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.

Treats for troops

One of my best university friends is serving in Afghanistan for six months at the moment. He has been part of the Territorial Army for years and it has been a longheld ambition of his to engage in active service. I am so happy that he is pursuing his passion, but I do feel nervous about him being out there. 

One of the main shared interests is sugar - both of us have ridiculously sweet teeth! I decided that a crate of candy would therefore need to wing its way to his BFPO pronto:

I stuffed a shoe box full of M&S's finest confectionary up to the maximum weight limit (2kg) for armed forces delivery and trundled off to the post office to deliver my parcel.

He is back in March - I am sure whether this will keep him and his army pals going until then, so there may have to be another sucrose-saturated package in another month or two.

Mayr & More

Sometimes I wish I could swap myself. Take myself back to the shop and say, this model doesn't work properly: it won't stop telling dull anecdotes, can't do mental arithmetic and has historically had terrible taste in men. And, major fault, the model I had off the production line always seems a bit chubby for my frame.

Then I discovered Dr Franz Xaver Mayr - an Austrian nutritionist who lived to the age of 90 and believed the cure to nearly all human ills, both physical and mental, could be found in the intestines.

I went to a Mayr clinic on the Wörthersee, in Austria, where they clean out your guts in accordance with his regime. I lost half a stone in a week, and learnt to chew every mouthful until it was pap.

The Mayr regime is about two things - cleaning the system out and teaching the patient how to carry on into real life. Mayr's theory was that most people have years of semi-digested food sitting around in their gut. Just think of the fridge when you get back from holiday. All that rotting food creates a cycle of poor digestion, filling your body with toxins, which puff you up and slow down the digestion of the next intake of food. He also thought it contributed to women's infertility. So we started each day with a dose of Epsom salts - which taste so vile you know they are doing good.

Breakfast, however, was delicious: smoked trout fillets, gofio mash or sheep's yoghurt, with either a fresh spelt roll or three rice cakes. And all to be chewed; the digestive process starts in the mouth with the saliva - Mayr believed if you chew food to pap, it's easier to digest, makes your gut more efficient, and so you lose weight. It's not what you eat, rather how. It also takes ages to chew every mouthful 35 times (the optimum number). When you've spent 15 minutes masticating rice cakes, you're not only bored, you're full.

Then there was vegetable broth, and a little lie-down; the Mayr regime doesn't recommend strenuous exercise - there is a gym, overlooking the lake, with a coterie of machines; pool; and pedaloes to take out on the lake - but they don't mind if all you do is a little pilates. Too much exercise impedes the detoxification process - thank God.

The chef is superb - home-made soup for lunch, and, depending upon which diet the doctor deems most appropriate during the initial consultation, a choice of three main courses: stuffed aubergines, spinach risotto or buffalo mozzarella and tomato salad.

There were daily massages and daily detoxification treatments; dark "poisons" were extracted from my feet through an electrified foot bath; I was slipped into a toasted sandwich-maker and radiated with light; and hooked up to a drip and infused with natrium bicarbonate.

At the great weigh-in, one week later, I'd lost half a stone; I felt in control, and ready to go out and chew each mouthful 35 times.

The Original F.X. Mayr&more Healthcentre
Golfstraße 2
A-9082 Maria Wörth-Dellach
Kärnten, Austria

Tel: 0043 4273 2511-0
Fax: 0043 4273 2511-51

E-mail: single rooms from £90 a night, though less than a week's stay is not recommended: seven days (tailored treatments are extra) cost about £1,100.

in:spa

in:spa, Monasterio 16-23 August 2012

To put things in perspective, I’m not (I think) fat. But, apart from times when I’ve been ill (once in my late teens in Thailand), I’ve almost never been as thin as I’d like. So I can scarcely remember a time when I haven’t had what psycho-babblers call “ishoos” with food. I love it. I love cooking it and I love devouring it. But every mouthful comes freighted with notions of “good” or “bad”. Fruit, vegetables, pulses, complex carbs, protein – all good. Processed food, saturated fat, sugar – all bad, very bad.

The result is that I seem to have spent my entire adult life on a diet. I have endured Dukan, Atkins et al at home; I have been abroad and done deprivation in extremis at the Mayr, macrobiotics and colonics at SHA and dosha diagnosis at Ananda. I have learned, through exhaustive empirical research, that a couple of factors are pivotal to success: camaraderie and scenery. Dieting it on one’s own, at home, is a slog. What most of us need is company, encouragement, guidance, sunshine and the occasional shaking of the stick.

Armed with this knowledge, I signed up to spend a week on an in:spa detox. I’ve never managed to detox autonomously. It always seemed at odds with the day-to-day demands of, well, living, and to require the discipline of an Olympic athlete, which my errant willpower fails to yield. And yet the benefits seem to be universally acknowledged: glowing skin, sprightlier spirit and, of course, weight loss.

Kathryn Brierley, Director of the Healthy Holiday Company (and former high-flying city executive) explains that her objective in establishing in:spa was to devise the ultimate luxury fitness holiday. Whilst the juxtaposition of those three words -‘luxury’, ‘fitness’ and ‘holiday’- might sound somewhat oxymoronic, I can attest that the holistic approach to health - a magical amalgam of fabulous, wholesome food and a teeming timetable of activities in a stunning setting – resulted in as enjoyable and sumptuous a break as I have ever experienced.

No in:spa holiday is identical, but the essential formula is the same: a group of up to thirty guests, plus a cook, dietician, yoga teacher, masseuse and personal trainers, takes up temporary residency in one of a range of enchanting boutique properties in Spain, France or Morocco. I had booked myself onto an ‘intense’ week, the setting for which was a somnolent converted monastery in Southern Spain. I was trepidatious when, on day one I was presented with a formidable timetable. My schedule for the week seemed distressingly full – exercise, nutritional consultations, massages, exercise classes, even lectures. I was worried that I had bitten off more than I could chew.

In fact, as the week went on, I found that I couldn’t get enough. Never an early riser, I found myself up at dawn, while the air was still cool, in the converted stables doing hatha yoga, or running 5k, on days when I felt more energetic. I enjoyed doing masses of exercise: hikes, circuits and personal training sessions, especially the dance class with Malcolm (a world renowned dancer who has worked under the direction of Ben Elton). The twin highlights of the week for me, though, were my sessions with the outstanding masseur, Ethan and the fascinating personal nutritional consultation with Lorraine.

To complement this action-packed agenda, the daily menus were assiduously planned and executed by Sophie, the superb chef, in consultation with Lorraine.  Certain foods were firmly out: wheat, dairy, gluten tea, coffee, alcohol, salt, sugar and red meat. The compulsory removal of these things made it all – relatively – easy – it turns out that absence does make the heart forget, especially when there was such an abundance of yummy alternatives: outrageously fresh fruit, fish, nuts and vibrant vegetables. I learned from Lorraine that starving the body is not what losing weight or being well is all about. There were compulsory snacks at 11am and 4pm daily (“If you go too long without eating,” Lorraine told us, “your body thinks there’s a famine and starts hoarding fat”).

I came back detoxed, re-educated, de-stressed and re-energised - bright of eye, bushy of tail and a couple of pounds lighter, which admittedly isn’t a lot, but my week at in:spa had introduced me to the novel notion that I wouldn’t die if I gave up tea, coffee and alcohol, and to the key concept that diet must be combined with exercise.

Best of all, I came back with a clutch of new chums from my cohort (the staggering majority of which were repeat guests) – including a former ambassador and the CEO of a multinational company.

in:spa is a blast – whether you’re feeling tubby or tired, take your friends, have a ball and come back glowing, minus a few kilos.