Radio Silence.

Blog blog blog. No I haven't fallen off the bandwagon. We were merely forced into radio silence for three days while we were in London. We didn't find free internet anywhere and we weren't about to pay for it. One pound for a measly 20 minutes? I think not.

We somehow made an uber-blunder with our travel plans which resulted in us "losing" a day in London. Neither of us is sure what happened, but it resulted in a hotel room paid for and not used for a night. Money down the drain (expensive London money!).

We arrived on Monday morning, after not having slept in 30-ish hours and were confronted with the knowledge we had a long held booking at St John that evening. Knowing that we looked as deathly tired as we felt, the thought of frocking-up (Mick wore slacks and a shirt FYI) was not very attractive. We were in more of a sleep for a week kind of mood.

We slept, only for three hours though, energy-drinked ourselves and got psyched up enough to call a cab. The bright lights and bustle of London's streets perked us up, so by the time the cab had creeped it's way through a busy peak hour we were excited and eager for a big night out.

The interior was minimalist, with stark white walls, high industrial ceilings and dark wood furniture. Clean and crisp, befitting of the ex- London Marxist Headquarters (1960s).

For entrée we ate fresh whole crab with house made mayo and broccoli with anchovy. These simple sounding dishes are typical of the restaurant's style. Fresh local (ish) produce prepared with minimal intervention, in what I would call a pared down traditional English style. The combination of the al dente broccoli with a fine anchovy sauce was astonishingly good. With this we drank a glass of house Blanc de Blanc. I'm not sure of it's provenance, but it seemed a bargain for a cleanskin Champagne.

For our main course we enjoyed roast beef and mallard. The latter served with confit duck leg and mixed braised veg. The beef was mouth-wateringly tender and served with creamed spinach (with horseradish (we think)). We enjoyed yet another bio dynamic bottle with dinner, Trinch!; a cab franc from the Loire Valley. Lighter in style than what we are used to, it still maintained enough punch to pair well with the flavorsome roast meats. The name Trinch! is apparently a play on the sound the French hear when they clink their glasses together in a toast. To me and Google it sounds more like a misspelling of trench.

Now I held back on the main meal descriptions, purely because the desserts were mind-boggling. We had Eccles cake with Lancashire cheese and treacle tart with Jersey cream. Now I'm no Eccles cake expert but one taste of this and I don't need to be. All the Eccles cakes in the world should aspire to be like this. Flaky buttery pastry erupting with slightly caramelised currants. This was served with what looked liked an unachievably large wedge of Lancashire cheese. It was like when Harry met Sally or when Bart met Milhouse. George and Jerry even. The combination worked so well. Lancashire for those who don't know it (I didn't) is a cows milk cheese that is zingy with lemony flavour, crumbly and fresh.

The treacle tart was equally delicious. Short and crumbly pastry housed a frangipane-esque filling rich with treacly goodness. The "cream" it was served was just short of being butter, Richie Rich would have been jealous of it's richness. *drool*

The restaurants menu changed twice while we were there. As produce was used up and new ingredients were hurried across the dining room. Seasonality, freshness and quality the star.

We left London on Wednesday afternoon via the Eurostar. It was astonishingly fast. Getting us to Gare de Nord in just over two hours.

So now we are in Paris (a city after my heart) eating ham and cheese baguette while a ferocious speed queen does our dirty laundry.

More on the city of love in tomorrow's entry. We have much to discuss.

Chaleureusement,

Annie