Even for somebody well-acquainted with the nature of international travel, there’s something remarkable about the fact that a plane can be boarded in the grim satellite that is Stansted Airport, flown for a mere eighty minutes, and disembarked somewhere that feels worlds away.
Tuscany is a part of the world I felt I was familiar with. I’ve walked the cobbled streets of Siena. I’ve jostled through the overbearing crowds of Florence, craning my neck to take in the wonders of Brunelleschi and his kin while keeping half an eye on…
On the left bank of Paris, with the Eiffel Tower glittering beyond the window, Margaux is a restaurant that knows exactly what it’s good at. Chef Paul-Alexandre Laumont’s terroir-rooted French classics earned Margaux its title of Meilleur Cordon Bleu de Paris 2026 – and the food would be worth sitting down to anywhere. The iconic view is simply the gift on top.
The connoisseurs of all things Bourbon-related may undertake their pilgrimages to the dust-strewn distilleries of Kentucky and Tennessee, keen to uncover the heritage and delights of Pappy’s and their kin. Those seeking the (supposed) origins of the whiskies of the British Isles will congregate around Bushmills in County Antrim.
We got escorted off the premises of Cinnamon Kitchen the other day. The lady and I were frogmarched to the roadside by the scruffs of our necks and admonished for doing the unimaginable, the abominable, the detestable: smoking. It was like being back at school. There we were, two grown adults, merrily imbibing the night, suddenly cut down by these health fascists. I understand not smoking next to the front door, but in an empty seating area? C’mon, guys, don’t cack on free choice. Other restaurants would be thankful to have a drippingly cool couple who think they’re Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall smoking outside. This is Shoreditch, after all….