A tough nut to crack

Every little girl dreams of being the Sugar Plum Fairy. Amidst the complex tale of The Nutcracker, she embodies magic: a beautiful ballerina who glistens like freshly-fallen snow and wins the heart of the handsome Prince. The challenge with this quintessential ballet is how to make it stand out from a crowd of Nutcracker pasts. Besides the enchanting Tchaikovsky score and headache of a plot, the rest is pure, artistic licence. But Wayne Eagling, the Artistic Director of the English National Ballet’s Nutcracker, well, his imagination nearly misses the point. It is Clara’s adolescent dream of first love- the charm of the Sugar Plum Fairy- which becomes the kernel of his production. But, in stripping away the intricate wrappings of the story, he has tried to be too clever- and the result is a darkly sinister spin which bewilders the audience and dulls the magic. The ballet’s pivotal transformation scenes become laboured and muddled, particularly the moment when Clara dreams herself into the Sugar Plum Fairy who dances with her dashing Prince. The tale itself is already a myriad of toys and magic, dream and reality- and Eagling loses the plot, the Nutcracker darkly morphing into Drosselmeyer’s handsome nephew and back again, a few too many times. The battle scene between the Mouse King and the tin soldiers also lacks wattage - yes, the giant mousetrap moment made us all laugh, but the choreography was too much movement and not nearly enough panache. It’s too apocalyptic, set against ugly brown walls- lacking the colour and charm that would have it compete with other productions.

But with artistic licence comes the need for subjectivity. And, at moments, you can see why Eagling’s darker, more traditional take on this much-loved classic shines. Act One’s Christmas party is enchantingly staged by Peter Farmer, simply presided over by a giant Christmas tree (which later will be conjured into a supersized forest pine). The party guests even arrive at the dark Edwardian house on ice-skates, a bit of gliding theatrical magic on a frozen Thames. Magic is also retained in the exquisite costumes (oh those glittering Swarovski diamonds in the Dance of the Snowflakes) and who isn’t mesmerised by a giant hot air balloon that lifts Clara and the Nutcracker Prince to the Land of Sweets? Against the flurry of snowflakes, it’s irresistibly festive. In the end, every Nutcracker hinges on the choreographic chemistry of the lead couple in the final pas de deux. We caught the cast with Elena Glurjidze and Fabian Reimair, who danced with an exquisite magic that left the darker, more bemused elements of the production buried in snow- and ensured that the Sugar Plum Fairy remains every little girl’s Christmas wish. 

Noises Off, Laughter On

Last night, I laughed. Proper hysterical laughter that worked my stomach muscles and made my mascara run. It was not my intention to giggle so hard, but the farcical comedy “Noises Off” at the Old Vic exceeded all expectations- and redefined the term side-splitting. Written by Michael Frayn, the play’s core concept is clever: a play within a play seen first from the front, then from backstage, and then the front again- as a touring theatre company muddle their way through frantic rehearsals to a terrible first night - and an even worse final performance. In the first act, we witness the shambolic dress rehearsal of the play within a play, “Nothing On”, as the cast fumble their entrances, their exits....and their lines. From the word go, it’s mayhem: a dizzy blur of sardines and fake sheiks, banging doors and backstage affairs. But you can’t help admire how controlled this mayhem must be. The comic timing was absolutely spot on- and the brilliance of it is any genuine mistakes just add to the chaotic comedy value. The second act reverses our viewpoint- and now we see the hectic, hilarious commotion backstage on the play’s opening night. Blossoming rehearsal romances from Act One now descend into public performances of petty rivalry and lovers’ spats. This repeated gag is nothing short of hysterical- culminating as the play’s female lead (played by a brilliant Celia Imrie) attempts to get her revenge by tying her lover’s shoelaces together. As he is hilariously forced to jump up the stairs as if on an invisible pogo stick, it would have been fair to say that the entire audience laughed out loud. At full-throttle momentum, the action then switches again- and the chaos of the play’s opening night is now repeated from the front. Cue yet even more disaster, tantrums, and cringe. It’s fun viewing- pure, perfected bedlam. Of course, dramatic irony functions overtime throughout - and, in this sense, the Fawlty Towers-esque music is entirely befitting. The play is riotous and ridiculous - a wonderful throwback to comedy in a truly British sense- farcical, chaotic, and universally appealing. “Noises Off” may be inspired by the stage direction indicating the noises offstage, but last night the entire theatre certainly rang loud with the raucous sound of laughter. With “One Man, Two Guvnors” booked up until mid-Feb, don’t hang around- it’s fairly obvious which ticket will be the next hottest in town.

http://www.oldvictheatre.com/whatson.php?id=80&gclid=CLLltr31lq0CFZMhtAodWC3Vug

From Russia with Love

On paper, it seems a disastrous premise: an English-Russian restaurant attempting to combine the most ‘luxurious’ dishes from two of the world’s worst possible cuisines. Cue nauseating memories of questionably lumpy school dinners, from pie and stroganoff to casseroles and dumplings. But Bob Bob Ricard, the retro Anglo-Russo brasserie, situated on Upper James Street in the beating heart of Soho, defiantly shows a gloved finger to such preconceptions. From the moment we were ushered through the door, it felt like a guilty pleasure, a naughty treat as fun as its bouncy name suggests- from the sparkly pink Christmas tree by the entrance to the green leather booth seating throughout. It felt like dining on Agatha Christie's Orient Express: combining art nouveau decor, polished brass and antique portraits, with elegant but in-your-face service (it took at least three waiters to help take our coats). We arrived without a reservation, so ended up dining at the bar- recommended if you like your cocktails shaken with a little conversation. Order the rhubarb gin and tonic- it isn't the signature cocktail for nothing. The most eccentric part of the whole shebang is the menu: a colourful, eclectic range of dishes that encompasses all the English and Russian classics (hello chicken pie and Bob’s chicken kiev) and adds in some oysters, caviar and jellied ox tongue for decadent measure. I paired an unusual starter- a Russian salad vodka shot with shavings of black truffle (surprisingly good, if a little too rich)-  with a cautious main course of eggs royale with smoked salmon (delicious, but not fancy enough given the price tag). After all, when hungry you can never be too risky. Thankfully, we can also recommend the truffled potato and mushroom vareniki (basically dumplings) - a relief considering we had no idea what it would be. Verdict? The menu can be a bit of a stab in the dark if you want to shy away from borsch and burgers and, in typical eastern European style, everything is perhaps too decadent- upmarket trash palpably demonstrated by the champagne button at each table. And Bob Bob Ricard itself is just a ridiculous name. But the secret is to just embrace it. This is more than just dining- it’s a step back into nostalgia: the golden glamour of elegant waiters in faded pink jackets and white gloves attending to your every need, champagne literally a button away. It's deliberately overly-done, outlandish with intent. And in a city dominated by tedious restaurant chains and fast food joints, Bob Bob Ricard’s kitsch personality is wholly refreshing. 

http://www.bobbobricard.com/

Rolling out of Roka

Three months of endless tapas in Salamanca was fun, but after a while the taste buds yearn for something that doesn’t involve chorizo. Okay, so that’s a little exaggerated, but still- in a city that doesn’t even do a decent curry takeaway, this was a somewhat challenging period for my adventurous appetite. No surprises, then, that I couldn’t wait to eat some sushi upon my return to London. And what better restaurant to jump back into the city’s great metropolitan eating than Roka, home to exquisite contemporary Japanese cuisine. Zuma’s little sister on Charlotte Street (there’s also another one in Canary Wharf) serves up the same menu at a slightly more affordable price (don’t be fooled- the menu prices are still a little eyewatering). The restaurant’s centrepiece- a huge robata grill- plainly visible from outside through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows- divulges the promise of a great culinary experience. To kickstart the evening, we sampled their cocktail menu downstairs in the Shochu lounge bar- the pear suppai, in particular, is worth ordering for its powerful, fresh taste. Our appetites perfectly whetted, we wondered upstairs for dinner, holding our breath in greedy anticipation. Just like the restaurant itself, the focal point of the menu is the robata grill- trust us and order the grilled black cod marinated in yuzu miso: each flake of this beautifully cooked cod is a wonder to behold. The softshell crab maki roll, alongside the yellowtail tuna sashimi with truffle yuzu sauce, is also another dish worth trying- magic in your mouth. We ate our bodyweight in sushi and then (maki) rolled our way back downstairs to the bar, where a cocktail bizarrely named “Lawnmower” more than adequately rounded off the evening. Zuma may attract all the stars, but Roka proves that all little sisters learn from the best. 

http://www.rokarestaurant.com/

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

A crisp December morning- and the candied aroma of Christmas pudding is swimming about me in the kitchen.

“There’s something about baking a Christmas pudding that always gets me in the festive mood”, remarks my mother, merrily whipping a magical-smelling cake batter. “I’m feeling quite heady”.

“You mean you’re getting drunk vicariously through a cake”, I cynically respond through a mouthful of Special K. After all, it’s 10am on a chilly Sunday morning and I’ve only just dragged myself out my warm, cosy bed.

“Well, I’m breathing in the lovely fumes of alcohol-infused fruit and it must be quite strong”, she frowns- whisking her own fingers in the process. Definitely too much sherry.

This is my mother’s December tradition- and it never fails to put her in the festive spirit. Five alcoholic puddings later (we go big at Christmas), carols in the background, and having nearly cried at the legendary Mr Attenborough’s Wonderful World video on You Tube- anyone would think it’s Christmas Day.

So, I decided that it was high time I went in search of London’s festive feeling.

My first stop? Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland. Shamelessly seasonal, but enchanting nevertheless, this is guaranteed to put you in the Christmas mood. From an ice rink to a giant observational wheel (think small-scale, rickety version of the London Eye- but with views that are just as breathtaking), two circuses to crowded German Christmas markets, Hyde Park delivers exactly what it says on the tin: a land of wonder. It’s undeniably busy, and the queues are offensively long, but sneak round the back towards the Serpentine Café and you’ll find another gate. The talking tree here really is quite annoying (it repeatedly tells terrible jokes featuring polar bears and gin & tonic), but it’s worth it to avoid the main queue and enjoy the park's atmospheric feel. Besides, the smell of mulled wine should be enough to keep you enticed.

If this doesn’t float your boat, then celebrate Christmas at Covent Garden with its beautiful supersized decorations, animated nativity scenes, and Dickensian carol singers. As busy as Hyde Park, it at least boasts a more sophisticated feel and, best of all, you can pet reindeers (who cares if it’s meant for the kids? Move aside and let me through). Finally, if you want to escape Oxford Street’s tourist bubble and admire some beautiful Christmas lights, then why not head to St Christopher’s Place and feast your eyes on its dreamily reflective baubles, or wander through the sparkling arches on South Molton Street. It’s almost as festive as a slice of Christmas cake, and much less calorific. 

For those who sensibly want to stay warm: just stick on some carols and dance around the tree. Nobody will judge you. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8WHKRzkCOY&feature=share

Food for Thought

Sometimes size does matter. The risk of tapas tasting is that these tiny dishes are designed to amuse the appetite, to tempt but not to overindulge. It’s perfectly easy to order dish after dish because they’re small- and, after all, what damage could just one more tiny tapas really do? A fatal question, and one we’ve learned to ignore as we continue to follow the tapas trail. Here’s the second instalment of our little hunt for Salamanca’s best tapas bars: the highs, the lows, and the places to categorically avoid.

Recently, our taste buds have directed our tapas trail down an adventurous, if somewhat dodgy, route. Sure, eating the touchstone tapas dishes makes for a good evening, but we wanted to sample something a bit different. Tail of a bull, intestines, pig ear or pig face: you name it and I guarantee we’d prepared our (poor) palates to give it a go. It’s not necessarily a normal pastime of ours, this desire to indulge in speciality dishes, but as I always say: you cannot claim to dislike something until you’ve tried it once. Step up Bar Cilleros- a tapas bar recommended to us for its slightly unorthodox menu. Beforehand, I’d secretly lined my stomach with a sandwich, but turns out this was a futile effort: not only was the bar dark and dingy, but the tapas selection was extremely tame. The strangest dish on offer was ox tongue, which of course we promptly ordered. I didn’t mind the texture (yes, it was slightly chewy) but its sauce left a lot to be desired. Across the road, we investigated Felipe II, a bar packed with locals but not with decent tapas choice. Many of the dishes had already run out by 10pm- very disappointing, especially for Spain. In the end, we braved the intestines. How were they, you ask? Imagine something jellied and slightly crunchy, cover it in a questionable tomato-based sauce, and then make it lukewarm. No, I’m not entirely sure if I would order them again.

Still peckish, our tapas route continued down Paseo de Canelejas to La Meson de la Cocina Charra. Frequented by locals and students alike, this bar has a lovely welcoming atmosphere, and its choice of tapas is wonderful, too. The menu features a great selection of tostas (my favourite is with smoked salmon and cream cheese) and, if you’re particularly hungry, ask for the bocadillo with tortilla francesa- the best sandwich ever. We often eat here, and being good friends with the owner definitely helps. Ask Bobby to make you his special sangria, I promise it will lead to a good night. Next door, El Globo made a culinary impact for all the wrong reasons. Innocently sitting by the bar, the waiter suddenly gave us both a cup of caldo on-the-house. Traditionally a soup broth made from boiled jamon bones and vegetables, caldo is a speciality in Spain. This caldo, however, was essentially a cup of fat- made even worse when the waiter poured in white wine. Verdict: not a place we’d visit again, and if we did, we’re definitely not sitting anywhere near the bar.

Heading towards Plaza Mayor, Casa de las Morcillas is good for those who like (surprise, surprise) morcilla. We had an enormous platter of various different types: deliciously rich but incredibly filling, and definitely one to share. Our favourite was the morcilla de Burgos, made with rice and onions. Meanwhile, Van Dyck appears to have gone out of style with the Salamantinos; instead, Casa Paca’s tapas bar on Calle San Justo appears to be the locals’ new favourite haunt. It pays to get here early (by early, I mean around 9pm): we went on a Friday night and it was standing room only. The range of tapas here is fantastic, and the kitchen just kept churning out delectable dishes. Our favourites include the creamy paella, the crispy calamari, and the tosta with morcilla, foie gras and jamón iberico- each an epicurean masterpiece. Next door, Casa Paca also has an elegant restaurant for proper, sit-down dinners. The soups here are particularly worth a mention, as was the full-bodied cuchinillo asado (roast pork). A word of warning, though: steer clear of the fish, especially the grilled seabass. Mine smelt like it had walked to the restaurant.  

The sheer amount of discarded napkins on the floor of Casa Paca's bar suggests I am not alone when I highly recommend it. This little city is full to the brim with great tapas bars, but you really can’t beat this one for its sublime flavours and authentic ambience. A true taste of Spain, our verdict is make this your stomach’s first stop if you’re ever in Salamanca.

http://www.casapaca.com/

Treading the Tapas Trail

Living in Spain can hardly be called the real deal if you have not participated in at least one night of tapas crawling. After all, what could be better than the odd evening of itinerant gluttony, richly accompanied by good conversation and (just a few) glasses of wine? With that in mind, we have decided to investigate the tapas circuit in Salamanca, visiting numerous tapas bars to discover every secret speciality, the culinary forte each proudly has to offer. It’s taxing, this marathon tapas fest around the city, but somebody has to do it, and we’re only too happy to nominate ourselves for the challenge. Here’s the opening instalment of our self-invented tapas journey.

To begin- Calle Van Dyck. Once the popular street for tapas in Salamanca, frequented by locals and tourists alike, now it seems that the quality has sadly travelled elsewhere. Many of the recommended tapas bars didn’t merit another visit- cafeteria types with little atmosphere and even less choice on the menu. However, if you do head here, La Goleta should definitely be your first stop. A cosy yet classy tapas bar, I would recommend its generous tosta menu- particularly with morcilla (black pudding chorizo), and with gambas (prawns lighly tossed in garlic and olive oil). You couldn’t possibly go wrong when each tosta is served with a free glass of their crisp house white. The service, too, is warm and welcoming- and we were even given a few tostas on-the-house (most probably because we showed an embarrassing enthusiasm for the menu...I highly recommend giving it a go). Still hungry, our next discovery was La Degustación- another gem amongst Calle Van Dyck’s abundant tapas bars. With old wine barrels serving as tables, this place was delightful, and the tapas was good too. Given the bar’s name, it was no surprise that the menu offered a huge range of pinchos to taste- and at 1.50 per dish, it exhausted our willpower not to sample everything. Lastly, you should make Van Dyck itself your final stop of the night- a bar dedicated to Mexican dishes such as enchiladas, tacos and quesadillas- and serving potent cocktails to boot.

Next up: Plaza Mayor, the heart of the city with plenty of tapas bars on its doorstep. Overlooking the Plaza itself, there are two impressive tapas bars, both owned by the same family, which we would visit again. El Reloj has its charm, with its antique wooden door and majestic chandelier, buzzing with customers of all ages (on Calle Van Dyck, they bizarrely often seem to be old men). Come here and order the huevo revuelto- a simple gastronomic delight. Its sister bar, Plaza 23, is just a mere few steps away- perfect to maximise on eating time. Just trust me and ask for their tosta with morcilla, chèvre and caramelised onion: two mouthfuls of heaven. We’d go back just for that one dish. Upstairs is a chic restaurant that boasts a beautiful view of Plaza Mayor, especially at night- perfect for a special dinner (although vegetarians should perhaps steer clear: the menu is essentially just meat). Both the tapas and the restaurant are more expensive than the average Salamancan restaurant, but it's definitely worth it for both the location and the quality.

Venturing beyond Plaza Mayor, another day we decided to brave a few discreetly-located tapas bars. We’d heard good things about La Galatea, an undiscerning bar that I otherwise would probably have walked straight past. At lunchtime, it was completely empty- but luckily we ignored this warning sign, as the delicious jamón iberico and manchego cheese were both sliced to perfection. However, the exotic tapas menu somewhat betrayed the bar’s authenticity. Kangaroo with rose petals and ostrich in a poppy and grape sauce (yes, I thought my Spanish had failed me too) may be aimed at those with a more daring taste, but they hardly count as true Spanish tapas. Just opposite on Calle Doctrinos, we hit upon Doctrinos, a wonderful tapas bar that I would highly recommend. Although poorly located, the owner here really knows his stuff. With legs of jamon iberico suspended from the ceiling, numerous red wines on display and regulars enjoying quiet conversations at the bar, Doctrinos had a lovely ambience- and the tapas was perhaps the best we had tried. Ridiculously cheap, too- at merely 80 cents per tosta, you can forgive us for going a little bit overboard when we ordered. Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly manage another bite, a tosta with beautifully sliced lomo arrived. And I managed two bites. Clearly, this tapas circuit should always be complemented by frequent exercise (and I don’t just mean walking between each bar).

One way of judging the popularity of Spanish tapas bars is by scanning the floor- more discarded napkins under the bar (as tapas etiquette begs) endorses the bar’s reputation. Of all the tapas bars I’ve mentioned here, Doctrinos was the most dirty, and therefore (illogically) the one I would most highly recommend. For now, a well-deserved break before we continue eating our way around Salamanca. After all, there’s a reason why Spain is also known for the siesta... 

Shedding the Skin I Live In

In the cinema, we always hope to be creatively engaged in some way- to be pushed beyond the limits of our imagination, to see things afresh and, most of all, to be entertained. Of course, the measure of a good film is entirely subjective- even my criteria for cinema’s purpose itself is wide open to interpretation. Yet ever since first seeing Tacones Lejanos and Hable con Ella, I have been fixated by Spanish director Pedro Almodóvar’s ability to open our eyes- to expose the madness behind love, the anxiety of identity, the silence behind loneliness. Masterpieces in Spanish cinema, these films are startlingly human, revealing a director with a keenly tender eye. His latest outing, La Piel Que Habito (The Skin I Live In), marks a return to this human lyricism, only this time disguised as a haunting story of revenge- a horror film without the gore, blood or the screams yet no less disturbing. Loosely based on Thierry Jonquet’s Kafkaesque novel Tarantula, the film tells the story of manic Doctor Ledgard’s obsession with revenge. Creating a synthetic second skin for Vera, a mysterious woman imprisoned on his estate, he redefines her identity- one that holds her captive against her will. As the film shifts between present and past, Ledgard’s motives are eerily revealed- let’s just say Ledgard is not necessarily the story’s only villain, and Vera is not all who she seems. She holds the key to his obsession, and even though the plot twist was all too obvious (even to us, watching the film in its original rapid Spanish without subtitles) this did not prevent it from packing a real psychological punch. The house is a prison, one that incarcerated not only Vera but the audience as well, locking us into a thrilling world of unnerving macabre. Almodóvar beautifully treats Vera’s patient struggle to reclaim her identity- whilst his leads Antonio Banderas and Elena Anaya impress as the possessed surgeon and his enigmatic human guinea pig. Be prepared: I found the first half an hour was torturous viewing (as usual, Almodóvar really goes in for the brutal, weird sex scenes...) After this, however, it is impossible to tear your eyes away, even when you want to. It may not be for the fainthearted, nor for those just looking for a gratuitous Hollywood blockbuster, but this film is definitely worth a watch. A visual feast, stamped with all the trademark Almodóvar fixations of murder, betrayal and sexual anxiety, my verdict is don’t miss it.

http://www.lapielquehabito.com/

The Allure of the Alcázar

The charm of Seville, Andalusia’s sunny capital, lies in its exquisite Moorish architecture- cobbled streets lined with graceful ogee arches, ceramic murals, and vivid, vivid colour. It’s the first thing that hits you as you arrive into the city, besides the tangy aroma of ripened oranges and the intense heat (yes, even in October- I am seriously considering emigrating). To truly appreciate this exquisite mudéjar architecture, you must visit the Alcázar, an extravagant royal palace that crowns the heart of the city. Sprawled alongside the magnificent cathedral, this is an endlessly unfolding treasure trove of opulent patios and courtyards within courtyards that transport you back in time. Originally a Moorish fortress built in the 10^th century, the present-day Alcázar boasts Gothic, Baroque and Renaissance ingredients added over the centuries by various royal decrees. Huge would be an understatement- it is unbelievably vast, a labyrinthine network of different cultural influences, almost a city in itself. We definitely did not leave ourselves enough time to cover the whole palace- an entire day could easily be passed just wandering the stunning pavilions and sumptuous, sunken gardens. This is a palace in a truly legendary sense- no surprises, then, that it doubled as the King of Jerusalem's court in the Ridley Scott film Kingdom of Heaven. Don’t let the long queues put you off- Seville may be famous for its fiery flamenco, but a trip to the city really is incomplete without stepping through the palace’s main Lion’s Gate into Spain’s rich Moorish past.

http://www.patronato-alcazarsevilla.es/

Seville's Secret

Somewhere lost within the charming maze of Santa Cruz in the Andalusian city of Seville is La Carboneria, the only place in this beautiful city to enjoy flamenco for free. Sultry and enthralling, this emotional dance undoubtedly captures the native heart and soul of this region of Spain- an absolute must-see for any visitor. At first, this little flamenco bar seemed typically local: old men quietly playing chequers, heavy cigar smoke suspended in the air. Yet the dynamic world of flamenco beckoned through an interior wooden door, an animated atmosphere of pure flamenco passion. Sure, when we turned up the bar was rammed with tourists (try not to go on a Saturday night), but even this could not spoil the spectacle. Instead, just one dancer, one singer, and one guitarist effortlessly mesmerized the room. Proudly expressive, the dancer elegantly conjured flamenco magic- incredible to watch with her colourful dress and strict percussive movements. Not to be outdone, the accompanying vocalist’s metrical palmas (handclaps) rhythmically placed a spell on the audience- his afillá, or singing voice, pure honey for the ear with its distinctive earthy quality. Alongside the bright, sharp tones of the flamenco guitar, this was an enchantingly understated performance. The bar, as stifling hot as the fire of the flamenco dance itself, could perhaps have benefitted from some air conditioning, but with reasonably-priced drinks (a pitcher of sangria cost only 9 euros), and an atmosphere humming with anticipation, this was easily forgotten. Be warned, however: La Carboneria is so discreet its entrance doesn’t even bear a name, and in the labyrinth of Santa Cruz, it is very likely you will get lost trying to find Calle Levíes. When this happens, keep searching. This is Spain as Hemingway knew it: a passionate, unspoiled heartland doggedly clinging to the rich traditions of its past. Informal yet captivating, La Carboneria’s flamenco is Seville’s little secret. 

http://www.levies18.com/

The simple pleasure of chocolate

Chocolate honestly cannot get any better than here at Chocolateria Valor, a cosy little cafe off Salamanca’s Rua Mayor. As you walk in the door, the warm aroma of freshly made chocolate wraps itself around you so hard it practically gives you a welcoming hug. From that moment on, there’s really no turning back- I am no avid chocolate lover, but even I was instantly seduced (the giant chocolate pictures plastered across the walls certainly didn’t help). We came here with one goal in mind: chocolate con churros (a lucky decision- taking a peek at the delicious menu would probably have been disastrous for both purse and waistline). Churros- sort of like an unfurled Spanish doughnut- are traditionally eaten for breakfast dipped in hot chocolate (or sometimes sprinkled with sugar, another recommended option). Valor’s reputation for churros precedes it- and it certainly did not disappoint. The chocolate was beautifully rich, so velvety we didn’t so much dip our churros but rather completely immersed them. I would have plunged my head in there if the cup hadn’t been so damn small. Master chocolatiers since 1881, this is one company that has gracefully perfected the art of making chocolate- perfect as Valor has cafes in most Spanish cities, spreading the chocolate love. Two churros and a cup of pure chocolate later, we were feeling extremely guilty. Yet just when we thought we couldn’t possibly eat anymore, they had cleverly placed the chocolate shop by the entrance- making it almost impossible to leave without perusing the delicately crafted chocolate selection. It’s a stroke of genius really, given that those who walk in here are unlikely to possess so much as an inch of willpower. This is not a cafe for those watching their waistline- the tempting menu offers chocolate delicacies from the widely-popular brownie and a ridiculous variation on chocolate icecream, to Yumbé specialities for those finer connoisseurs (chocolate maya and chocolate Aztec drinks crafted from truly exquisite cocoa looked the most appealing). Visit Valor and just surrender- there’s a reason why chocolate’s scientific name, Theobroma cacao, means food of the gods.  

http://www.chocolateriasvalor.es/

Chez Victor

Tucked away in the long shadow of the majestic San Esteban convent in Salamanca sits the unassuming restaurant Victor Gutiérrez, Michelin-starred and arguably home to the best food in the city. Named after the chef Víctor Manuel Gutiérrez Vallès, each dish is a gastronomic masterpiece- a distinct fusion of Peruvian hints exquisitely enriched by Spanish, Chinese and Japanese textures. We sampled the tasting menu, a decision that really should be made only by those with a very confident appetite, particularly given the constant stream of delicious freshly-baked bread rolls (raisin, onion or plain white) served alongside fine Incan spices in olive oil. Three bread rolls later, and I was in serious danger of being full before the proper tasting had even got under way. First on the menu, a finely-carved roast beef that was elegantly offset by a piquant Peruvian flavour. Next, squid ink risotto with wafer-thin tuna slices so hot they actually moved, somewhat unnerving but easily overcome by just feigning ignorance and digging in. The delicate fillet of cod that then followed was so flawlessly cooked it was like some kind of Peruvian fiesta for the mouth. Finally, the pièce-de-resistance: the best roast cuchinello I've ever tasted with a perfectly crispy skin, a real speciality in this region of Spain. By the time it came for dessert, we could barely breathe, let alone move (I made the mistake of wearing a tightly-belted dress, definitely won’t be making that rookie error again) – but with not one, but two dessert dishes, this was one tasting menu that still had more tricks up its sleeve. Thankfully, the rich chocolate brownie was ingeniously placed on a bed of mango sauce so felt less heavy than it looked (what a relief after the banquet we'd just consumed...); whilst the crisply-cut apple wedges artistically embedded in melon ice cream served to neatly cleanse the palate. We accompanied the meal with a Cambrico red wine, a speciality in this Castilla y Leon region with its complex aroma of raspberries, blackberries and liquorice that neatly counterbalanced the menu’s rich flavours. With a mere ten sittings at any one time, this was a quietly intimate dining experience- the room's blank walls and just three impeccable waitresses adding to the restaurant's refreshingly unpretentious atmosphere. At €80 a head for the tasting menu, this is perhaps a restaurant to visit for a special occasion- but I promise it's an outstanding culinary experience that is worth every last cent.

http://restaurantevictorgutierrez.com/

Absolut Salamanca

Welcome to La Chupiteria. At one euro a shot, this is the indisputable starting point for a great night out in Salamanca, the defining place where salamantinos and students alike gather first- shot glasses lined up along the bar ready to unlock the evening’s potential. Don’t arrive here expecting a chic glass of wine or a traditional pint- instead, La Chupiteria exclusively serves chupitos- and lots and lots of them. The menu (if you can call it that, in truth it’s more a roll call that spells disaster) does not disappoint. From tequila and whisky to rum and absinthe, just name it and there’ll be some potent cocktail that is guaranteed to burn your throat and/or delete your memory. Sure, the floors are revoltingly sticky so perhaps wear some stubborn shoes (mine fought a losing battle with the dancefloor) and the iconic neon signs are painfully tacky, yet this is the absolute hub of Salamancan nightlife- the proper life and soul of the fiesta. La Chupiteria may be tiny, but the bartenders are a laugh, the trashy music is so Eurotastic that it would be useless to fight it, and the party atmosphere is always loud and infectious. Begin the night here, and you’re certain to enjoy a good time in Salamanca. Some tried-and-tested advice: if you really want your night to end with a blank, order the Diablo Verde. Turns out it’s not named after the devil for nothing. 

Ready to Fiesta

So, here I am in Salamanca. Completely off-the-beaten-track, this city may be small and cobbled, but what it lacks in proportion it most definitely makes up for in pure, plucky spirit. Before I arrived in the city (for the next few months, I will recklessly put my embarrassingly rusty Spanish skills to the test at language school), I knew Salamanca only as the birthplace of castellaño, the “purest” spoken Spanish, and as the home to the Western world’s third oldest university. Interesting facts perhaps, but hardly gems that have tourists reaching for their passports. Yet Salamanca does not disappoint. By a complete stroke of luck, I have arrived during what Salamantinos call Las Ferias y Fiestas- a selection of cultural events, concerts and fascinating spectacles that celebrate the city’s patron saint Santa María de la Vega between the 7^th and 15^th of September. By night, the main square in the city’s absolute heart, La Plaza Mayor, lights up as various acts take to a vast stage and play long into the evening. Last night, the (apparently) internationally-renowned DJ Carlos Jean played to a packed square that seemed to descend into a bit of an outdoor rave, with locals, students and tourist alike all dancing with abandon. Admittedly, this Carlos Jean didn’t seem to do very much- if interspersing a few chart hits by the likes of Rihanna with some remixed classics such as Blur’s Song 2 counts as DJ-ing, then anyone can be a Fat Boy Slim- yet the crowd definitely appreciated it, going wild until the square pulsated with an infectious energy. Throw in a couple of huge dancing lego robots (genuinely), a few cañas and some vibrant lasers, and Salamanca had a proper fiesta. Every street has a tiny something to offer, from stalls selling Spanish tapas called pinchos (at about €1.80 for a pincho and two drinks, you’re laughing) to La Corrida del Toros at the city’s edge, a traditional spectacle that I have yet to brave. This fascinating little city may still be fairly new to me, but already I can see why it is a popular university in Spain- the fiestas just don’t stop, and even during the afternoon various concerts resound within the packed Plaza Mayor. So, if you are ever interested in visiting this esoteric city, then September is undoubtedly the time to come- just be prepared to fight your way through throbbing streets.

http://www.ciudaddecultura.org/fiestas2011/

Riding out the storm

As the serpentine Lord Voldemort, Ralph Fiennes proved he can brandish a wand with malicious intent. Now, as he steps into the shoes of one of the literary grandfathers of nuanced magic, Shakespeare’s Prospero, it’s clear that Fiennes can summon up even greater powers. Headlining Trevor Nunn’s strictly-limited run of The Tempest, he quietly commands the stage- delivering Prospero’s rich monologues with a brilliantly subtle conviction. It’s not an overstated performance, as the character of Prospero tends to be with all its emphasis on magic and vengeance, and I think it works well within Nunn’s somewhat anachronistic approach to the play’s staging. This is a production that relies less on a hi-tech bag of tricks to create illusion than on aerial pulleys upon which acrobatic cast members pivot and fly above the stage- an unusual throwback to an Elizabethan system of wires and winches that is refreshing in our technological age. Yet although Nunn’s play is grounded in tradition, I felt the opening tempest itself was disappointingly unconvincing- as if the sound effect box was at its lowest volume. Given that this is the eponymous tempest, it was not nearly dramatic enough and, in my opinion, a hugely imbalanced spectacle. Quieter moments could have benefitted from a few better-timed violent thunderclaps, whilst the ones that did boom and crash served only to drown out some of the script’s key lines. The projection of moving waves, with the actors acrobatically spinning in tandem behind, seemed a bit flat- imaginative circus acts may be entertaining, but they do not whip up a credible storm. Later, the visionary dogs that hound Stephano, Trinculo and Caliban seemed almost laughable as cast members pounced onstage on all fours-another instance when a bit of CGI wouldn’t have gone amiss. The age-old problem with Shakespeare is how difficult it is to be inventive- and I felt that Nunn lacked fresh inspiration. Technology aside, though, Nunn returns to the kernel of reconciliation and amnesty at the play’s heart- in its own way, this is what is truly refreshing about the production. Prospero is, above all, the father to Miranda- and much is made of this raw human relationship, a thoroughly modern take on what is essentially a wronged single parent preparing to relinquish his only child to a restorative marriage. The other cast members brilliantly help to weave this very human element. Nicholas Lyndhurst, aka Rodney from Only Fools and Horses, gets second billing as the hapless court jester Trinculo. Although odd that this role should be made so prominent, given that he has so few lines, Lyndhurst’s comic timing is spot on, especially when paired with the inebriated Stephano. Tom Byam Shaw does a sprightly, if somewhat camp, turn as the spirit Ariel (I couldn't help being reminded strongly of Zoolander). A little controversially, but perhaps not surprisingly, Nunn has exploited the play’s central colonialist theme too, casting the play’s only black actor Giles Terera as the enslaved Caliban. It’s a brave move but one that works- Terera performs the role of the bitterly tormented monster with moving pathos and, although he is supposedly “misshapen”, his six-pack looked just fine from where I was sitting. For all this great acting, though, when Prospero finally delivers the well-known epilogue, it’s welcome relief from a play that does tend to drag its feet. Fiennes powerfully begs our indulgence and, as he slowly exits the bare stage through a simple wooden door, it’s clear that this is the calm after the storm. The chance to see the magnificent Fiennes onstage is rare- so if you can get tickets for this extremely limited season, then do. Sadly, though, this production doesn’t quite conjure up modern magic, even with Voldemort in its midst. 

http://www.trh.co.uk/

Digital Dining

As a self-confessed foodie, the concept behind Inamo, the futuristic restaurant on Regent Street, seemed too good to resist. Here was an interactive dinner invitation- instead of crisply tailored waiters, the table and menu  are electronic- with an image of each dish projected onto your clean white plate from above. At the click of a button, your order is placed. Minutes later, a waiter materialises from nowhere to serve your food before quietly retreating. No fuss, no embarrassing arm waves to grab the waiter’s attention- just pure restaurant magic. Sure, the whole dining experience is reduced to being somewhat impersonal, and our silent waiter didn’t really merit a large tip, but who really cares when you can play battleships at the table? It was like eating on a giant iPad- fun, a winning novelty. We set the ambience (during the course of the meal, our ‘tablecloth’ went through numerous changes as we played around, from psychedelic swirls of purple and green to more serene images of lakes and snow-covered forests) and, when conversation lagged, there was sneaky “chef cam”- a voyeuristic peek at the kitchen. Handy if you want to check the hygiene standards, not so great when you happen to catch two chefs mid-argument. Digital dining aside, the food itself is actually quite good. I was worried it would turn out to be like Yo Sushi, novelty service yet mediocre food. Instead, the food is a fusion of Pan-Asian flavours, with dishes that include hot stone rib eye steak, black cod and miso-grilled seabass. It isn’t quite Nobu but is delicious nonetheless (although watch out for the insanely spicy Thai beef salad which definitely knocked out my tastebuds). Given that the portions were tiny, the menu is perhaps a little overpriced (something the food does share in common with Nobu after all). The bill aside, however, Inamo is definitely worth a visit purely for its kitsch eating experience. The clever table can even order you a taxi. Just be careful when you excitedly play with all the buttons as we accidentally ended up with a few extra dishes... 

http://www.inamo-restaurant.com/pc/ 

I bet that you look good on the dancefloor

Walking into the dimly-lit dance studio, the thought vaguely crossed my mind that I should have had that (very) large glass of wine. Here I was, in London’s east end, at the relatively early hour of 7.30pm, about to dance like nobody was watching- all in the name of a new fitness craze that has so far consumed New York, Chicago, Toronto and Vancouver: Dance Dance Party Party. The rules? No boys, no booze, no judgement, no talking, legwarmers optional (why optional? Legwarmers are great). Now, I should confess that I am not averse to a little bit of jumping around- friends will testify that I even once strained my calf muscle dancing to Party Rock Anthem (a song so current, that I’m wondering why I just so freely admitted this). Normally, however, I am in the presence of friends (namely everyone’s good friend wine) before I throw all inhibitions out the window. So, apprehension was the order of the day as a dance studio packed full of sweaty strangers swam into sight- made all the worse as my friend and I were forced to change in the complete dark. Worrying that your clothes are on back-to-front is not a recommended start. As soon as the music started playing, though, the endorphins started flowing. A bizarre twist on clubbing, here women of all ages swap high heels and short hemlines for trainers and workout gear. The tracks are a glorious throwback to the Eighties, and it is hard not to feel elated when all around you complete strangers are freestyle dancing like crazy to the likes of Joan Jett, some (tragically) with their eyes closed. Boys, DDPP's single-sex rule makes a lot of sense- this is definitely every man's worst nightmare. For those ladies who are more shy, the darkness definitely helps, but I promise this is one exercise class that is a genuine laugh, especially if you drag a friend. I might even go again.... A word of warning, though: best to close your eyes when the lights come on at the end, as the scene is likely to be offensively sweaty.

http://dancedancepartyparty.com/home.html  

Horse Power

Translating a novel told through the eyes of a horse is surely no mean feat. Yet War Horse, the National Theatre’s adaptation of Michael Morpurgo’s First World War tale, exceeds this task by a furlong. These equine puppets are stage triumphs- their skeletal frameworks, complex hinges and lucid skin effortlessly conjuring up the very image of a horse. Visceral and graceful, not a single detail goes unobserved- from trot to canter, grazing and ploughing, these puppets (each manoeuvred by three actors) are breathtakingly real. Even the actors’s neighs and harrumphs are so startlingly accurate that, at times, I foolishly had to remind myself the horse had no heartbeat. This is a play that relies heavily on its staging- sparse but visually artful, Morpurgo’s rapidly shifting story is lyrically accommodated by a page ripped from an artist’s sketchbook that becomes a fragmented 25 metre wide projection above the stage. It is a wonderfully innovative design, altering from moving sketches of a galloping horse to jagged visions of a battlefield torn by shrapnel. Admiring the genius staging often becomes the only relief from a story that is, in parts, a bit sluggish- made worse by the relentless use of that cornerstone of Middle England, the accordion. Whilst such folk songs may capture the jingoistic spirit of an English countryside coming together during war, there is only so much of the accordion one can humanly bear- and I, for one, definitely felt its effect was more grating than it was charming. And don't even get me started on the chronically dodgy German accents, who knew the enemy came from the East end. Inconsistent human acting aside, at least the show is saved by the puppets. These are the real stars, speaking the language of the Great War- its immense waste and futility. Overall, then, War Horse is a powerful production that beautifully dramatises the simple emotional bond that can exist between man and beast. Look out, too, for the puppet goose – in my opinion, pure comedy gold that crowns this theatrical victory. 

When Dexter met Emma

Boy meets girl. Just in the nick of time, they spend one day (and night) together before graduation parts them onto different trajectories- he rocketing into fame and fortune in television as her dreams of writing plummet into an oblivion of greasy quesadillas and congealed chips. Yet on this one summer day, for the next twenty years, their paths will somehow intersect. They’re hardly star-crossed lovers: Dexter is a handsome toff, Emma’s definitely more geek than chic. He can be infuriatingly self-centred, she has an annoying tendency to hide behind self-deprecating humour and bad glasses (at times, it’s hard to believe she’s as beautiful as Dexter sees her). But I think it’s this imperfect mismatch that makes them so true to life- and this book, One Day by David Nicholls, so difficult to put down. Compiled like a photo album, the book is a series of annual snapshots that chart Dexter and Emma’s halting relationship from ambitious youth through to resigned middle age. At times, this device seems a bit like a cop out- the perfect alibi for a patchy plot-and often moments that should be some sort of milestone are suddenly forgotten as the years plough on. For all this frustration, though, Nicholls writes in an unaffected style that is shrewdly observed and very endearing, with just the right amount of cringe. I guarantee that you will laugh. If you are the pathetic type that cried at The Notebook, then you’ll probably shed some tears. Funny, familiar, and just completely addictive- believe the hype, because this really is the perfect holiday read.

Britain’s Hour

What do The Hour and Mad Men have in common?

No, not some terrible joke, but the question that has repeatedly overshadowed critical commentary on BBC Two’s newsroom drama The Hour. Putting the obvious difference aside-  heady New York advertising world versus post-war BBC television programme- it seems to me the only thing the two shows share in common is an almost pathological attention-to-detail. Like its American “counterpart”, The Hour is ostentatiously stylish. Cinched waists, slim lapels, fedora hats: it actually basks in its own image, smugly aware that even if the script is a bit flat, at least it looks polished, shrewdly slick. Even the HB pencils have been specifically manufactured for the show, exact replicas of the BBC standard-issue pencils of the era. Talk about obsessive. What The Hour does with pencils, Mad Men does with ice cubes (yes, ice cubes), each individual cube lovingly hand-cut one square inch smaller than their chunkier modern-day counterparts. It’s exhausting even to contemplate.

Although I disagree with this rife Mad Men comparison, I think it proves that British drama can still compete with bigger-budget US shows such as The Wire and The Sopranos. Given that the BBC works on a relatively tiny scale, it does well. Yes, The Hour’s pilot episode was a little bit patchy, and at times the script seems flat and unconvincing, but the series is only 6 episodes long. Hardly time to slowly develop complex characters or to build up multiple storylines. British drama cannot indulge in such luxuries like American television. Four episodes in and thankfully the murder plot, political intrigue and clichéd love triangle of The Hour have come together into something that actually resembles plot development, even if the whole thing seems to be hurtling towards the finale at an alarming speed (last week, the Shady Villain sat calmly at a Formica canteen table one moment, the next threw himself suddenly, violently, and perplexingly down a stairwell. Even the actor himself looked a bit confused). The acting is brilliant, too- Romola Garai tackling the role of plucky, principled Bel Rowley with ease; Dominic West, suave and almost fawning, here a far cry from his tough cop act in The Wire; and the ever-brilliant Ben Whishaw playing the maniacal, tenacious journalist with bravado. Even Julian Rhind-Tutt, the infallible Mac from Green Wing, does a small but very good turn as the Prime Minister’s sleazy press secretary. The slogan “Original British Drama” that looms large on the screen before each episode has some merit. Its nationalist pride is intentional, and I believe justified. It may not be quite as splendid as American drama, but The Hour is entertaining and gripping- proof that British drama still has what it takes.

Broken Train

Most people in this digital age love photography. They think they’re alright at it, just because with a little help from Photoshop, their amateur photos seem that tiny bit more professional, artily exaggerated in a way they hope looks like pure talent (suffice to say, it often doesn’t). But the real art behind photography lies in the thought behind the image, its message. Five Eleven Ninety Nine, a London-based collective of photographers, have done just this- returning to the root of photography by dissecting what it is trying to say. Currently indulging in a picture game named Broken Train, every day, a member will post an image that reacts to the one that has come before. In the past two weeks, the wagons of this wonderfully bizarre (albeit pretentious) photo train have been a weird assortment, ranging far and wide from expressionist drawings and Tom Jones to today’s disturbingly voyeuristic photo of Osama Bin Laden’s death bed. I’m a bit confused as to quite how that link has been made, too - but the sheer eclectic feel of this photo blog is what makes it so intriguing- and one to watch. Check it out for yourself at http://fiveelevenninetynine.com/broken-train/. 

My kingdom for a horse

Together Sam Mendes and Kevin Spacey are an artistic tour de force. This is not an observation, it is just plain fact. When they first worked together, the result was American Beauty- a film that won them each an Oscar for best director and actor and has gone down as an understated cinematic classic. Now, reunited for a modern-day retelling of Shakespeare’s Richard III, the pair are taking the West End stage by storm. Spacey’s performance in the title role is completely electrifying. From the moment he utters the play’s iconic opening lines, “Now is the winter of our discontent”, he tightly spins the audience into a brilliant Machiavellian web of deceit, greed and corruption. Alternating between cruel seduction, camp sarcasm and violent sadomasochism, Spacey’s usurping king is almost caricature, a despotic Gaddafi-in-the-making. Sure, he maybe shouts a bit too much and a bit too loudly (is his script written in capitals?), but I’m sure the real-life Richard did much the same. After all, he has just nicked the crown from his brother- who can blame him for such mercurial mood swings. The set visually plays with the mind, too. Multiple doors, receding perspectives, and ominously blank chambers create a nightmarish backdrop against which Spacey’s deformed villain grotesquely lurches- leg in braces and paper crown perched pathetically on his head. This is theatre at its very best, a gripping time warp that skilfully works video link, overhead projections and pinstriped suits into Shakespeare’s timeless tale of retribution. Yes, at over three hours long, Mendes’s play does feel noticeably long (when the curtain fell for the interval, I thought it was time to go home) but if you can get your hands on some elusive tickets, then I promise it is worth every bottom-numbing minute.  

www.oldvictheatre.com 

Game of Polo, dahling?

Summer made a joyful comeback at the recent Cartier International Polo. Everywhere we looked, ladies sizzled in bright summer dresses whilst the gentlemen kept their cool in open-necked shirts and vibrant chinos. Yes, half the crowd wouldn’t have looked amiss in a Jack Wills promo, whilst the other half curiously seemed to have arrived straight from The Only Way is Essex, but it did make for some 

quality people-watching. Where else can you spot the novelist Jilly Cooper speeding past on a golf buggy, only to then rub shoulders with Spencer from Made in Chelsea (if possible, even slimier in the flesh than on TV). When I wasn’t spying on the crowd, the polo itself was alright viewing too, I suppose. England was a class act, triumphing over the Brazilian team 8-6 to win the Coronation Cup (cue an obligatory royal cameo from the Duke of Edinburgh, poor show from Kate and Will). Afterwards, Chinawhite provided the party, and although the bar may have been overpriced (seriously, a tenner for a small glass of wine?) Swedish House Mafia ensured the dancing went on well into the night.  

I like what you’re wearing

Working near Oxford circus is bad for my bank balance at the best of times, but with the new store opening of Forever 21, my willpower is being tested to its very limits. The American brand took its own sweet time to reach our shores, but now that it is finally here it seems set to redefine fast fashion. The flagship store on Oxford Street opened just two weeks ago, with plans in the pipeline for another hundred stores that will undoubtedly rival our own homegrown chains. My verdict? Let the battle commence. Fashion forward, but wonderfully affordable, this is a veritable dream for those of us with next to no money. Where else can you buy leopard print trousers for under £15? If that’s not enough, then at the very least you will be spoiled for choice.

The shop is offensively large- the ground floor alone a mind-boggling array of bright colours, ridiculously bold prints and accessories, and that was all before I even discovered the equally busy basement, and then the top floor. So girls, think Topshop trend but at Primark prices, and go now.   

A night at Ronnie's

Lail Arad, the up-and-coming singer-songwriter, played an intimate set at Ronnie Scott’s jazz club last week. It’s easy to see why this girl has already collaborated with the likes of Devendra Banhart– her wonderfully-penned lyrics are fun yet feisty and she uses her voice with relish. She knows how to wrap an audience around her cute little finger, an unconventional chanteuse with a playful London vibe. Try and catch her at The Roundhouse on August 20^th where her father, the renowned Israeli architect Ron Arad pictured with Lail, will be showcasing his interactive Curtain Call exhibition. Billed as Ten Minutes with Lail Arad, it’s definitely not one to be missed.

http://www.roundhouse.org.uk/