can get a snapshot of what life could be like if we were all to come together and in this togetherness an energy is shared. A huge collective emotion wanting change and a better world and a better life for future generations, if that isn’t a celebration of life, I don’t know what is.
How to do Glastonbury (the right way)
I totally appreciate that general camping at Glastonbury (or any festival) is not for the faint hearted. Even for a seasoned festival goer like myself, trekking wheelbarrows of stuff through hilly fields, queuing for hours for toilets that could cause another pandemic and playing the game of temperature regulation in a tent that either becomes a sweat box in the sun or an ice box in a cool breeze with no in-between is not fun so this year I took one for the team and after some extensive research as to the best boutique camping provider at Glastonbury, I landed on the wonderful Hotel Ziggu and I am here to tell you my research paid off.
As we crossed the border into Somerset I waited for my Google maps to turn red and another day be added on to our journey as we joined the throngs of cars but to my surprise, it never came. Using some very accurate directions we seemed to bypass the quarter of a million people and slipped around the back into our paradise without so much as going into first gear. This was a GREAT start.
Into the private car park and met instantly by a golf buggy to lug our kit to our tent with not so much as an eye of judgement at my numerous outfit choices and full-length mirror.
On arrival at our bell tent we were greeted by two ice cold champagne cocktails for us to sip as we did the obligatory mattress check on our REAL double bed – I can confirm the mattress was deliciously comfortable and any worries of not sleeping were instantly removed.
After a long drive we decided to hole up at the campsite so we could hit the festival fresh in the morning and dine at the onsite restaurant before whiling the night away with more cocktails in a chill out area complete with hammocks and sofas.
The next day, with slightly more sore heads than intended (those pesky cocktails were just too damn good) we made the most of the breakfast spread and a Bloody Mary in the wood-fired hot tub, which I can now confirm is the absolute only way to start the day. Once refuelled and refreshed we hopped on the shuttle bus to the festival that took a mere five minutes and were ready to go.
I didn’t think Glastonbury could get much better but the team at Hotel Ziggu and the offering they provide really does take this from a ten to an eleven and I could not recommend them enough. I will most certainly be back next year. And every year after that.
Need to know
A bell tent for two people starts at £3,000 for the festival period
The other players – I get it, Glastonbury isn’t for everyone. I will silently judge you but I get it – the crowds, the price, the commitment, it is a lot. If you want to ease yourself into the world of festivals gently or are looking for something smaller but a similar vibe below are my recommendations.
Green Man
Set in the heart of the Brecon Beacons, this family-friendly independent festival is a very close second to Glasto in my ‘top festivals of all time’ poll. It is fantastic for music (big acts and upcoming) comedy and talks as well as the most beautiful art installations you have ever seen. I would go as far as to say it is the most polite and friendly festival I have been to and perfect for those wanting the full experience without a crowded, oversubscribed vibe.
Where to stay
Hotel Bell Tent are the OGs when it comes to boutique camping and their offering at Green Man is quite honestly stunning. Set on the banks of the River Usk – you are a less than a five minute walk from the main festival but distanced enough away that it is blissfully peaceful.
The camp includes a pamper tent, phone charging station, high end toilets and showers.
I stumbled up on this festival by accident and whilst the music offering may not be for everyone (Country, Blues and Americana) it is great for people looking for a smaller show where the kids can run around without fear of getting lost (it’s that small) whilst the adults can just have a jolly good time kicking around in cowboy boots. I dragged my partner, who has been to more shows than I and categorically hates Country, and he is still claiming it is one of the best he’s been to. Where else can you eat Brisket, drink whiskey, throw axes and watch wannabe cowboys?
Where to stay
General camping
Ok I know this goes against everything I have written BUT Red Rooster is one of the few shows where the general campsite is actually nicer than a lot of the boutique camp sites I have been in. Because of the small numbers there is oodles of space, it is flat, you can drive your car very close to your tent and you are a stone’s throw from the arena. What’s not to love?
I am a child of the nineties – I grew up idolizing Kate Moss and her jutting hip bones. I still idolise Kate Moss but at the tender age of 36 and with a lot of learnings behind me, now I gaze at her fondly with admiration for her career and what she has done for the fashion industry, rather than a lust for her body. Not that I don’t think her body is stunning but because I now understand that a) a curvy Jewish girl that has a had a penchant for fried food since the dawn of time is never going to have those coat hanger collar bones and b) because finally, after a lifetime of damaging narratives, I am on my way to understanding that our bodies are not what make us.
I think most of my generation can say they grew up with less than realistic ideals of what a woman’s body should look like. When we were growing up women with curves were never represented on screen unless they were the butt of a joke. We were shown Baywatch babes, Page 3 girls and the aforementioned heroin chic runway gazelles. I am not telling you anything new here, it was a toxic time, we’re all aware. Couple that with living with a mother with an eating disorder who ran a modelling agency and you have a recipe for disaster. I am just going to caveat here and make a point to say I did not have a traumatic childhood (well not that I realised at the time), I travelled all over Europe with my Mum, her band of long-legged lushes, were some of the most amazing women I have ever met. My Mum wasn’t a bad mum, she was so far into her illness that she didn’t know the path she was laying for me. She was clever at being a functioning bulimic, no one thought there was anything wrong and when she projected her toxic traits on to me, she wasn’t aware of the damage she was causing long term.
I wasn’t allowed ‘fat’ friends, I had to watch what I ate, and I was rewarded for dropping dress sizes rather than educational achievements. Is it any wonder that at fifteen I developed my own form of eating disorder? When I should have been filling myself with calories to help my growing body, I starved it. I lived off Slim Fast and perhaps a tablespoon of rice and grilled chicken with a tuft of broccoli if I felt woozy – I insisted on cooking my own food in case my meal got contaminated with something calorie heavy. On top of this I got up at 5am every morning to do ninety minutes of the New York Ballet workout – I was a mess, but I had the body I wanted and I lived for the compliments my Mum would lavish on me. My most vivid memory during this time was when I nearly fainted in the bathroom, pulling myself together and walking to my bedroom in my underwear where I bumped into my mother on the landing, and she shrieked “Oh my god look at that body” – at my lowest I was at my Mum’s highest.
But then at 17 things started to change, I got a new group of friends and we had the miraculous things of driving licenses and free periods where we could go to other wordly establishments in the mecca that was the SnowDome in Milton Keynes – Pizza Hut buffets and a cheeky Nando’s became a Friday afternoon ritual, we needed to line our stomachs ahead of the gallons on Snakebite we would later be drinking at the metal bar before rounding the night off with a KFC Twister meal. My body started to change and I was too busy having a good time to think too much about it.
Then came the university years… in London. It was like stepping into a new world. Loaded with our student loans, my housemates and I devoured Dim Sum and Turkish kebabs, the proper kind. We thought we were the absolute dog’s bollocks as we managed to secure a huge town house in Brixton (thanks to one of the residents’ very wealthy Aunts) and hosted over the top dinner parties with gallons of wine, vats of Spag Bol and trays of Bread & Butter pudding. Nights out always culminated in cheese toasties around the kitchen table and even more wine. We all went through various part time jobs as catering staff which meant there was always a box of left overs from the party we had worked the night before sitting on the counter top for breakfast. It was fantastic.
Not only was my appetite growing but so was my desire for knowledge about food, I had always loved to cook but now I became obsessed – reading recipes, learning about ingredients, walking around Borough Market the way a dirty old letch walks around the red-light district. Overflowing tables of exotic fruit and veg was my kind of porn. I began hosting supper clubs and where I had once sought validation about how good I looked, I now thrived off the compliments I was given for what I produced in the kitchen. I got high off making people so full they could burst.
One weekend I returned home, we went to a local pub for lunch and mum was sinking the wine. After a ‘what seemed too long even for her’ trip to the bathroom, I went to make sure everything was OK. I found her on the floor, coming round, unsure as to how she ended up there – that’s the thing with refusing to intake solid calories but enjoying a bottle or four of wine, it soon catches up with you. I picked her up and said she had had enough to which she replied “why would I take advice from you? Look at the state of you”. She didn’t say the actual F word but I knew exactly what she meant. To this day I don’t think I have ever been so hurt or felt so ashamed. Now looking back and after A LOT of therapy, I realise what was happening, it was all projection and nothing to do with me, but as an early twenty-year-old, still figuring shit out, I was broken.
Following that I began to distance myself from Mum. I had to put boundaries in place to allow myself any semblance of healthy young adulthood. Some may say I did the wrong thing but the thing with addicts is that you can’t help them until they decide to help themselves and I stand fast in that the child should not be expected to become the parent.
At thirty I met my partner and was introduced to a love like none I had experienced before. It was unconditional. The first year of our relationship was long distance and every other weekend we spent together was an event, a true celebration. He would make the long journey; I would plan the menu. Friday night would always be the grand feast, slowly learning all his favourite foods and preparing them lovingly, enhancing them in some creative way, book ending a simple bangers and mash with pretty starters and rich desserts, sourcing wine pairings. Saturday mornings he would creep out to the local coffee shop and come back to wake me laden with pastries and lattes. Saturday night we would go out for dinner, working our way around the city’s food scene and Sunday, without fail brunch at OUR place – a cute indie café that did the best fry up you’ve ever had – before he began his shlep home.
Soon after we got together I embarked on a road trip down the East Coast of America which was predominantly structured around diners, lobsters shacks and BBQ joints. I kid you not with this next part. We hired a Mustang sports car, you know, the ones with the seats that sort of hug you in – by the end of that trip I was hugging the seat, not the other way round. Being the Instagram whore I am, I of course documented the whole thing, every fried plate of it. A friend messaged me and said “you’re going to explode”. Of course, she meant nothing by it and would have been devastated if she knew how much it triggered me but it did – these wounds that are inflicted on us at a young age cut pretty deep and the scabs never truly heal.
When I met Jon I was a svelte size 10 (this time through healthy life choices) I loved being this size but it wasn’t natural to me, it took work and in honesty, I loved the size because that is what I had been conditioned to love. It didn’t take long for my body to grow back to its natural, fuller state. Slowly my self confidence ebbed, nothing to do with my partner but more the gremlins from my past that despite no matter how hard I tried, could not be laid to rest.
And then came MasterChef, a dream come true, a once in a lifetime experience. One that involved recipe testing every waking moment of the day. Whipping up vats of pomme puree at 6am, followed by countless attempts at chocolate fondants and pork belly fritters. It was a short period of my life, three months maybe, but those three months saw me ingest more butter and cream than Paul Hollywood has during his whole Bake Off career. It is safe to say I swelled and then swelled a little more. MasterChef had been a family favourite in our household for years – ironic I know – and I wanted to share this time with my Mum. I hadn’t cut her off completely, just maintained a healthy distance. I was in a good place – good job, great partner, nice house and now this, I thought I was strong enough that I couldn’t be shaken – but I was wrong. As I picked up the phone to dial her number I sub consciously put a hand to my now pretty round belly and thought there is no way she will want me like this and so I put the phone back down.
My career in food took off, I became a private chef, a food writer and a restaurant reviewer – all jobs may I add that require you to eat. A lot. I started having more frequent conversations with Mum and every time she would ask when she would get to see me again. I always had an excuse, work was too busy, I was too tired, life was too manic etc. In truth I knew I just didn’t want to be greeted with those eyes from all those years back that say “what the hell happened?” and because I couldn’t confront it with her, I couldn’t confront it with myself. I began wearing shapeless clothes, I pulled away from my partner, I made a company-wide statement to my social group that no photos were to be taken of me at any time. By this time I was actually longing for my Mother, I missed her and I wanted to rebuild our relationship but how could she ever love me when I was the physical representation of everything she hated?
I took guidance from people who had gone through similar situations or were recovering from ED’s, I followed the right Instagram accounts and deleted the wrong ones. For a long time nothing happened. I still had to avoid mirrors and cameras and shop windows (tbh I still do have to avoid shop windows – why are they so unflattering?!) and I resigned myself to the fact that I would just have to live with this body that I hated and that was my lot.
And then slowly things started to change. Like some sort of osmosis, the good I had surrounded myself with had seeped in. I caught my reflection in the mirror one day and thought ‘shit I look good’ despite not having lost any weight. I looked at my curves with admiration rather than disgust, proud that I waddled around with an all natural Kardashian butt. Through some subtle life editing I had managed to curate a narrative that was full of love and empowerment and acceptance. If people didn’t align with that, there wasn’t room for them at the table – literally. I got into the habit of buying two items of my favourite jeans so that when those days come when I’m bloated or have over indulged, I can grab the next size up and feel great in what I am wearing as I have bypassed the whole ‘lying on the bed to do the zipper up’ drama.
As I slowly began to fall in love with this body, in a similar way people fall in love with their best friend who has been hanging around for years, patiently waiting for them to realise I understood it wasn’t just the aesthetic I was in to, it was what it represented.
These curves, this belly, that arm wobble are physical representations of everything wonderful in my life – my friends and partner who I love to feed, a career that I thought I could only every dream of coming to fruition, being alive in a time of Deliveroo and an outstanding restaurant scene that we are so unbelievably lucky to have available to us. The opportunities to travel and eat around the world.
Praise be we are now living through the dawn of the body positivity movement. There is still work to do and a long way to go but thanks to forward-thinking media campaigns and influencers of all shapes and sizes embracing their curves it is beginning to get a little easier. It feels there has been a shift in energy and as a whole we are being a lot kinder to ourselves but I implore you, next time you catch a bit in the mirror you don’t like, ask yourself what that ‘bit’ actually represents. Is it a meal you had with a loved one? Is it a takeaway you treated yourself to in an act of self care? Is it your body showing you, you are a woman and should be fucking proud to be one?
I should mention that I am indeed human, I have many a wobble and this body positivity stuff doesn’t always come easy – the way I look at it, it is like trying to unlearn how to write with one hand and learn with the other. And in those low moments, I remember something my partner said to me “I’m not going to lie to you, you have put on weight since I met you but you have also grown so much as a person. You used to work late every night for a company you hated, eating to live not living to eat. Now I come home and most nights you are dancing around the kitchen, cooking, tasting, drinking and you have never looked happier. Not a chance in hell would I swap this for that sad skinny bitch. Your body, this way is a celebration of everything good in your life and all the bits that make you, you!”
A couple of weeks back it was my Mum’s birthday. I am usually away for summer and so the excuse is ready made but this year she knew I was home and kept casually calling and asking what I was up to. I bit the bullet. For the first time in years I invited her into my home, I cooked a feast and I cooked it with love, proud of the food I was putting on the table and knowing that if she had a problem with any of it being ‘too much’ I would be ok. I wore a dress that showed my curves. For the three days leading up to it there were sleepless nights, snappy arguments as I got more and more anxious. I even called in back up in the form of a best friend who is FANTASTIC with neurotic mothers. The day arrived and it was pleasant, Mum was unusually quiet but I figured that was better than insults and snide digs. A few days later I received a card through the post, in it was written “Thank you for a wonderful birthday, sorry if I was quiet, I was overwhelmed – I have never been more proud of the chef and the woman you have become, all my love, always Mum”.
There is a special group of hotels that I hold dear to my heart. They have the unique skill of evoking two emotions when you enter, the first being sheer glee – where I momentarily become the heart-eyed emoji as I try and take everything in, the second being fear – fear that I only have an finite amount of time here and how am I possibly going to experience everything it has to offer and not only that, how am I going to drag myself out of it to explore the surrounding city when it is THIS beautiful? The Oyster Box is now firmly residing within this special group of hotels.
Greeted by an army of porters and the resident cat, Skabenga (who clearly is as enamored with the food as I was soon to be), we entered through the iconic revolving doors, a feature kept from the original 1954 hotel, all hardwood and polished brass. Stepping into the main lobby feels like stepping back in time – laden with antiquites and specially curated artwork showcasing local KwaZulu artists, marble floors, an enormous welcome desk lined with staff falling over themselves to ensure you have the most enjoyable of stays – I knew I was going to be very happy here.
Sitting behind the lobby are the hotel’s three restaurants, the first is the slightly less formal Ocean Terrace, which funnily enough has a terrace overlooking the ocean, has the most exquisite breakfasts I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating – tables heaving with every offering you could imagine plus a pancake station, omelette station, oyster bar and an a la carte menu. The Ocean Terrace also offers informal all day dining and the infamous curry buffet – more on that later. The Palm Court takes the central space of the hotel with an open lounge allowing guests to voyeuristically watch diners enjoy the hotel’s afternoon tea, noted as one of South Africa’s best, it is the epitome of refined opulence. A piano player provides a delicate soundtrack that fills the hotel. Across the walkway from here is The Grill Room which offers authentic Gueridon service – unfortunately I didn’t have the opportunity to eat here due to time constraints but from what I could see, it looked sensational.
After I had popped my eye balls back into their sockets, I followed the porter to my room – advice here would be to always follow a porter – once past the main restaurants the hotel becomes a labyrinth of staircases that seem to lead to nowhere and everywhere all at the same time, I am 99% sure they were the inspiration for the moving staircases in Harry Potter. Jungle like gardens with paths woven through them, water features carving out hidden passages, it is quite the maze but one I would happily get lost in. Arriving at my room, we entered through what looked like a numbered garden gate into a private terrace complete with plunge pool, sun loungers and my own personal jungle. I could have parked up here and been perfectly happy but the porter pressed forward and opened the door to my room. I should correct myself here, it wasn’t a room. It was a space bigger than my two bedroom Suffolk house. Not only had my poor eyeballs popped from their sockets moments earlier but now my jaw had unlodged itself and fallen to the floor. The ground floor of the suite offers day beds, writing desks, buttery leather sofas and armchairs that hug you as you fall into them. The interiors are so exquisitely designed – each room is individually curated – I was beside myself playing with writing boxes, taking in the artwork and becoming the fairest of ladies. Upstairs saw another huge desk (this really is the place to pen that novel), king size bed, balcony overlooking the private terrace and ensuite complete with monsoon shower and very large tub.
A quick turn around, a donning of finest dress and I was ready for the Curry Buffet. Full disclosure, I was not looking forward to this. The word buffet always makes me a little nervous, throw the word curry into the mix and I was envisaging a full Bridget Jones curried turkey situation. How wrong I was. There was a minimum of eleven curries including meat, fish and veggie and showcasing flavours from Singapore, India and traditional Durban cuisine. Piles of steaming naan breads and parathas, homemade poppadoms and more pickles, chutneys and raitas that I didn’t even know existed, every single dish was exquisite. And yes, I did go back to load my plate more times than Henry Higgins would have probably deemed acceptable. Zero regrets.
Following dinner, I went on a tour of the hotel’s bars. Starting my expedition at The Oyster Bar, sitting beneath an installation of whirring antique fans, sipping a glass of champagne at the marble counter whilst taking in the view of the ocean, sated on curry and carbs. Beneath a glass floor allowing a look into the wine cellar which is also available for private tastings. From here, upwards to the top floor and The Lighthouse Bar – a huge roof terrace taking in views of the lighthouse, just perfect whilst quaffing one of the signature cocktails. My last stop, the Chukka Bar, is a sports bar / smoking bar – this wasn’t the place for me. A heady aroma of cigar smoke and alpha male pheromones saw me slowly retreat to the safety of my oversized bed. I did appreciate the polo memorabilia though. And so I began my quest back to my room, of course I got lost but it worked out well as I stumbled into one of the most beautiful libraries I have ever seen. Floor to ceiling shelves of early editions of Rudyard Kipling and Dickens, historic Zulu books and everything in between. Leather chairs and end tables offering themselves up to discerning readers. Desks filled with headed paper inviting guests to write to their loved ones back home, a gramophone complete with records and of course, floor to ceiling windows taking in that ever-looming lighthouse.
The following day, after the dreamiest night’s sleep, I explored the spa which prides itself on treatments using ingredients and practices native to KwaZulu-Natal. The signature massage which starts with a foot cleansing and the opportunity to choose your own crystals and aromatherapy was one of the best I have had. After I had been rubbed within an inch of my life I headed upstairs to the relaxation room complete with herbal teas and healthy snacks and a jacuzzi area flanked in marble and huge artworks giving the space an almost church like quality.
From here, on to the afternoon tea of which I had heard so much about and for good reason. Being at The Oyster Box is like living through all your favourite stories and I was on to the Alice in Wonderland portion of my stay. Teapots that seemed to float and pour streams of flowers onto the table, cake stands full of dainty pastries, french patisserie and finger sandwiches. Huge cakes begging to be sliced up and served next to scones and tartlets. I had honestly never seen anything like it, a mirage of pastels and pops of bold colours. The clinking of silver cake slices and champagne glasses danced over the grand piano.
The hotel has two large pools, one hidden amongst the central garden and the iconic sea view pool that perches above the Indian ocean allowing swimmers and sunbathers vistas over the crashing waves and the red and white lighthouse, the design of which has influenced the colour palette of loungers, parasols and textiles – a sea of red and white stripes pop against the turquoise water. From here there are steps that lead directly to the beachfront where you can walk down to the ocean or perhaps take a pew on the pier and watch the world go by.
The Oyster Box is truly one in a million, boasting the rich and famous as guests but also offering a friendly welcome to locals, regulars and tourists, it is easy to see why this magnificent hotel has become one of Durban’s most loved residences.
From ZAR 9,380 (£457 approx.) for a Classic Garden Facing Room per room per night on a B&B basis.
Located within the Kwazulu Natal province, in the North Eastern tip of South Africa, nestled just beneath Kruger, sits an expansive 70,500 acres of private reserve and within it, six accommodation options comprising four luxury lodges and two villas and of that’s not enough, Phinda is now celebrated as one of the continent’s most successful rewilding projects.
Arriving at tea time, there was a bustle around the main communal area which houses the bar, restaurant, shop and lounge. A small, cosy, intimate affair that is all expansive views, bookshelves full to the brim of Zulu history, perfectly placed curios, designer lamps that late into the night come into their own, casting a warm glow throughout the space and relaxed seating that makes you feel like you are in your very own ‘Out Of Africa’ fantasy with the luxury dial turned up some. It turns out that tea time is a very important part of the day at Phinda but more on that later – greeted by warm smiles from the staff that looked after us during our stay including our guide Holly, our tracker Mpilo and an army of front-of-house and guest services who it seems sole purpose is to make our stay as perfect as possible. It has been a while since I touched down on South African soil but I was instantly reminded how exceptional the level of hospitality is, within minutes of arriving you feel you have made friends for life.
Whilst sipping on our welcome drinks of freshly squeezed watermelon juice and perfectly chilled sparkling wine, our guide (who hosts all your drives for the duration of your stay ensuring you have the most personalised experience and see a wide variety of game) asked if we wanted to jump on an evening game drive or check in to our rooms and relax for the evening after a long overnight flight. I have learnt from experience that every game drive is different and one could result in seeing nothing and the next, everything, so I of course jumped at the chance; there’s not much that can keep me from a real life Lion King experience, not even sleep deprivation. We had thirty minutes to ready ourselves so as not to be out after dark and so I made my way to my private lodge. Opening the door I thought ‘I think I have made a huge mistake opting into the game drive because I never want to leave this room. EVER’.
Walking into the room is walking into your own private oasis, impossible to carry one single stress from the outside world over the threshold. Low lighting, sumptuous textiles, luxurious interior touches, rooms are impeccably curated with nods to the traditional safari lodge – think colour palettes of neutral taupes, soft leather accents, linen and canvas finishings. Rattan blinds that draw the eye up to a huge thatched roof complete with exposed wooden beams making you feel like you are in a safari tent-meet-treehouse situation. Underneath the pitched roof lies a bed so big you had to crawl from one side to the other – this is not an exaggeration, later on into the trip when my wake up call came, I crawled for about half an hour to the other side of the bed in an attempt to silence the ringing phone. At the foot of the bed a sunken plush sofa looking out onto a huge balcony nestled into the bush that wraps around the room and houses a private plunge pool, outdoor shower and two loungers. Adjoining the bedroom, the bathroom (this was when I squealed) features a rainfall shower, his and hers sinks and a huge roll top bath perched in front of sliding doors that open onto the balcony. I didn’t care how tired I was, I was spending my night soaking in this tub with the doors thrown open, listening to the sounds of the bush. The rooms house delicate touches to ensure your trip is pure magic – a decadent mini bar stocked with top shelf spirits, including wine and of course, a bottle of the native Amarula plus essentials such as fresh celery and lemon, an array of tea and homemade biscuits and Nespresso machine (very important for those 5am game drives). Bath salts, bubbles, candles and just about anything else to create one of the most romantic rooms I have ever stayed in.
As much as I wanted to jump in my pool, roll around my bed, soak under my shower, I had a game drive to get to and so, with binoculars at the ready (provided on check in) we climbed upon our towering steed of a vehicle and were off.
I have done my fair share of game drives across Africa, mainly to the East, never in the South, not sure what to expect, perhaps a part of me had the misguided notion that the real game experiences lay in Kenya and Tanzania. Well, wasn’t I shown otherwise. This was hands down the best game experience I have had in Africa. We were blessed with good weather but the denseness of the bush, the lushness of the greenery, the sheer amount of animals – it felt like we were in an HD version of life. Within the first fifteen minutes of the drive we stumbled upon the elusive black rhino, so critically endangered that rangers are not permitted to tell us how many reside there but you can tell it is few when the ranger is completely beside herself to see it. From here we were treated to warthogs and giraffes, zebras and antelope, our guide Holly as equally passionate about the flora and things that fly and crawl as she is about the big stuff. `We had birds, beetles and everything in between pointed out to us before parking up and catching a sleepy cheetah pondering life. When asked if we fancied a drink with a view, nodding eagerly, we drove out to the crest of a hill overlooking a huge watering hole and what was perhaps the best sunset I have ever seen. Whilst we tried (and failed) to take a million photos of the red and gold sky (none of which did it justice), a fully stocked bush bar was being set up for our sundowners complete with homemade snacks, biltong and dried pineapple from nearby trees. Let me tell you, there is nothing, NOTHING that hits like a G&T in the African bush listening to the chorus of a nearby pod of hippos chatting the breeze.
As the sun fully submerged we returned to base for dinner. We enjoyed an a la carte menu of three courses, served in the open-sided restaurant perched high above the trees,with the smell and sounds of the bush creating a multi sensory dining experience. Happily sated on food and red wine I was escorted to my room (escorts mandatory after dark on account of prowling lions and other goodies) and fell into my bubble bath of dreams, complete with glass of Amarula and the cackling of hyenas from deep in the bush.
The following morning our guide woke us at 4.45am (hence the bed crawl) to ensure we were up and at ‘em for the morning drive.
This is how a typical day works at Phinda – early morning wake up call, meet in the central area for a light breakfast before heading out on your first game drive at around 5.30 / 6am stopping half way through for coffee (usually spiked with Amarula) and cake in the bush, three to four hours on the drive and then back for a full continental breakfast with hot a la carte offering and of course, Mimosas and Bloody Marys if you’re that way inclined. Down time whilst the sun is at its hottest can be spent around the huge communal infinity pool that boasts views over the reserve or in your room, wallowing in your private plunge pool. A light lunch is served in the central hub ensuring you are well fed ahead of a couple more hours of lounging. At 4pm afternoon tea is served – guests are greeted back in the central space with tea and cakes and all the fixings before heading out on the afternoon drive. It’s a pretty magical way to spend a day.
Our second day of drives did not disappoint, seeing not only all of the big five including a white rhino with her baby, but also adiversity of beautiful South African landscapes. We moved from lush green plains, to dense forest to mountainous outcrops – it truly is one of the most unique places I have ever been and further cements the whole ‘life begins in Africa’ vibe. And of course, we stopped for what was fast becoming the highlight of my day, sundowners in the bush and this time we were joined by a herd of curious zebra.
Our day culminated in the Boma – a purpose built al fresco area (originally used for herding livestock) complete with braai (South African barbecue) and fire pits for the most perfect meal under the African stars.
There are so many things that make Phinda exceptional – the space, the tranquility, the wildlife, the level of detail at every turn within the central spaces and accommodation but for me, it was the care, passion and knowledge from the staff that made it second to none. To become a ranger in South Africa you have to gain a national diploma or equivalent. To be a ranger at a &beyond reserve you have to do that and then a further eight weeks of specialist training which quite honestly sounds like SAS stuff. This is to ensure guests have a world class experience, the staff are not only some of the most competent and knowledgeable when it comes to the flora and fauna of the reserve but are also leaders in hospitality and service.
Phinda translates as ‘return’, a name chosen as when the land was acquired from farmers the owners made a pledge to return it to its natural state. They have been richly rewarded with the return of wildlife and game that thrived here before heavy farming changed these landscapes. For me, the name seems apt because whatever it takes, I know I will be returning here.
If you fancy a taste of South Africa from the comfort of your own home, try my recipe for Amarula pannacotta.
Suites (pictured) at Phinda Mountain Lodge start from ZAR 14 000 (£683 approx) per person per night sharing.
