Goji's Spa Day

Goji is nine months old tomorrow, and to mark the occasion, we decided he deserved a little treat. I had wanted to take him to Harrods Pet Spa for a bit of pampering, but sadly that closed in January, along with the Pet Kingdom. Luckily, a chance encounter with a fellow Pomeranian owner revealed that the Pet Spa had in fact relocated to the Fulham Road, and so I booked Goji in for a full body groom. This includes dead-hair removal, a nail trim, a between pads and paw trim, an ear cleanse, two shampoos, a warm blow dry, a custom coat styling by a Pet Spa stylist, and a luxury finishing cologne spritz. Everything Goji might need to look hot in the park, in other words!

I dropped him off at 4pm, and was told that he would need up to two hours. The poor little thing was quite nervous (the only other time he has been dropped off was at the vet's to be neutered), and he was quivering so much that I had second thoughts about the whole thing. The Pet Spa girls were absolutely lovely, however, and assured me that he would be absolutely fine. We discussed the style for Goji's haircut (I stressed that I didn't want him to be shaved, as this can damage the coat), but just wanted a little trim around his bum and ears.

The freshly groomed Goji. My hair looks very much in need of a trim by comparison

When I came to collect him, I found an ultra-fluffy, very happy little Goji, who smelt absolutely to DIE FOR (the cologne, no doubt). Apparently he had behaved himself incredibly well, and was given a little 'Gucchewi' toy handbag for being so good!

The Pet Spa was fantastic, and I would highly recommend it to anyone. The first service is half price for new customers too, so Goji's haircut was £32.50 instead of £65.

The Pet Spa: http://www.petspalondon.com/index.php

Making a mini-me

My fiancé is always teasing me about my diminutive height (I am a paltry 5'3 to his statuesque 6'6), so I don't think it ever occurred to him that I could possibly get any smaller. It was his birthday yesterday, and I came across a novel way of surprising him: with a miniature model of me! I had heard about my3Dtwin (http://www.levavo.com/my3dtwin) through one of my best friends, Sophie, who was planning to get a 15cm model of herself made to put on her parents' mantelpiece now that she has left home. I was intrigued, and excited; in addition to his joking jibes about my size, my fiancé is uncannily gifted at guessing gifts. He has correctly conjectured the contents of most of the presents I have given him over the past five years, and takes gleeful delight in his spot-on divinations. One of the only occasions on which I managed to fox him was when I took photographs of the intersection of Gerald Road and Elizabeth Street (our names!) in Belgravia, and framed them. He was totally taken aback - he had no idea that the two roads existed, let alone the fact that they transected. After that triumph, however, I have really struggled to find an original, unanticipated present. 

So, in search of this elusive gift, I booked my appointment with my3dtwin to make a tiny version of myself. One Sunday afternoon I schlepped over to Shoreditch to meet the founder-owners of Levavo, the company that produces my3dtwin and to have my micro clone made. The concept is the brainchild of 32-year old Marcin Piosik, a former computer engineer, who specialised in architectural scanning, producing 3D models of buildings. It occurred to him that the technology could be applied in an alternative context: "I thought, why not scan people, too, and then produce replicas of them," he says. Marcin spent four years honing his idea with his business partner, Tom Krok. Marcin was certain the concept would take off: "people are bored of photos," he declares. A figurine is a natural progression - a tangible way of capturing oneself. 

Tom Krok (far left) Marcin Piosik (second from left), founder and owner of Levavo, in miniature form. 

I love the fact that the result is virtually instantaneous: anyone can walk into Levavo's shop on Leyden street and have a mini-reproduction of themselves that promises total verisimilitude in under seven days. My model is going to make a great present for my fiancé, but there's a whole host of reasons why you might want to get one made. Marcin told me that the idea has been highly popular with businessmen and women (many have had them made for their kids to play with a mini mummy or daddy in their absence on business trips or long hours at the office). Marcin also showed me a model of a man in a wet suit with a mono waterski (he wanted to be reminded of his favourite hobby), and a pregnant lady, who plans to return for another model when her baby is born. The models are also extremely popular with proud parents who want to immortalise their cherubic infants at their most cute. 

My cloning experience takes place in the basement studio - a bright white room crammed full of Canon cameras - 85 at the last count (this number is increasing gradually - the more cameras, the greater the accuracy). I was advised to steer clear of wearing head-to-toe black, but apart from that, there are no real clothing guidelines - I picked my favourite frock du jour, a black and white number from Karen Millen and a pair of Louboutins. Marcin positions me on a small square in the centre of the room and asks me to strike a pose. When I'm ready, the cameras take my picture simultaneously; it's so quick. Marcin then leads me next door to check that I'm happy with the resultant images (all 85 of them), which have appeared on his screen. How on earth do these images transmute into a model? Marcin explains that a technique based on photogrammetry is use to extract the measurements from the photos and to create a 3D model, and the figurine is subsequently printed with a state-of-the-art 3D printer than can create 390,000 colours. 

Mini me: a 20cm my3Dtwin version of myself.

A week later a box arrives, marked fragile. I am skittish with excitement. I tear open the box, peel open the bubble wrap gingerly, and come face-to-face with myself! I am delighted, and slightly awestruck: I am so unused to seeing myself from all angles, and it is quite a shock. Every detail is preserved, down to the last toenail and strand of hair. 

Me, and mini-me.

On Gerald's birthday, I dressed in the same outfit that I was wearing when the model was made. Before he opened the box, I asked him to observe me carefully. He looked at me quizzically, and shook the box, which he declared was empty (the models are ultra light). I had my camera ready to capture his expression when he discovered the miniaturised "me" inside; he was entirely taken aback, and extremely impressed by the originality of the gift. 

 Gerald, my fiance, with his even tinier than usual version of me.

 What next for Levavo? Marcin and Tom are developing a mobile unit which may be hired by festivals and private clients - a perfect way to create a living tableaux of guests at a special event. Marcin says they can also make taller 3D twins on request. At present, a 15cm doll costs £102, a 20cm doll £147 and the 25cm £234. On the pricey side, certainly, but the process of creating a figurine is both material and  labour-intensive; it takes around six man hours and 48 hours of constant spraying in the photocopier to replicate a person in miniature form. For me, the price is justified by the sheer novelty of the concept and the fantastically lifelike little outcome. My3Dtwin is the most ingenious idea, and I wholeheartedly recommend it both as  a unique experience and the ultimate unguessable gift.

Visit http://www.levavo.com/my3dtwin to book your my3Dtwin experience.

Zermatt

I have been skiing since I was old enough to walk, and I have been lucky enough to visit numerous European and American resorts - St Moritz, Courcheval, Kitzbuehel, Verbier, Val d'Isere, Obergurgl, Stowe, Chamonix, Lech...the list goes on. One place that had, until this month, eluded me, was Zermatt. I had seen enough pictures of the Matterhorn, to convince me that a trip to see this mountain in the flesh was absolutely necessary.

My ski-mad fiance barely needed persuading. Like me, he had never been and was ueber keen to go.

And so we found ourselves in the Swiss Alps, ogling the Matterhorn for several hours a day. We also found time for some skiing:

CUT, Park Lane

CUT

The London restaurant scene is so effervescent and so varied; you might wonder what a Californian chef has to bring to the table, other than a splash of sunshine.

In the case of Wolfgang Puck, the answer is a lot. Though less well known in Europe, Puck is one of the titans of the American food world. Even his Shakespeare-meets-Mozart moniker is redolent of his culinary prodigy. Puck presides over about 20 fine-dining restaurants, including one at the revamped Hotel Bel-Air in Los Angeles, and he’s best known for movie-star spangled Spago and his Oscar after-parties. He owns over 50 Wolfgang Puck Express venues, and he peddles everything from ready meals to cookware. Forbes estimates that his food empire is worth over $400m.

CUT, at 45 Park Lane, is Puck’s first European outpost, and I am here one April afternoon for lunch with my old pal Phil. When menus are heavily flesh-focused (as CUT’s is), Phil is my number one partner-in-crime; the experience would be wasted on my vegetarian fiancé.

Meat – more particularly beef – may be the menu’s mainstay, but steakhouse this is not. Steak palace more accurately describes the opulent, high-ceilinged space that CUT inhabits. A Damien Hirst sits behind us, whilst shimmering blimp-like chandeliers droop down gracefully from above.Puck and McIntyre

Décor pales into insignificance once the food arrives. My companion’s crab and lobster cocktail was much the best dish of its kind I have tasted. The portion was colossal; the vibrantly fresh seafood mingled happily with great avocado, the Marie Rose sauce and the ensemble was hugely enlivened by fresh basil and a spicy tomato horseradish. My Austrian oxtail bouillon, chervil, bone marrow dumplings, was a hearty and authentic nod to Puck’s central European roots, and a nice segue to the steak.

The steaks are as fine as any you will find in London. They are right up there with Hawksmoor and Goodman: not necessarily better but more refined -- posh and almost ladylike in their elegance. If you want a bit of spice, the Armagnac and green peppercorn sauce will give you a little body heat. If you’re feeling more butch, the house-made steak sauce is as assertive as a drunk in a pub.

The seasoning is spot on, dish after dish, and the meat arrives well charred and as pink as you like in the middle.

On your behalf, I also tried the top-priced New York steak 6 ounce Australian Wagyu, Black Angus. This is soft and buttery and might melt your heart as well as your wallet; I cannot recall ever having cut steak with a spoon.

The sides of tempura onion rings are brilliant -- crisp as a cash-machine fiver -- the French fries with herbs are exemplary, and the wild field mushrooms, Japanese shishito peppers are tops. The desserts are big and American and inventive; though somewhat conquered by the feast we’d just enjoyed, we elected to share a chocolate brownie with peanut butter and white chocolate ganache and yoghurt sorbet; it was a triumph.

The wine list offers the best American options I have come across in London and they are not all expensive. Vanessa Cinti is a sommelier I would trust with my cash. She’s a Puck veteran, as are most of the chef’s team, headed by Executive Chef David McIntyre.

Excitingly, breakfast and brunch, offering contemporary interpretations of classic breakfast fare both from England and the United States are available, for the first time at a CUT restaurant, in the London establishment.  With delectable fried brioche and slow poached organic eggs lavishly topped with rich black truffle emulsion juxtaposed with healthier options such as grapefruit granite; CUT is arguably the new power breakfast hotspot in London for both business and pleasure.

CUT serves some of the finest food in the UK, with great ingredients perfectly cooked and expertly seasoned. It’s the kind of quality achieved only with a lifetime of experience and months of practice.

CUT at 45 Park Lane, W1K 1QA.

To book, call +44-20-7493-4554

http://www.45parklane.com/cut-at-45-park-lane

 

 

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Paramount at Centrepoint

There’s an accepted, nay even an expected inverse correlation between dining and altitude; typically,the higher the meal and the better the view, the worse the cooking. (Just think of plane food). This is why the Paramount, perched atop the thirty-second floor of one of London's least-loved landmarks, is a shock - because in addition to the exhilarating views, the food is really very good.

Paramount's Tom Dixon interior, designed to chime with the brutal 1966 modernism of the building’s exterior, is upstaged by the aerial view. Nevertheless, Chef Colin Layfield's menu is a compelling enough reason alone to visit. They’re not giving it away - starters around a tenner, main courses £15-£25, desserts £7-11 - but all things considered (and the view is a big consideration), the prices are pretty fair.

You get a sense of what's to come when twice-baked roquefort soufflé starter arrives on a black slate that's drizzled with aged balsamic vinegar. Prettier still, some beetroot-stained cured salmon, topped by a little fillet of seared salmon, overlaying green streak of pea purée, all served on an opaque rectangular glace plate.

Mains are all very tempting indeed. There is a slight sense that Layfield is trying a little bit too hard, cramming every snazzy and seasonal ingredient going into everything, in an attempt, perhaps, to compete with the view. Having said that, you don’t go to Paramount to be shy and stare at beige walls and eat pared-down food. So I say, go all out and embrace the purees, the creams and the daring combinations. They create a skyline on the plate that’s almost a match for the one outside.

 Following the duo of salmon I pursued the plurality theme with trio of rabbit; saddle, roast leg and confit shoulder; with peas, carrots and grain mustard sauce (£22.50). Far from being a lesson in lupine anatomy, the shoulder was unrecognizable as such, having been minced, formed into a square patty and deep-fried in breadcrumbs, deliciously. Again, there were even more ingredients on the plate than had been listed, including a patty of spinach and some wild mushrooms. My companion’s sautéed spring lamb and young vegetables with basil and tomato was on the simpler end of the spectrum, and was a generous rack: big, red and flavoursome. For those that want to impress their dates with flourishes, there’s the wild sea bass with potato gnocchi, samphire and caviar cream or the goat cheese and red onion roll with celeriac fondant, pea purée and saffron artichokes.

For pudding, I decided that, bearing in mind my location, the only way was up, so I plumped for the banana quartet (parfait, lime caramel, milk shake and spiced banana cake). Whilst seemingly unorthodox combination, the textural medley was a great success. So too was the motley crew my friend selected: walnut tart, cider sorbet, pink lady apple strudel with ginger custard. For me, the one let down was the custard. Since the other constituents were cold, a puddle of warm custard would have worked better, I thought, than the admittedly very artistic globule that was presented.

After the feast, we were shown up a flight of stairs to the top floor, where there’s a bar in which you can walk right around the building, soaking up the views of the horizon, and Oxford Street, beginning to glitter and crawl with headlights, as the evening darkens. We wander round in wonderment, countless times, stopping every now and again to sit on a nice leathery banquette or in a tipping bucket chair. Even when you’re stony sober, it’s spacey and intoxicating.

Paramount is a truly staggering place to sit and eat and drink, however you look at it. And as a place to bring a date, or a visitor to London, or just to get your bearings in your home town and finally piece together where everything is, I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Paramount

Centre Point, 101-103 New Oxford Street, London WC1 (020 7420 2900)

Discovering Dogs

I am a sucker for cuteness. Little dogs are the apotheosis of cuteness in my eyes (particularly pugs and pomeranians). A trip to Discover Dogs (a canine caper held annually in November at Earl's Court Exhibition Centre) was therefore a no-brainer.

I went with my best friend, T, whose love for cute small things matches mine.

There are individual stands devoted to every breed of dog you can possibly imagine (and many more besides), and three main 'show' areas where mini-Cruft style competitions are held - competition categories ranged from 'Prettiest Bitch' to 'Waggiest Tail'. There are also lots of trade stands where you can purchase pressies for your pooch - one I particularly like the look of was PetsPyjamas.

We arrived at around 11am and spent a  while getting our bearings. Armed with a map, we made a plan of action, which involved paying visits to each of our favourite breeds (pugs, pomeranians, king charles spaniels, samoyeds, newfoundlands, to name but a few) and making time to attend certain competitions.

The best thing about the experience is that it is truly hands-on: you can pet and pick up most of the dogs, and, as a prospective pomeranian or pug purchaser, it was particularly helpful for me to be able to ask the breeders lots of questions.

I learnt, for instance, that black pugs have a better temperament and health record than their fawn-colouted compatriots.

For T, the experience was useful as she is still narrowing down the breed options: she prefers gigantic dogs (Newfoundlands are top of her wish-list), but realistically, in London it is pretty tricky to provide enough space and exercise for such a big dog. She might have to settle with a maltese or a bichon frise for the time being, but is perfectly ok with that!

Puggy love:

We left at about 4pm, having had one of the most enjoyable days possible in London on a soggy November weekend. I am even more excited about the prospect of my future pet!

Hix at The Albemarle

Brown's is a venerable grande dame of the London hotel trade. It's the capital's oldest operating five-star hotel, opened in 1837, the year of Victoria’s ascension, by the enterprising James Brown, who was once Lord Byron's valet, and has been stuck for eons with slightly moth-eaten labels of ‘refinement’ and ‘gentility’, as if its natural clientele were maiden aunts and decrepit urban relics of the landed gentry. Rocco Forte took over in 2003 and the establishment was given a £18m spring-clean by his sister, Olga Polizzi. A hose-down of the Grill followed, with Mark Hix (Le Caprice, J Sheekey and The Ivy) drafted in as Director of Food, along with Marcus Verberne (whose CV mirrors Hix’s) as Executive Chef.

Stepping through the doors pitches you back to the days when hotel restaurants were places of alarm and intimidation: fusty catacombs with napery shrouds and harried waiters. The feeling wears off, though, when you see that it's very coolly designed: wood panelling, wood pillars, snow-white tablecloths, green chairs and vases of what look to be silk flowers but are strange, waxy tulips. Most arresting, however, is the clutch of artwork – an Emin neon here, a Rankin photograph there, a smattering of paintings by Fiona Rae, Peter Peri and Mat Collishaw. It’s worth going just to see the art.

The menu is made of aesthetically sterner stuff. One can play a game here, spotting the Director of Food’s signature dishes. Mixed beets with Ragstone goat’s cheese and wild herbs; that's terribly Hix, the West Country aficionado of rustic sourcing. So is the salt beef and bobby bean salad with Tewkesbury mustard dressing, the whole Cornish megrim sole and the Newlyn monkfish curry. For nostalgists, there are vestigial traces of the old Trust House Forte style in the fish & chips and the Lancashire hot-pot. The Game and Meat section offers no less than fourteen varieties of flesh, including venison, rabbit, partridge, grouse and woodpigeon: it's a restaurant that's almost belligerently hearty, and I found it irresistible.

My monkfish cheeks with caper mayonnaise were a revelation, four gorgeous brown lumps of battered monkfish, to be spritzed with lemon and eaten greedily. Who knew fish cheeks could be so substantial? The capers cut the mayo to perfection. Beside me, Gerald was relishing his Kentish purple sprouting broccoli with Oxford Blue; a lesson in how to serve a vegetable in an appetising and imaginative manner.

For the main course, I chose a wild fallow chop with braised red cabbage and prunes, because I'd never eaten fallow deer before. Expecting a single chop, I was amazed by the profusion of meat that appeared before me – three huge tranches of what resembled lamb steaks, roasted medium rare, the flesh rosy. Its taste was a puzzle, lying somewhere between the pungent, velvet intensity of venison and the fibrous smoulder of beef. Gerald’s pan haggerty with woodland mushrooms and scallions drew fresh raptures. He – a lifelong vegetarian no less - declared that he had never tasted vegetables so crunchy and punchy and delicately flavoured at the same time.

We both marvelled at the size of the helpings, and agreed we couldn't possible handle a pudding. Undying devotion to duty, coupled with sheer greed, however, led us eventually to share an apple and blackberry crumble with custard, which resembled a catering slab from Desserts-U-Like, but tasted absolutely heavenly, the crumble as fine as sand. The custard, with its tiny kiss of vanilla, came in a wooden jug – and when we'd emptied it, they brought another. It's that kind of place.

This was the tastiest, most enjoyable and by some way largest dinner I've eaten in months. HIX at The Albemarle may not win Michelin stars for Ferran Adria-style ambition, but its commitment to British food, lovingly cooked to bring out its finest qualities, makes it an instant favourite. I'll return as soon as possible.