St Pancras Grand

St Pancras Grand
It could be said that The St Pancras Grand was primarily constructed for the purpose of providing a high-class resting area for the many travelers and business folk using the station. It could, but it’d be wrong. The real purpose for The Grand is to develop a sense of romance for a forgotten era. For those with more than an ounce of romanticism in their souls, the buzz of travel and the intrigue of their own imagination provides good enough reason to visit The Grand, where the voyagers mystique wafts around the air like the anticipation of the summer holidays on the last day of school. Even if your purpose for being at St Pancras station has nothing remotely to do with dirty weekends in Paris, Brussels or Leicester, The Grand is ever beckoning. If you’ve ever felt the need to don a trilby, throw on a wax raincoat and light your next cigarette with your last one, The Grand will boot you back in time.

A gazillion trillion fine English pounds was spent turning this Eurostar terminal into the world’s tidiest station and in the process it became a behemoth of grandeur. Then, along came Searcy’s, the restaurant artistes who have installed upper-echelon dining experiences at many of the great institutions - the London Transport Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, the Royal Opera House, the Gherkin, the Barbican. First, they plonked the now-famous champagne bar along the upper concourse, and when they were happy with that, they added a restaurant.

There’s no need to actually go to Paris on the Eurostar because upon entering The Grand you’re practically there already. For example, there’s a bar at both ends; the staff all talk with French accents; the Art Deco lights are clearly contraband from the Parisian Metro; the leather banquettes are separated by wide boulevards; and the colour scheme is scattered with a poke of autumn brass, a snarl of earthy yellow and un clin d'oeil de brun français. The ostentatious gilded ceiling is fabulously French and only adds to the golden hue.

Yet despite this French facade, the seasonal and locally-sourced cuisine at The Grand is très Anglais and at a price that talks your language, thanks to chief chef, Billy Reid, a man who looks to the night’s skies and sees nothing but Michelin stars. Posh fish & chips with mushy peas, sausage & mash with red onion gravy, liver & bacon, Bubble & Squeak, British charcuterie, British Rock oysters, Eton Mess, AND rice pudding with strawberry jam all battle for supremacy on the map they call the menu. But for a faultless demonstration of traditional British fare, take this advice: the fish receives more critical acclaim than anything to do with meat, unless the meat is surrounded by pie pastry. This means you should (a) make sure you procure a window-facing seat so you can show full admiration for the outstanding structure peering in, then (b) get things started with the potted mackerel, followed swiftly by (c) an embroiled encounter with the smoked haddock & poached egg main, before finally succumbing to (d) an intervention of sherry trifle.

On the fluids side, The Grand’s signature grapefruit, peach and presecco cocktail is a winner for igniting romantic liaisons. The comprehensive wine list is friends with a good number of Old World types - the Muscadet Sur Lie Coteaux de la Loire is handy with a fish dish - but as guests at The Grand are there for a completely authentic British experience, the delicious Chapel Down Pinot Reserve, from Kent, should keep the ticker ticking. Failing that, there’s always London Pride on tap.

Allegedly, The Grand is frequented by international business folk - most popular with the Belgians yet weirdly not the French - who arrive early, have coffee, eat breakfast, conduct meetings in the private dining area, experience elevenses, have afternoon internet with wifi tea, then return to their home countries all in the space of one day and never once leaving The Grand. So us Brits salute you, our friendly neighbours, for realising a good thing when you taste it.

The Grand is not just for train spotters, it’s for romance spotters. The charm of train travel still lives and The Grand is just that: grand.

Whales

How do you get two whales in a car?

Across the Severn Bridge.

Font you!

Three fonts walk into a bar.

Barman says "Oi, get out! We don't want your type in here!"

Slim Jim’s Liquor Store

Slim Jim’s Liquor Store
112 Upper St, N1 1QN

Geez, we Brits go ga-ga for the US, don’t we? We love to high-five our evangelical TVs and smother our naked bodies in hot, buttered Americana. We’re so American we constantly teeter on the edge of a ‘Yee-haa’ and a slap of the thigh wherever we may be (meeting, funeral, B&Q). Well, if you yearn for the sweet pancake aroma of Freedomville USA, you’ll absolutely have kittens for the hometown diner-cum-brothel that is Slim Jim’s. Here, the rock n roll is free and the late nights are compulsory.

Wedged half way between Angel and Highbury & Islington – a decent walk from the tube for any wandering pilgrim – Slim Jim’s is thin, dim and just big enough to accommodate around a hundred drunken highway poets. There’s a healthy dose of weirdos – the good, nouveau-mod kind – both in front and behind the bar, wearing anything from leather jackets to sharp suits. These patrons are as rugged as the walls. Secretly, they all believe they’re Jack Kerouac and these dark, covert nooks and crannies are for beatnik poses, not usurped dictators-in-hiding (if you have such a problem).

Look around the hazy, red, neon-hued liquor store and it’s easy to feel like you’ve stepped through the Stargate into Back To The Future: 1950s bar stools, high-backed booths, a plaque on the wall that proudly states “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada”. And the night proves decidedly more American once a drink ordered. This is pure movie script stuff – “Hit me again, bar tender”.

There are beers, but for goodness sake don’t be such a Philistine. Get in there and do it properly. There’s 15-year old scotch, 17-year old Japanese whisky hibiki, bourbons and rye from the deep South, Trinidadian and Guatemalan rums; the back bar intimidates with its sheer size and range but the staff are on hand to learn ya. Each drink has to be drunk in a specific way and even though there are cocktails available, real men don’t dilute their poison.

Music is integral to this outfit and any self-respecting dive wouldn’t be worth its desolation if it didn’t possess a jukebox. That the manager is the former head of Camden’s paragon of iniquity, The Hawley Arms, is no coincidence. The box of formidable sound-colour is comprised of almost 100 choices to entice a wide stance and air guitar: for the classic rock Dads amongst us, the Lej status is turned to up to 11 with names such as The Clash, Queen, Led Zep, and Hendrix to thrill; equally, for those with more of a contemporary gait, you’ll be as pleased as a fat kid in a sweet shop when you smell the Kings, the Killers and the Kaisers wafting round the bar; all bluegrass and country lovers, give it until the beginning of 2009, they should have something for you by then. Fans of Morrissey beware, though – it’s strictly forbidden to chose more than three Smiths tracks in a row. No need to explain why, really. There are rumours that Slim Jim’s will be attempting to stage live music at some point in the future, but where they’re going to put the band is anyone’s guess. And as for the planned monthly burlesque evenings......

In conclusion: long, drawn-out, boozy, school night shenanigans consisting entirely of sitting, talking and perhaps the odd bit of listening. So, can you function fully at work whilst still drying out from last night? This is Islington, USA. State capital of Escapism.