Lunch @theritzlondon
Although it was well outside my means, I had the excuse of my friend’s birthday.
A place that lets you dive into a state of extreme luxury, even if just for lunch.
I put on my best suit, we are all important, sometimes we forget that; this building helps you remember. A value that held posterity pulsing through me, as my eyes reflected a flawless, opulent design nodding to the Palace of Versailles.
Thick carpets cushioning my feet, piano notes as if in tune to my footsteps, and welcoming smiles from staff. High ceilings chiming the echoes of every sound into atmospheric charm.
Excited and nervous as I reached the restaurant. The dining room loomed over me in all its stature. As the waiter checked my reservation, he informed me that I needed a tie to dine there.
Slightly embarrassing as I walked through the hall feeling as though I was being inaugurated, to then being denied entry for lack of proper dress code. It was humbling.
Luckily, the kind waiter presented a box with some beautiful ties. I chose my favourite one and put it on with as much grace as I could manage.
I sat down and felt out of place in a good way, unrighteous blood with royal aspirations. Most people in the room looked as though they belonged there; we were the group of broke chefs not dressed properly with a love of food and unhealthy hedonism.
Our anxieties were jumping at shadows, as the staff and dining room held us in its warm embrace and marvel. Everything felt right, spacious grandeur guarded by elegant chandeliers and colour connoting confidence in pleasure; champagne, gold, and pastel.
The food was perfectly paired with the elegance of the place. Deliciously faultless. My friend looked the happiest I’d ever seen him; It was worth it for that alone.
Reason with your royalty at the Ritz. Sometimes we deserve it.
My first time at the ballet.
I had the cheapest seat, with a priceless experience. I went to the Royal Ballet and Opera in London to see Giselle.
Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus by Ludwig Wittgenstein is one of my favourite philosophy books. In this, he states that "The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.”
I found an antidote to this in ballet. Each gesture transcended language as we know it, sentences in the form of movement. Unexplainable emotions are understood by choreography. Novels in a nuanced knowledge of the body, expressed by ballet and orchestra. The body is used as a vessel for incomprehensible emotions that language limits. Answers and a recalibration to an unsolicited mind.
At first, I didn’t get it; it felt primal, a story told through dance and music; no words—as I immersed, I started to understand; it was more advanced than language, it resonated with something I hadn’t been aware of. New-found composure in my own struggles found in a 2-hour ballet performance; £60 a ticket, that’s cheap therapy. Solace in the language of the body, speaking to me about love and loss in ways I’ve never been spoken to before.
This is why going to a club and dancing is so invigorating; it lets us express that which language cannot. But I am not a trained dancer, so when I dance, it’s as though I am trying to write in infancy, before I can even speak properly. These trained ballet dancers are fluent in the verse of the body; we are in many ways confined by our spoken language, which limits our reality, but ballet doesn’t. I urge you, when language can’t adhere to your emotions, go to the ballet; it will help.
Thank you to everyone involved in the performance.
It was truly phenomenal. @royalballetandopera
'Girl in Bed’ (1952) @nationalportraitgallery
Lucian Freud’s portraits are heavy with the divine psychological moments he witnessed within the person he is painting; each stroke is a representation of their psyche.
I walk into the exhibition and can feel the pull of my favourite piece, 'Girl in Bed’ (1952), a portrait of his second wife, Caroline Blackwood. Their relationship was fraught from the start, naturally ending after a short marriage.
This was painted a year before their wedding as they eloped to Paris. A magnifying glass through the keyhole of the room where they stayed.
Testament to love is not enough. It’s as though he subconsciously painted the inevitable end of their relationship. Her face drenched with a distant demeanour and bewitching features. Personable and personal. Regal but raw.
A pure heavenly palette, her eyes hold each second of joy and pain they’ve shared as his brush tells her beauty through their memories.
She pierces the facade of anyone who looks her way as she holds the truth in her look, that shared moments are not enough, the learnt truths in her eyes are relationships filled with complication. Tense with reciprocal awe.
Painted in the heart of a whirlwind romance. Freud didn’t just paint what he saw; he painted what he and his subject felt, whether consciously or not; his paintings never lied.
They led a luminous light into the shared consciousness of him and his subjects; this light, for him and Caroline, was so bright it carried on into his palette. The more light you shine on a relationship, the more of the reality you see.
To me, this painting had purpose, an attempt at architectural stability to the relationship he knew was built on complicated foundations.
Contrary to its design, it shines into the cracks of the relationship with its delicate, precise, and precious nature. A brutal truth to the pertinence of the fear of loss, a lullaby to a woman he loved, that he knew would eventually leave him.
We all tell ourselves lies to ease the pains of reality— Freud helps us with the struggles of the truths we don’t want to accept. He tells us we’re not alone.
Lunch @40maltbystreet
All I want to do is cook, write about food, and eat. Upon finishing each meal, I am already planning my next. I truly love it.
Regardless, like everyone, I have my bad days. The food I cook starts to taste the same. I struggle to get out of bed for work. I need something to refresh my reasoning.
To spark the flame of the hobs I struggle to light, I head to 40 Maltby Street. You will forever be my voice of reason. You calibrate my cooking and remind me of why I do what I do.
I am greeted by a friendly face. We share memories of dishes. I sit outside, facing the restaurant. It is sunny with a slight breeze. A menu that clings to the last light of summer while embracing the cool winds of autumn. I love this time of year in restaurants, especially here.
The non negotiable baguette and butter arrives first.
Raw smoked trout, horseradish, and pickled purslane. Subtle smoke, acidity aligning, horseradish heat that hits the nose just right.
I just love a potato salad, and this one made me love it even more. They pay so much attention to texture here. Potatoes soft boiled and crispy, with bursts of freshness from the green peppers and herbs. Aioli bringing its very welcome garlicky personality.
Sweetcorn quiche. I never order quiche. But any savory tart here is exceptional. So simple, yet the hardest dishes to finesse are always the simple ones. Making a humble quiche and salad taste as if it is care in its truest form. Home.
Lamb broth, coco beans, courgettes, and basil. This dish softens the blows of the winter winds while still catching the spells of sun. Warming yet fresh. Delicious.
Blackberry and apple jelly with a brandy snap. Jelly is not something I seek out. Here, I like to order things I usually would not. They make me see why people love them. Everything here is the best version of itself. That is why it is inspiring.
Plum and ginger Eve’s pudding with Jersey cream. So comforting, so seriously good. Hot, with a slight spice of ginger. You can taste the after dinner nap in each mouthful. As always, I leave elated and inspired.
Thank you, 40 Maltby Street.
When I Leave Lunch. JMW Turner @tate
I read recently about the Bourdain plague. Bourdain gave us chefs license. License to write. He gave all chefs with a GCSE in English hope of being the next Hemingway with a knife roll. For better. For worse. You tell me.
I am a chef who loves art. Not literate in the field, but I take what I can. Turner teaches me this: experiment endlessly. That is the closest we come to truth. So I’ll keep writing.
Link to full article in my bio.
Lunch @cafe_deco_bloomsbury
I woke up in a limbo. The moment before rain falls. An emotional state. Lounging, lusting for lunch. The phone rings, harsh against the grain of wood on my floorboards.
Teifi. A friend. One of my closest. As if tuned into my anxiety-ridden morning. He asks where I’ll be writing about next. A scary synchronicity.
With no means to eat, I have no means to write. But if I had means, Cafe Deco would be next. My bank pings. He says, Go. Write. My lunch liaison. My Victorian benefactor with Monzo.
I am greeted warmly. Allured in by effortless kindness. I walk through the pulse of plates and cutlery, sit at my favourite seat, the end of the bar, by the wall and window. My confessional.
People walk in, one by one. Pilgrims. Disciples of dishes. Followers of flavour. They know this is a special place. My place. I come here for birthdays. I come here when happy, or sad. I come here on a Tuesday for no reason at all.
The restaurant is quiet. Cathedral-like. The silence holy. I sip the air. A calming elixir.
Salt and pepper on each table. Not condiment. Creed. Each tongue is different. A kitchen without ego. Refreshing. Mine left untouched, but I like that they are there. An anxiety blanket for seasoning. Comfort in the corner.
Uncompromisingly amazing produce. Working closely with the best suppliers available. Cafe Deco is known for this. When you taste the food, you can tell.
I start with the classic. Egg, mayonnaise, anchovy. The holy trinity. Fat. Salt. And god, that’s good. Small victories in simplicity. A perfectly boiled egg. A gently seasoned mayonnaise. A boldly salty anchovy. Each element singing its own idiosyncratic note. Beauty. Harmony in simplicity.
Rillette, rillette, rillette. Practically a legal obligation. If you see them on the menu and don’t order, I question your judgment entirely.
Before my eyes saw the menu, the chefs saw my thoughts. Subconscious cravings on a plate. Slightly spicy peppers stuffed with brandade. Coco beans and basil alongside. They know what I want before I do…
Full Article in Bio.
When I Leave Lunch.
I leave lunch at Bouchon Racine with a craving. Not for food or drink, but for art. A craving from the soul rather than the body. Something I can’t name but recognise when it’s in front of me, finer, more elusive.
Galleries grant me this, a feeling of being alone but not lonely. I breathe easier in the silence that doesn’t demand anything. Time floats, and I with it. I think better and see more sharply; the air itself is clearer, and my mind and thoughts are drowned in the clarity.
My parents are both artists. Art was the background noise of my childhood. As a child, I remember looking at their faces in galleries; they saw something more. Something I couldn’t. Like a language I was yet to learn. Now I know it. I never understood how it held them; I just knew they needed it. I now need it to. There’s a true difference between needing and craving. One keeps you alive. The other makes life beautiful.
Instinctively, I headed to the White Cube. Returning to the Anselm Kiefer exhibition for the fifth time. His work embodies a secret the world forgot to tell. Kiefer’s landscapes don’t just sit on the wall; they carry the wounds of history that are yet to heal. Echoes of the past, lives lived and lost. Time, war, and memory. Intertwined in texture, space, and ash. The landscapes feel familiar, although I know they are not.
There is something so very noble in his work. Tragic and brilliant. A monument of endurance to something that survived, even if it shouldn’t have. He paints history like we see our own, marked by pain but with a dignity that doesn’t break. We see our greatness flicker through our sorrows, not in spite of it but because of it. His work doesn’t comfort; it confronts. But somehow I feel more myself in front of it.
I stood still, watched, let it speak. The ache in my chest softened. The craving turned into recognition. I left. The world was the same. I was not. I changed in a way that doesn’t show, but stays. Like a song you can’t forget.
Lunch @bouchonracine
I am deep into my overdraft. Still, I crave a meal alone in a place I know I’ll love. I went to Bouchon Racine. I’d been meaning to for a while. This craving is not one of hunger; it’s about something else, something more: a need to sit alone, eat something good, and be still.
The quiet orchestra of the room invited me in. I sat down and let it settle. Voices threaded through the air, filled with animation, interest, and shared passion. A melodic hum echoed through the room, as if everyone had agreed with each other without saying so. No music, just the sound of people eating well. Linen-dressed tables and delicately written menus on chalkboards. Someone had taken time over it. That’s always a good sign.
I started with the suckling pig. It came with conviction: fatty, herby, and sharp with mustard. Thin shallot slices beside the meat. It was a proper beginning.
Then came the Filet au Poivre. Its quiet confidence lay in the uninterrupted pink throughout. A correctly coarse peppercorn crust that speaks without shouting. The sauce wasn’t just poured but measured, as though the balance wasn’t only culinary but moral. It’s a dish the French know well. Here, they knew it too.
In this precise moment, I am not a person with problems. I am a person being looked after. The clatter of the outside world disappears. This is something a good restaurant can do.
I have been sober for four months. Now I crave dessert instead of drink. Without apology, I ordered two for myself. The staff laugh kindly, as if they know the truth. That dessert, too, can be a kind of therapy.
A bright but deep gooseberry and almond tart: acid and sweet in balance. A little sharpness when you need it—like a truth that lands softly.
Crème caramel, once a mystery, now a revelation. It danced over to me in the waiter’s hands, silently swaying with assertion. Once it arrived on the table and its dancing was done, it stood strongly still, confidently content. Creamy, rich caramel. A viscous Armagnac-aged prune. Vitally visceral. Vibrantly delicious.
To the team at Bouchon Racine, thank you. I came alone and left better than I was.
Full Article in Bio.
