The Phoenix

23 Smith Street, Chelsea SW3 4EE
Imagine you’re wearing a really, really tight baseball cap. So tight your brain is knocking on the sides of your skull and demanding evacuation. Now imagine you’re also on Oxford Street. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon. On a Saturday. Just before Christmas.

Suddenly, you’re not on Oxford Street any more but by yourself on top of a lonely hill in the Cotswolds, in the sun, sitting on a couch big enough for three yous, with a pint of irresponsibly strong beer in your hand. You remove the baseball cap and simultaneously take a sip of your delightful beverage. AHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......

Well, that’s The Phoenix. The zenith of AHHHHHHHHHhhhhhh. The heavyweight champion of AHHHHHhhhhh. The Grand Old Duke of AHHHHHHHhhhhhhhh.

When you visit The Phoenix - which you will - you’ll need to take the following items with you:
A) 1x parking permit for the Royal Borough of Kensington & Chelsea
B) 1x squeegey
C) 1x wallpaper scraper, preferably the largest one you can possibly find

This is because, on all counts, you’ll be staying for some time and will no doubt eventually need assistance to help scrape your sorry ass off the couch and out onto the street. It’s closing time and you’ve got work tomorrow, remember?

The Phoenix is the 5-year old offspring of hot-stuffs, Geronimo Inns, who have thankfully been throwing their weight around London for a while. And much like their other community castles - The Fentiman Arms in Oval and The Morgan Arms in Mile End - the positioning of The Phoenix at a quiet residential crossroad is a very deliberate and homely move by Geronimo. Although being well hidden, The Phoenix is not really off the beaten track so much as slightly loitering on the verges of a horrendously busy thoroughfare. For this immaculate Georgian street, my friends, feeds straight into the hustle, bustle and well-toned muscle of London’s street market to the rich and famous, King’s Road.

Step under the cosy wings of The Phoenix and you’re automatically reduced to a quivering pile of leisure. The wallpaper is warming, the fireplace is welcoming, the absence of music is hospitably deafening. There is only one TV and even that is limited to terrestrial; with the sound off. Inside, oak tables mingle with leather-seated booths that chat with walls adorned with big art that coerce with shelve dividers filled with sculpture and pottery. Even the light fittings are trying to get in on the action, the innovative so-and-sos.

Upon this seating and ornaments are the eyes and arses of the clientele, who, it has to be said, are of the rosy-cheek and posh-accent variety. This is ra-ra-ra country, so if you’re easily offended by a Porsche or a Ferrari - be they a car or a lady - you’re probably lost and should not have wandered into this pub in the first place. Now, get back down your own end before we set the dogs on you!

Sitting is the order here. No standing room available. As it is so neatly compacted into this tidy little space, it does have the potential to get a bit hairy if more than one large family congregates. Yet somehow, that makes it more endearing.

The menu is a foodie’s hot weekend in Paris and very much of the time, throwing in words like guinea fowl, salt marsh lamb, truffled artichoke, brown Portland crab, turnip puree and juniper jus. Plus, the menu changes frequently, so foodie wont get bored. If you have the option, the braised red cabbage with any of the dishes - starter, main or dessert - is horrendously gratifying. As is the ever-popular sticky toffee pudding. And how’s this for a starter?! Fresh salmon, capers and grated egg!!

The beer and wine choices are fair yet the wine list is chosen by a Master of Wine, no less (clue in the title there), and includes that Infamous Goose Wild Rock Sauvignon.

Overall, a cosy night out. Bring family, bring friends, bring lovers, bring pets and Martians. The Phoenix could well be a quaint place during summer as you spill out onto the pavement side alley with a Pimms in one hand and your shopping kill in the other. Even Elton ‘hissy fit’ John couldn’t fail to feel relaxed at The Phoenix.

Pub games

On his day, Denmark’s Lars Trabolt is unstoppable. As is Keith Elwin. As are Frédéric Collignon, Daryl Peach, Rubilen ‘Bingkay’ Amit, Trevor Gallienne, Don Jones, Beth Westberry, Anastasia Dobromysova, and the Klahr brothers, Chris and Dan. And let’s not forget the might of The Gloster Gladiators and The Laughing Fish. These names might mean nothing to you in the immediacy but they are in fact at the pinnacle of their chosen event. They are ALL current world champions and their expertise lies at the very heart of Britain’s national pastime: namely, pubs. As their names appear, they reign in the worlds of backgammon, table football, pool, 9-ball billiards, bar billiards, dominos, arm wrestling, darts, quoits, skittles and Toad in the Hole.

You may have previously encountered a few of the above. Equally, you may be thinking “What the hell is Toad in the Hole if it’s not a delicious sausage-based meal?” Toad in the Hole is played by throwing brass discs at a hole in the top of a wooden box sat against a wall. Its popularity is concentrated mainly in East Sussex where the only known league still survives.

Similarly rare and provincial are the cricket-like Bat and Trap of Kent and the coconut shy Aunt Sally, primarily found in Oxfordshire. The latter was probably introduced to the Oxon area when Charles I relocated his entire retinue there during the Civil War in 1642. Although the contemporary version simply requires players to knock a ball from a plinth, the original was likely to have been much bloodier: a chicken, a rope, some sticks and a cruel demise.

Question: ever joined a girter and danced around a flonker? Were you flonked with the dwyle for a wanton, marter or ripple? If not, did they get swadged? If so you were probably somewhere in Sussex or Suffolk partaking in a bit of Dwyle Flonking. There are no winners or losers in Dwyle Flonking, only drunkards. Basically, two teams attempt to flick a beer-soaked rag onto one another’s bodies. Breaks in play occur for the purposes of pint necking.

Yet another regional recreation is the ring-over-a-pin throwing game of Quoits. Played in the North East and in some parts of Scotland and Wales it dates back as far as 1388 and is much like horseshoe pitching. Similarly, Ringing the Bull, almost exclusive to Nottingham, is based around the action of hooking a metal ring onto a target (bull’s horn) positioned on a wall. Both these games show parallels with games that were played by the Romans.

Other games you might like to try:
- the table skittle game, Devil Among the Tailors;
- the human skittle game, Conga Cuddling;
- or the two-player game, Rhubarb Thrashing, in which blindfolded contestants stand in empty dustbins and smack one another about the head with handfuls of rhubarb.

Some games stand the test of time, some clearly do not. The 17th-century card game, Cribbage, is still going strong throughout the British Isles. Backgammon, which was originally brought to England by the Crusaders in the 11th century, is likewise. It wasn’t until the 20th century that table games made a prolific appearance - firstly, bar billiards from Belgium and then pool following the popularity of Paul Newman’s 1961 movie, The Hustler.
In the 1970s video games and slot machines appeared. In the 90s it was the quiz, both in machine and team formats. In the noughties the smoking ban came along, leading to profits generated by food rather than booze and a premium on table space.

Pubs are beginning to disappear - 27 per week according to The British Beer and Pub Association - and our main interests now lie with the gods known as Sky and Setanta. Also, one glaringly obvious aspect most ye olde social games hold in common is the opportunity for mishap, too. There are countless health and safety possibilities linked with people throwing objects in confined spaces whilst under the influence. A combination of all of these factors has ensured dwindling participation in said games.

Darts could well be the exception. Six million people in the UK still regularly play darts, making it one of our most contested sports. And yet weirdly, it seems to be the one we’re most vehemently bent on keeping: the Save Our Darts campaign, overseen by online bookmakers Blue Square, “aims to have another 10,000 dart boards in pubs by 2017”. According to their studies, pub-goers today prefer adventurous food, extensive beer and wine lists, comfy sofas and good music over darts. And the campaign is boasting royal blessings. Earlier this year, even Prince Charles stepped up to the oche with darts in hand, claiming "I'm doing my best to keep the darts tradition going."

Jolly good.

When in Rome

This feature was published in Royal Jordanian Airline's in-flight magazine, Royal Wings.

Staying over
Luxury lovers will want to head for Piazza della Republica to find five-star luxury at the ritzy Exedra Hotel. It boasts two restaurants, a Wellness Centre, a champagne bar and Rome’s only rooftop pool. Alternatively, for something more private, experience the deluxe rooms, walled garden and roof terrace at the historical Inn at the Roman Forum.


Eating out

The natives are proud of their world-class ice cream. The highly regarded Il Gelato di San Crispino near the Trevi Fountain still commands huge respect; closely followed by Al Settimo Gelo with it’s premium ingredients and Gelateria della Palma, only moments north of the Pantheon.

What to do
During the day discover the rich tapestry of history in an unusual fashion - an exciting new game called The Ruyi - exploring the city, gathering clues using your mobile phone. You may even come across the often-overlooked Catacomb of Priscilla. For the evening’s entertainment, Rome’s weirdest bar, Jonathan's Angels, is suitably kitsch and colourfully.

Shopping
Ice cream is not the only thing Italians are masters of. Shoes are also one of their specialities. The traditional leather designs at Carucci are worth a walkabout. As are the sophisticated creations at Franco Borini (Via dei Pettinari) and the unique eccentricities at the aptly-named Loco (Via dei Baullari).

What to read
Easy readers can indulge in the modern day thriller When in Rome by Ngaio Marsh which revolves around a murdered tourist. Gore Vidal’s Julian is a more substantial tome set around the fictional life of a beguiling Roman Emperor.

Searcy’s at the Barbican

Searcy’s at the Barbican
Thanks to all the cultural fuddery that goes on at the Barbican, it’s become a sort of carnie for a certain type of people. Whilst normal carnies have heads full of candy floss and Jade Goody, the minds of Barbican-lovers are chock full of brown corduroy and Melvyn Bragg. And whereas carnie folk can be found in noisy fields littered with cowpats and stray dogs, Barbicans choose to worship the Gods of the future in this incongruous monolithic structure.

It’s acceptable to think, therefore, that a team like Searcy’s might splatter a sense of art, culture, music and life all over the walls of their Barbican home; especially considering the surroundings and the sterling job they did of reigniting the romance of travel at their other recent development, St Pancras Grand. Disappointingly, though, this is not the case.

All that the refurbishment has managed to achieve is the addition of a bar that nobody uses, a different colour carpet and various levels of blandness. For a start, there’s no music. Which is odd for an establishment that will no doubt receive most of its custom from culture vultures hungry for a bit of Verdi, Seasick Steve or Buena Vista Social Club. There is no atmosphere, whatsoever. This could well be the very first restaurant ever to exist entirely in a vacuum. The low ceilings and thick carpets soak up most of what little sound there is, which from experience is mainly confined to the sound of customers sending back their food because they’ve been given the wrong meal. At one point we saw a waitress carrying several Bakewell tarts asking every table in turn ‘Did you order dessert?’

The time taken to clear dishes and deliver the next course equates to roughly far too long which, again, could be a problem considering that most people have a performance to catch. That, and the fact that the average age of the clientele is about 950. They haven’t got time to wait for dessert. They might not make it out of the restaurant at all.

The food itself is flamboyantly average when, or even if, it arrives. It mainly hangs around the ‘cor blimey, eh oop chuck, why eye man’ school of thought, with a general British intent and perhaps a slightly zealous obsession with tradition. Henry VIII would have feasted on similar words: smoked eel, wood pigeon, egg of duck, hare in a pie, fish in a stew, shin of beef with kidneys, bread and butter pudding. He might not have had the pleasure, however, of the such a diverse mead list. The wines on offer come from countries that Henry would’ve either married or gone to war with. Chances are he would chosen the excellent Chapel Down Bacchus (borne of Kent!) had he the opportunity.

The starters are handsomely presented and quite generous as well, so although opting for three courses at £28.50 might sound like a good deal you’ll probably be filled by two (£24.50). Plus, with three you’ll have to arrive at about 2.30 in the afternoon to get through them all before the performance at 7.30pm. Adversely, for those attempting to use the restaurant for romantic purposes, the mid-show sitting might be best suited.

Now, the view. This is probably the restaurant’s only laudable feature. Without it, Searcy’s report card would have some serious explaining to do. The 180-degree vista tunes in a whole host of things to distract you from your Searcy’s experience: the as-old-as-time-itself St Giles Cripplegate Church, the swan-less scum-layered canal, the reassuringly expensive apartment tombs and the various futuristic faculties of some girls’ school or other. It’s a bit like eating dinner on the control deck of the Starship Enterprise, looking out over the physical embodiment of an Escher drawing, had it been drawn in the 1970s.

Overall, Searcy’s at Barbican is not a young, fresh, vibrant place. The most fun to be had is the walk through the maze of bridges and walkways from Moorgate. If you have the legs, the Portuguese restaurant, Portal, is only a 10 minute walk away. If you’re an octogenarian, however, stick with Searcy’s Barbican blandness.

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.