The Castle

54 Pentonville Road, Islington, N1 9HF

Remember the days when castles stood for something? When they were figures of authority, bastians of ideals, guardians of nothing more than a bunch of rural land. Those high, fortified walls were protected from loony attacks by Monthy Python sentinels with French accents. Those interior courtyards were filled with busying peasants and pigs swilling about in the mud. Those perilous moats were occupied by imaginary crocodiles and underwater tigers. Those sturdy domains were prisons for the occasional distressed damsel. Those windowless halls were draped with the hides of dead beasts, furnished with large, badly carpentered tables, at which sat rowdy, unkempt morons regaling one another with tales of their latest kill whilst gnawing on a bone from the very beast they spoke of and supping on mead so strong it rotted their teeth on site. Ah, the grim ole days. So where’s it all gone wrong? Why it is that castles nowadays are all so bloody cheerful? So comfortable? So filled with transient, migrating socialites?

Take The Castle in Angel, for example. If there’s a surface to sit or lean on, it’s been upholstered with cushion. The dark, gloomy fortified walls of yore have been extracted and replaced by sun-yielding sheets of glass, the easiest material to break during an invasion and the best way to be seen by those on the outside. The damsels don’t look very distressed either, in fact quite the contrary, and there is definitely more than just one of them. The grimy moat is still there; only now it’s called Pentonville Road, and the tigers have been replaced by monstrous transits and pernicious buses. And as for besiegements, there’s plenty of attacks....of the munchies, with a sub-tenner menu on hand to biff them away when necessary. On the whole, one might go so far as to say that this castle is so un-castle like it could almost call itself a venue of leisure and gaiety.

You’ve got to hand it to Geronimo Inns - the name behind the chain - they give good decor. Every one of the 20-odd venues they have nestled around London should have a sign outside proclaiming ‘Museum of Unusual Lampshades’. The general scene is one that could disclose some answers to that ‘Ram Raiders Hit Heal’s Warehouse In Massive Clear Out Job’ headline and the colour scheme, as is the Geronimo standard, is as earthy as a tent full of environment campaigners. Apparently, style AND comfort do not have to duke it out for supremacy and can live in peace and harmony. However, the ‘throne rooms’ (as they’re known) could be brought up to speed with the rest of the class because they lack regular attention and look more like the inside of a freight ship container than a Royal dunnie.

Unusually for Geronimo, The Castle is talking Saturday Night but speaking in Sunday Afternoon. It’s a veritable town criers convention down there. Many would call it loud; others, namely ‘the exuberant youth of today’, would call it atmosphere. Split levels, Jenga scattered hither and thither, a wine list that gets more attention from your partner than you do; somehow the space-time vortex has torn wide open and exposed a portal of some kind because this seem to be an alternate universe where everything exudes Clapham. If this isn’t Clapham, then it’s time to put down that wine list and take your medication.

Food, now there’s a subject the bigwigs at Geronimo could bore anyone with. They know a thing or two; generally. The mother load - or main dishes to us mere humans - are gargantuan, and quick. Geronimo’s policy writers obviously quit policy writing before they got onto Portion Control because no human is meant to finish this amount of food. Their ability to judge portion sizes is about on a par with their ability to understand words like ‘salad’ and ‘light fish’ because the menu is turning winter tricks even into the summer days. It’s all pies, mash, haddock, sausages and ham hocks. The lemon and thyme chicken was doing OK by itself until its mate turned up: Mount Colcannon. The menu mentioned red wine jus, and that’s all that arrived on the plate: a mention. The imbalance between Colcannon and jus is prejudice that even Nelson Mandela couldn’t fix. The Colcannon needs more than a mention of jus. It needs an argument of jus. Possibly even a lecture of jus. The response when asking for extra jus? Gravy, jus’s less achieving cousin. Same ilk, different breed. Like wearing Prada clothes with Gola footwear. What’s more, the risotto, although quite capable of representing the complex carbohydrates (as refined starches) at the Food Olympics, should surely contain all the ingredients promised on the menu when it’s served. Plus, the trio of dessert options is disappointing because by the time you arrive every man and his strawberry-cheesecake-chomping dog has eaten before you and you’re left with a choice of ice cream OR crumble (not ice cream AND crumble).

Overall, the food is like the cuisine version of a Tory manifesto: presented very well, but a few bricks short on the flesh and substance. That said, there is a good use of garlic and the specials are clearly just that because come 7.30pm they’re all but gorn. Winter food is good in winter, but then you cant make full use of the balcony. Hold up! Was that the word ‘balcony’ mentioned approximately 1.5 sentences ago? Indeed, The Castle does actually have a lookout. You couldn’t really call it a roof garden as such because garden would imply that growth is happening and unless you’re counting the facial hair on many of the young gents up there, you’ll be sorely chagrined.

The Castle is a location bar. It’s primed with out-and-abouters and a good place to start your Angel pub crawl. It’s more hospitable than castles of yore, but not as entertaining as the 1980s Aussie movie of the same name. Just remember, if you do pay a visit, super size your jus.

Bel Canto

Minister Court, Mark Lane, off Fenchurch Street, London, EC3

There are often times during a working week when the fug of an exceedingly bad day will follow you like a persistent charity mugger as you leave your place of occupation. If you then head straight out for dinner wearing that same bad head you might feel inclined to unload your tension onto your dinner guest, even though they probably didn’t deserve it. This might then lead to a heated debate, a glass of staining Rioja thrown across a table and an embarrassing silence throughout the restaurant as your guest stomps off in the direction of the exit. Dramas, dramas, dramas.

At Bel Canto, these sort of dramas happen all the time, and at regular intervals. They even expect you to pay for the privilege?! Your starter might be interrupted by a lovestruck nobleman suddenly rousing the crowd into a drinking frenzy. Your main could well be punctuated by two blokes loudly harking on about losing their girlfriends. Whilst your dessert is likely to be impeded by a beautiful Spanish temptress publicising her feelings about men (“Waiter, there’s seems to be a Bizet in my soup”). Welcome to operatic dinners where just as you sit down the barman totters over from behind the bar and starts belting out an aria. You don’t get that at All Bar One.

The Times food critic, A.A.Gill, reckons Bel Canto is “the worst concept for a restaurant” he’s ever come across, that offers “bad food with intrusive arias in a basement in the city.” Well, he’s right; about ONE thing: Bel Canto IS in a city basement. Aside from that, it appears the Great Gill got it wrong because Bel Canto is like taking a hot shower in culture juice. Anyone who believes that this restaurant is gimmicky, or somehow reduces the arts to a form of sideshow circus, is probably the kind of person that makes Piers Morgan seem like the ideal companion for a round-the-world boat expedition.

Put it this way, would you rather pay £100 to witness Radiohead play live at Wembley or, for a fraction of the cost, have them perform an intimate gig in your living room, balanced precariously on top of your sofa? So, likewise, would you rather pay several hundred notes to sit in the stalls at the Royal Opera House and watch La Traviata unfold on stage, or have it performed right next to your dinner table for just a few quid? To be fair, this analogy is not entirely accurate because the singers at Bel Canto nor the Royal Opera house write their own music - unlike Radiohead - but seeing as the original composers are hard to book (ie. dead) they are the next best thing.

When going to the opera it’s strictly a dinner-then-show affair. At Bel Canto, this pesky middle man is bypassed and the performances happen practically right on top of your table. Occasionally, you might even be lucky enough to be utilised as a prop (watch out for that floozy, Carmen, lads). The set menu is £55 for 3 courses without wine. Seems expensive; for a meal. Throw in 4 hours of quality opera and it’s difficult to see how you’d get more than a stump up in the Gods at the ROH for that price.

As you listen, mouth agog, hairs on end, eardrums bursting, many questions will enter your mind and, once they’ve completed the piece, clap dutifully and then feel at ease to ask your queries because customers are encouraged to discuss the music with the angels. It’s hard to believe these young artists are still only students with burgeoning careers and that they could actually get any better. Look out for stars of future Tyler Clarke, the unassuming tenor, and Carleen Ebbs, the Kiwi soprano, who, at times, can get so high she rattles the spare glasses on the empty tables.

The problem with Bel Canto is that the dining area is just a cave with some refined cave dwellers hanging out in it. The only thing that fills it is the gargantuan sound emanating from the amazing performers. The decorative opera posters, headless costumes and grand piano go some way to make the space look a bit exciting. What’s missing are a few throwaway balconies, some street urchin chorus kids and about 100 more customers per night.

The French cuisine is not nearly as dramatic as the performances but it’s hardly fair to expect it to be. Both food and wine tick the ‘adequate’ box and you will find yourself saying “there was food?” at the end of the evening because you were so engrossed with the ‘goosebumps guaranteed’ quartet from Verdi’s Rigoletto that you completely forgot you were eating rabbit risotto.

Tip: don’t be late and remember this is not a dinner, it’s an event. If it takes 20 minutes to get some water, it’s meant to be that way so you can enjoy more.

If opera can work this well with dining and hospitality, what’s stopping it from spreading into other vocations? Professional football? - “Refereeeeeeeeeee, are you not blind to seeeeeeeee, that that was a clear penaltyyyyyyyyyyy”. Or how about construction? How refreshing would it be to hear the chubby chaps on the building site singing out scenes from The Magic Flute instead of footie chants and sexists abuse?

Although new to London, Bel Canto has already been posturing in Paris for a decade and with a little help from us critics and you, the paying public, it can be the same over here. In these times of financial strife, those that are wary of the wallet should stand up and sing “bravo, bravo, bravo, Bel Canto”. Support a local artist, eat dinner.

The Lord Palmerston

33 Dartmouth Park Hill, Tuffnell Park, NW5 1HU

Metallica had their ‘Reload’ album. Shakespeare had his ‘Titus Andronicus’. Manchester United had their 2-0 loss to mediocre Fulham. It’s clear that even the greatest of greats have their off days and in the recession-weary world of pub ownership, it seems the champions, Geronimo Inns, have been slacking. Exhibit A: the Lord Palmerston in Tufnell Park.

Ordinarily, there wouldn’t much to gripe about because the ambience is filled with bellowing laughter, the service is as jolly as a Bank Holiday weekend, and the library of libations has the potential to break out into an unscheduled beer & wine festival. The trouble is, Geronimo have the same ideals about food as Alex Ferguson does about winning. A below par performance is simply unacceptable and, unfortunately, the nourishment at the Lord Palmerston is inhibiting its progress through the University of Geronimo.

The menu is surprisingly uninspiring, the specials board translates ‘special’ into ‘once lived in the sea’ (great for seafood lovers only), and there’s an obvious tendency to slap several French words onto ordinary English fare in an attempt to make it sound confusingly exotic. It desperately relies on its side dishes to provide the minerals, too; with kale and pumpkin demonstrating their super-sub status. Plus, the mash is sloppy, the chicken is so dry it’s almost crunchy, and the Guinness cake is an unfinished sugarless gloop that was made by an infant who wasn’t allowed to use Guinness.

But enough about the food because there ARE ways to actually enjoy this pub. For example, there’s separate areas to accommodate even the most fickle of fancies: the rear garden has been daubed with modernity, warmth and tranquility hither and thither, fo schither; and, if words like ‘leather’, ‘sedate’ and ‘shelves’ tickle your foo-foo, then The Palmerston’s open fire, cosy earth tones, comedy-sized lampshades and book-lined walls should have you grabbing your mountain of weekend papers in no time as the décor is dangerously close to turning homey, homie. There’s even a bright conservatory to read them in, so you don’t have to build one of your own.

Top marks should also be awarded for the plethora of peculiar objet d’Art (French for ‘bunch of weird stuff’) as well as the burly German, Belgian and Italian heavies crowding round the bar (the draughts). Plus, the extremely popular Wednesday night quiz has a strange knack of becoming more difficult as the night wears on (or as you drink more) and the wine list is a delightfully engaging yarn that should be read right to the end.

Due to its Hampstead Heath proximity and it’s familiar-slap-on-the-shoulder congeniality, the Lord Palmerston is agreeably Philip Schofield. If it weren’t for the contra-creative menu being so hit and miss, it would be joyously Terry Wogan. If you don’t live in the area, don’t bother. If you do, do.

Tricky

He’s running late from a previous interview and he’s soon got another meeting across town. This means Flavorpill will have to catch him in transit as he makes his way through the busy London streets. The phone line isn’t great though. This could, indeed, be a tricky conversation.

Christian Rose-Day chats, albeit with minor interruptions, to a distracted and ‘very English’ Tricky. The issues up for discussion include his feelings about fish and chips, record sales and other people’s opinions of The Fifth Element.

So, you’re obviously a busy man?
Sometimes

[He seems distracted]

Have you got plans for the weekend?
Umm, I don’t know mate.

[Awkward silence, this is going really well]

I see you were recently part of the NME Shockwaves tour here in the UK - how was it playing in front of your home crowds?
Do you know what? Playing in front of any crowd, you tour so long you be happy just for people to turn up….

[This is better. And by Jove, he’s got a thick West Country accent]

…Anywhere that I go, if I’ve got more than 20 people, I’m happy. It’s just the fact that people will buy a ticket to come see you, it makes me feel good. Obviously it’s nice in England because in Manchester I got to see all my family. I had friends from Liverpool come down. Obviously when I’m playing New York that can’t happen.

How was the latest material received in the live context?
We had a good vibe everywhere. It’s no so much what album you’re doing. If you try to give 100% of yourself, someone will feel you, someone will have feedback off feelings. Feelings generate around the room. For instance, my band know that they’re not to get dressed up when they go on stage. I have a knock down if I ever see anyone putting on anything special. It’s like “What you wearing in the day time is what you go onstage with”. If you’re wearing pajamas all day you go on stage in pajamas. We try to keep it real and honest.

And you’ve got your first full US tour for 5 years coming up. Any reason why you’ve chosen now?
It’s the only time I’ve got at the moment. We’ve been on tour for about the last 9 months. I’ve got to record a new album in April so this is really the only time we’ve got. So I’ll go to America, do this tour and then record my album. I’m going to be going to places [in the US] that I’ve never been before and places where people don’t know me. It’s going to be almost like my first gigs. I’m not going to be selling out these places. Probably a lot of them will be half empty. So it’s like going back to old school, spreading the word, doing your gospel thing.

Did you get to choose any of those venues yourself?
No, it’s all done by my promotion guy. It’s basically like a promotional tour - not promotional as in doing the main places like New York and LA where I could probably get a big crowd, but doing places like Charlotte, Tennessee and the sort of places that I’m not really known.

I see you’ve got something special lined up for SXSW...
I get nervous. The only reason I get nervous is because I want people to have a really good show.

[Huh? Has he not heard the question correctly? Let’s try again]

And...

[Too late. he’s off again]

...I want people to have a good show so apart from that I don’t plan anything in particular. I just want 100% for my fans and I’m just going to get a hot chocolate....

[Is he ordering refreshments?]

....and it can be quite sad sometimes if you’re ultra tired and you don’t give 100% of yourself. That can be quite a depressing feeling. So what you hope for is that you’ve got everything to give. It’s such a nice thing for someone to come out and see you, to get a ticket and take the time out of their life to see you play. I see it as such a beautiful complement.

[Let’s give it one more try]

And you’ve got something special lined up with Devo for SXSW?

[Surely he heard it this time?]

Yeh, we’re going to be doing Devo which I’ve been a big fan of for years. I’ve met one of them once or twice but I’ve never actually got to do a show with them. So we’re going to be supporting them.

[Fair enough, let’s ask about his label]

Brown Punk: can you give us a quick summary of how things are going with that.
It’s going good. It’s taking a lot of time. It’s me and Chris Blackwell [Bob Marley, U2, Grace Jones, PJ Harvey] and we’re just trying to set it up real properly so hopefully we should have a film out and a record out this year. But err, sorry mate…soya milk, no cream....do you want anything?....so errm....sorry mate, what was I talking about?

Brown Punk.
Oh yeh, I did the movie and I’ve got about two more weeks of editing and we’ve got a compilation album what will come out at the same time.

So how do you decide who to sign on that label?
Sheer talent. I don’t give a shit about record sales. Like, I seen one of my bands play about 6 months ago and I was in the crowd and no one knew who I was and it was just beautiful to see them up there. So success to me is them finishing and mixing the album. That’s success to me.

I wanted to ask you about your own success in terms of records sold - your latest album: fantastic reviews, great piece of work, but then it didn’t quite get the recognition in terms of sales.
It’s understandable because I’m not in the right demographic for [BBC] Radio 1. Everything I stand for is not Radio 1. So I knew it was never going to go and sell millions of records and I knew to a certain extent that Radio 1 weren’t going to.....thank you, oh excuse me, could you pour some away please…

[Ah, refreshments must be ready]

...that Radio 1 weren’t going to play me. The music industry thinks I’m a bit raw and real. I’m a bit too honest. I don’t play the game. So I can understand it really.

The album is quite broad in its range.
Yeh, it’s like my upbringing. It’s every kind of music. It’s like my history. I didn’t grow up just listening to hip hop and I didn’t grow up just listening to reggae. I used to listen a lot to Marco Bolan and T-Rex, Gary Numan, The Specials. I come from a multi-racial family - my grandmother is white, my Dad’s Jamaican, my mum is half African, half white - and this is how I grew up: integration. And that reflects on what I do when I make music.

So going by the names you thrown out there, it’s quite a British album as well?
Yeh yeh, and I’m very, very, very English. Don’t matter how long I’ve been in America - I lived in America for 15 years - my accent is still the same. I’m very English in my attitude, the foods that I like to eat, and people say English food is crap, I love it.

You like pies?
Oh, fish and chips. Fish and chips is the best thing in the world. There’s nothing ever created better than fish and chips. Sausage and chip, bacon, tomatoes, fish fingers, Heinz ketchup. You know, I’m English.

The album itself details how life was quite tough for you back then, but how is it now?
Obviously I’m lucky. I get to travel. So I don’t get stuck in one place. It was tough but not tough. The toughest thing was being heard, or getting a job. I think it’s tougher for kids now. You’ve got the whole gun culture going on. I was lucky I didn’t go through any of that.

You said last year that if ‘something doesn’t sound dark people say it’s their best stuff’. Do you remember saying that?
Yeh, basically this is a comeback album. The only reason they’re saying this is a comeback album or that it’s one of the best albums I did is because it’s more accessible. They have to understand, Angels With Dirty Faces, you have to get your head round. With this, it’s really in your face and it speaks for itself.

Have you got any other examples of artists that have done similar?
I don’t know really. Things are bit harder for me because Maxinquaye caused such a storm. To have that much interest in your first album, where do you go from there? You have to go backwards to go forwards. The reason I did Nearly God was because Maxinquaye was too successful. It was too successful too quick so I did Nearly God because I knew that the record sales wouldn’t be as big as Maxinquaye, the radio wouldn’t be so quick to play it. I get critiqued a bit more because of that. I get critiqued quite heavily now. People dissect me.

Perhaps that’s an indication of how much respect you get.
To a certain extent it is, and what people expect from me, which is not a bad thing. It ups your game.

With many of your tracks you seem to be reveling in attracting the talents of other people. Is there anyone you would like to work with in the future if you were given the opportunity?
I’d always work with Polly Harvey. She is one of my favourite artists and I’m always, always, always, always up for working with her.

You’re obviously very keen on doing the odd cover version, are you a bit of a wannabe?
Yeh, I wish I’d written a lot of the covers I’ve done. So, in a way, I am a wannabe. I wish I could sound like Kate Bush or The Cure.

Are there any particular covers you’ll be doing in America?
I have a tracklist of everything I’ve ever done and I literally call them out as we go along. The crowd kind of let you know where you’re going as well. So if I feel like ‘All right, this is a bit mellow’ then I’ll call out one of the tougher songs. It’s very spontaneous, to a certain extent.

You’ve stated before that you’re not into new music as much as older music. Is this still the case?
I think a lot of new music leans itself on old music. It’s just like ‘You sound like so-and-so, but where are you?’ If I want to hear 60s music, I’m going to listen to 60s music. I’m not going to listen to an artist from now that does 60s music. I like new music. I like people that are experimenting. Why would I try and sound like a band from the 60s, what would be the point?

So which albums have you been caning lately?
Last night I was listening to the Best of The Jam album. Happy Mondays too. Public Enemy. I still listen to all my old favourites.

Do you ever go to gigs yourself?
Nah, I’ve never been into live shows, to be honest with you. Going to stand in front of people, watching them sing on stage, has never really appealed to me. I come from the DJ point of view, where sound systems play your music and you’re bouncing. Live shows have never really done anything for me.

Before you go, just a few quick questions. What are you most proud of?
My little girl. She’s so smart, she’s so intelligent, she’s a lot better than I am, she’s a better person than I am. She’s got a better mind than me.

Would you rate yourself as good Dad?
Not perfect, nah, not perfect.

When was the last you said ‘no’ to someone?
Just now when I was down at Universal and they told me to put out a spliff.

What is the biggest misconception people have of you?
Usually when people meet me they give me a bit of attitude because they think I’m dark and moody but I’m quite a comedian, I’m clumsy, I’m a joker.

What kind of reading material do you consume?
I only read real crime. I can’t read fiction, I can’t read science fiction. If it didn’t happen, I can’t read it.

So what reading material do you have next to your toilet?
I’ve got this book called Wild Thing by a doorman called Lew Yates. It’s about a guy who does security in London. It’s a good book.

What makes you angry and when was the last time you had a Christian Bale type rant?
Now I’m older I don’t often have them any more. But a few things make me angry like someone coming up to me on the street saying ‘Are you an actor?’ or ‘Were you in the Fifth Element?’ Who would give a fuck if I was in the Fifth Element? Why would anyone care? That makes me angry, that you’d waste your time to come up to me and say that. How fucking stupid is that?

What worries you?
Not a lot really because it aint perfect. Why worry about anything? You live and you die and everything in between. It’s not really worth worrying about anything.

So you’re fairly chilled out these days?
Yeh.

Budapest

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

Staying over
Short stay guests craving the convenience of inner city life will find the deluxe, fashionable apartment suites at MaMaison Residence Izabella in close proximity to the classy Andrássy boulevard. If you desire fantastic views of the Danube, Hotel Victoria in quiet Buda will be more to your taste (higher floors recommended).

Eating out
The Jewish quarter is always a good place to start. Fülemüle has reasonably-priced, authentic Hungarian dishes, Café Bouchon offers international flavours in an informal setting (cash only) whilst Buena Vista boasts a café, pub and fine dining restaurant with a summer terrace.

What to do
Looking for an unusual excursion? The 1200m Castle Labyrinth should do the trick. Not for small children or claustrophobics (opt for the lamplight tour). To unwind, a dip at the Gellért Baths & Spa is the perfect relaxation antidote. Classic marble, mosaics, saunas, hot springs and outdoor pools for all.

Shopping
Király Street is the capital’s most promising area for boutique shopping and the best of the bunch is Latomas which specialises in edgy fashion for women (Hungarian designed). Budapest is also home to many delicious ‘cukraszdas’, or pastry shops, and Gresham Kávéház at the Four Seasons Gresham Palace Hotel is simply the most elegant.

What to Read
Experience the lighter side of the Soviet occupation with the bizarre One Minute Stories by István Örkény, a series of succinct, anecdotal novellas. Adversely, Imre Kertész's Fateless, winner of the 2002 Nobel prize for literature, is the tale of a young, Jewish Hungarian in Auschwitz.

Roast

Borough Market, SE1
Apparently, there’s a rumour going round that Borough Market is THE place to go for a bit of food love. Apparently, there’s stall upon stall of organic, fresh, free range, wild, and home-reared yumminess just cluttering up the place. There’s also a rumour going round that the restaurant, Roast, serves roasts. Well, who would’ve guessed?!

Places like Roast are Kryptonite to us critics. This is the kind of restaurant we usually try to avoid because our job is to lambast, shake fists and generally poke fun at lesser establishments that will probably not make it through the other side of the recession. Usually, there’s a catalogue of errors to laugh about, leaving no doubt in the mind of the reader that under no circumstances should they visit. Even if they’re drunk and it’s on the way home.

But with Roast, it’s a different story. It’s faultless. They only offer one dish and that’s roast joy, sprinkled with grated dreams and served on a bed of Ahhhhhhhhhhh. No, make that Ahhhhhhhhh to the power of Ahhhhhhhh.

This roast joy comes in a variety of shapes and sizes. There’s the modern decor which is as bright an over-achieving child and amplified by a beautiful portico that was abandoned by Covent Garden’s Floral Hall many years ago and brought to the market for only a quid.

Then there’s the unclenched weekend clientele who are far removed from the hubris of boorish City-dom during the working week. Roast is suitably for doe-eyed couples, sloshed-up birthday groups, girlie natter-thons and lazy families alike.

There’s also the view-of-St-Paul’s location, voyeuristically high above the throng of market activity, causing dinner conversations to veer wildly off into “Wow, look at the state of THAT nutter down there” every few sentences.

Added to that, there’s the high-ceiling’d, live jazz’d and child-friendly’d atmosphere keeping no track of time and generally maintaining everyone in a floating daze, welcomingly.

There’s the impeccable service which appears to be sickeningly 5-star, whichever angle you’re viewing it from.

There’s the booze which boasts a mighty tome of heaven’s treacle to devour, including the inescapable Chapel Down Bacchus Reserve (made in Kent, no less) which would probably cleanse and rejuvenate your urban weary skin if you decided to pour it over your face rather than do the sensible thing and drink it.

And then, of course, there’s the grub. Oh, the tender grub. The tender British grub. The tender British grub that is not afraid to roast any living being (if you arrive on a Monday, you can sample from the special ‘rare and native breed’ menu - Dodo? Diplidocus?). All ingredients are GB sourced, and most come directly from the market right downstairs. Starters are under strict portion control - the potted kippers are a good place to start - thus leaving room for the generous main event - the slow roasted goose leg with firm kale and adequately sized roast potatoes are complimented perfectly by the boozed-up poached pears (“Oh you do look lovely”, “Oh, that’s very kind of you to say so.”). Dessert is daring and is only avoidable if you’re able to avert your eyes as tempting glasses of rhubarb trifle or sultry Bakewell tarts are delivered to neighbouring tables.

It’s also got a cocktail bar, it’s own lift, Dyson Airblades to play with, windows as far as the eye can see, a great selection of British beers, a menu that is a bit dithering because it changes every week, and an owner who, in 2008, won Businessman of the Year and Restaurant Personality of the Year, plus claimed a spot in the Independent on Sunday’s Top 10 Restaurateurs in Britain list.

OK, OK, OK. Roast is amazing. There, I said it. Are you happy now?!

Molton House

43 South Molton Street, Mayfair W1
“The theatre is a gross art, built in sweeps and over-emphasis.”

At times like this it’s appropriate to break the glass and release an emergency quote. When the British author and playwright, Enid Bagnold, uttered the above phrase in fourteen hundred and whatever she probably didn’t have a West End socialite hangout in mind. Yet, with words like ‘gross art’, ‘sweeps’ and ‘over-emphasis’ she could’ve been describing the new members clubs, Molton House. It’s absolute design mayhem.

From the outside Molton House does a fairly good job of pretending it’s not an exhibitionist - small signage, tiny red rope, zero windows - but once (and if) you get inside, then the theatre really begins. It’s of no surprise that the biggest poser of them all, the peacock, has been adopted as the Molton House emblem.

The bite of ostentation smothers four homely floors of this Georgian building. The designers were clearly dealing with some acutely indecisive clients and, in the end, just threw together everything that B&Q could muster. Copper cladding, snakeskin, silk, peacock feathers (there it is again), leather corsets, ostrich feathers, flickering colours, darkened mirrors, scarlet hues, low lighting, gargantuan chandeliers: there was probably no other colour, material or fabric sold anywhere else in the world that day because it seems Molton House bought it all. The attention to detail even goes as far as putting sparkles INSIDE the toilet extraction fans.

The club - with house/electro/rock/but-no-RnB blaring out of the Funktion 1 sound system - leads to the cocktail bar - with its own DJ hidden in a cupboard under the stairs playing so-laid-back-it-could-be-a-spa music - which leads to the restaurant - serving what else but ‘modern European cuisine’ - which leads to the private dining/conference rooms - replete with their very own TV, wifi, stereo system, weather patterns, astrological calendar....

The drinks here are just shy of heavenly and you should feel free to say ‘Wow’ as often as you like. The specialists on the tricky side of the bar have put together a menu that is supper club flamboyant and in keeping with the venue’s decor. Classics, punches, cups, sours, flips, ‘temperance’ options, and a clever range of bitters - coriander, jasmine tea, vanilla, liquorice - created by a local hotel chef. Plus, each drink has its own receptacle, some which require flavour infusion before the drink has even been made.

Tip 1: wait for the ‘ample’ table service.
Tip 2: Do NOT ask for a Mojito. You wouldn’t ask Gordon Ramsey to cook you cheese on toast now would ya?!
Some of the highlights include the Cherry Blossom Bellini - or ‘Go-Getter’ as we’ll call it for its powers of easy drinking; the Liquorice Sazerac - the ‘Sock Blower’ for the strong buzzy feeling that arrives direct by absinthe; the signature A&A’s Negroni - a gin-based ‘Ladies Night’; the Molton Mule - ‘Summer time’ served in a twisted glass, heavy on the pineapple, strong on ginger, garnished with an odd lime dispatch; and the Don Flip - the ‘Nightcap’, a tequila and port-based end to the evening. Need to freshen up? Try a £5 latte before you go (cue Pulp Fiction style conversations about “finding out what a five pound latte tastes like”).

The people? Molton House is in the upper echelons, apparently. The membership committee contains within its serried ranks one Sex Pistol, one Queen, TWO Duran Durans, one Channel 4er, one messy bed artist, one former Mrs Law, one Kidd, one Kemp, one Cold Feet, one Blur, one Libertine, and one Imbruglia, to name but a few. Basically, you’ll need to iron a shirt. And brush your shoes.

Nick ‘Cuckoo Club’ Valentine teamed up with a former Movida GM, a former Sketch mixologist and a former Devonshire Gardens chef and created this multi-layered cake of decadence. The result is tastefully tacky and wins the 2009 Elton John Prize for Garishness hands down. But is the décor trying to over compensate for something that’s lacking? The jury is still out on that one.

The Fenitman Arms

64, Fentiman Rd SW8 1LA
Geronimo Inns: the gastro overlords of London. You don’t want to mess with them. Their gang of pubs are lurking everywhere, especially in the more decent and self-respecting communities of the capital. Easy pickings, see. They have venues stationed all over London on deserted street corners, ready to supply any unsuspecting passer-by with a quick hit of verve, sparkle or finesse. And the Fentiman Arms is one of its top henchmen.

Now clearly, there’s nothing illegal about the Fentiman Arms (that was just a metaphor), not unless it’s now against the law to make every man, woman and child who is pulled in by its force field a complete and utter satisfied customer. This is benevolent not malevolent brawn and it’s only a six hit over the boundary from The Oval’s middle stump; as long as Kevin Pietersen is batting.

The Fentiman hides its stoicism well. There you are, minding your own business, cluelessly wandering along Fentiman Street, not a care in the world, generally marveling at the quaintness of it all, when suddenly.....BAM, you’re sucked in by an overpowering lure of niceness. This ‘Arm’ of the ever-growing Geronimo empire is particularly muscular and it hides a stocky robustness within its tidy physique. Remember, the small ones are often the ones to watch out for. They pack an almighty delicious punch.

There’s classic Geronimo behaviour to be seen here. Firstly, the general managers; they must breed them at Geronimo HQ because although they all look very different, they share the common traits of extreme conviviality and a willingness to exploit the potentiality of their venue for the benefit of everyone else in the world (laurels are certainly not for resting on). Secondly, open shelves; they love em: the exclusive/inclusive expanse/cosiness they lend is peculiarly familiar throughout. Thirdly, the wine; a Master of Wine (no less) has selected a decent array straight from God’s own cellar, which includes the continually rewarding Infamous Goose Wild Rock Sauvignon from New Zealand.

You start this compartmentalised box of fun in what appears to be someone’s living room, complete with mid-battle board games and roaring open fire. It’s as though you’ve wandered in by mistake like Little Red Riding Hood and thus proceed to sit yourself down and help yourself to somebody else’s food, you teef! Only, it IS your food. The small, nee tiny, dining area at the rear separates you from the bar so as to not make it feel as though you’re eating under someone’s pint of Guinness.

Other fantastic appendages to the Fentiman’s arsenal: the garden, where picnic benches are painted with sunshine and where a full scale summer BBQ is guaranteed to break out at least three times a week; a versatile retro function room upstairs with private bar, loo and big TV where comedy, quiz or carve-your-own roast nights are available if you ask nicely; plus, benches out front for smokers and a menu that is dramatically tweaked weekly, meaning you dining habits will be somewhat on a par with your weekly dose of Lost.

Tip No.1: Yes, the standard menu is great and you wont be disappointed BUT there is a daily specials menu and they don’t call it ‘special’ for nothing. For example, the pork cheek, lentil and chorizo stew with buttered mash is both large and luscious.

Tip No.2: Opt for any starter that involves an ex-fish. Mackerel pate, smoked salmon.....No particular reason, it’s basically a flipping good way to start your meal.

Although it would appear that this establishment is mainly used by locals, it’s definitely a destination for all. If you reside anywhere south of, say, Derby, north of Bruge, west of Narnia and east of the Moon, you’ve really got no excuse for not visiting (this includes exams, weddings and personal injuries such as death).