The name game.

So when, precisely did Sea Bass become Branzino? When exactly did the culinary curators decide that the two words, that to me (someone who has actually fished the Cornish Coast) decide the Sea Bass was an inadequate title?

Cut to my dinner just the other night at Cafe Cluny with Rachael. The snow was drizzling on the city, making New York look like the city it’s supposed to be (you know, films and pictures and all that jazz) the Village Mugger hadn’t attacked my dining guest, and my seat at the bar – as always – was stolen by a gaggle of gays… when, I ask you, did Sea Bass become Branzino? Because that’s what it said on the menu. And when I asked, I was told ‘it’s sea bass’. Hardly like revealing a certain jus was made from unicorn tears.

It’s much like living in Hell’s Kitchen. Somehow, some moron thought calling it Clinton (you know, dynasty in Whitehouse, much press on possible curruption, Hillary in democratic denial) would make the area ‘up and coming’.

It came up on it’s on. Much as the branzino did from Cafe Cluny.

Stasis, ebaying the chairs on the Titanic

It’s at times like these when you suddenly realise that so many things are unimportant – or at least appear to be. I’m working on the next stage of me and as I sit here waiting for the right next move or idea or action to fall into my brain I suddenly realise that almost everything else becomes rather folly.

 

It’s easy to forget that once you’ve hit your ambitions you’re left wondering where to go – or what the next ambition is. And it is even easier to allow it to turn your world an insipid shade of grey. So you have to work hard to occupy yourself, prime and rest for the next move.

 

I suppose what I’m saying is, as Aron would bluntly say, I’m waiting for my next ‘Fall-Up’. The next thing to happen. I have my ducks neatly lined up. I know I’m good at what I do, and now I have the added benefit of being able to think just about me – I don’t have to be in New York – I don’t have to be in ‘PR’. In fact, having had a great Thanksgiving and meeting a former air stewardess I almost signed up to be  cabin crew.

 

It’s probably the change you experience when you realise that, of course, work is a critical part of who you are (whether you like it or not) and of course you can’t just give up and go live with Mum (although…) but the subtle shift that happens when you slowly realise you may have focussed to much on the work and not enough on the life. Let’s be clear, this doesn’t mean Sanch is slacking off – quite the opposite, it’s about realigning priorities to make sure the next stage works well and better than the previous.

 

So therefore, rearranging glassware on the coffee table seems rather pointless. So I’ve stopped.

The world needs more of this.

 

I don’t get out much. Which is remarkable given my so called scintillating career. It’s just not me. Since Rachael taught me to enter “liquor, liquor” as first and last name for the nearest wine store, the advent of Seamless Web and filtered water on tap, I just think in is the new out (kind of like belly buttons where in will never go out of fashion).

So to be invited to a dinner party of 10 people at Cindy Gallop’s simply stunning living space was both exciting and terrifying.

Naturally having spent the day on the couch with stomach cramps (LONG story) I pulled it together at 6 and started the prep. The one thing the late and great Peter Estall taught me (he’s the man responsible for the very best light entertainment at the BBC in the 80’s and beyond – and a mentor to me) was to never cancel on a woman, and least of all on a meal. So  having reassured Cindy that come hell or heart-attack I’d be there, I dipped into yet another bath and prepped.

Look, let’s face it, I’m shit on my own. I can’t choose a THING to wear, I need back-up. I nearly called Ratchat, Ben, Mom even Tim Gunn, but I couldn’t be seen to fail; so I literally spent 40 minutes trying on a variety of pants, shirts, ties and even Henley style shorts (what WAS I thinking) and finally ended up looking just the wrong side of interesting.

Maybe like a graduate entertainment lawyer. Although someone did as me if I was a writer at dinner (NOT the look, but impressive none the less).

The journey was quite something. Straight to the local liquor store to buy the biggest bottle of Grey Goose (made with real geese) and into a taxi, via a pot hole in the road the depth of Wookey Hole. My pants (that’s trousers) were soaked, well just on the one leg. What can you do? You do British, and ignore it.

To Cindy’s to the loo to freshen up and work out how to dry my leg and then to the seating area.

I’m not going to go on about her place – Google it or go to www.cindygallop.com – anyway it was designed by Bacchus and the god of Soft-Porn. It’s a total entertainment, living and loving space. She is also, truly, the ultimate Martini maker – delivered in some almost witch-craft looking flask to crisp Gucci glasses. The conversation is warm enough to dry my leg and soon we take to dinner.

William, as ever (well it’s the second time I’ve seen it but I’m assured he does this far too often) has mostly catered, and as we sup from a wine called ‘Bitch’ the stories unfold over a memorable Cottage/Shepherds pie (I always confuse the two).

What made tonight captivating to me was there was none of that ‘where do you work, what do you do  and long chats about the vagueries of marketing. Instead we talked about people, fun, love and past-times and the whole thing was totally cathartic.

Long may it reign – and I hope I’ve done enough to make some new friends as every single one around the table was nothing other than impressive, passionate and captivating.

A world without Cheese.

So just back from dinner with B and B at the Odeon. Apart from Ben’s 30 minute rendition (play by play) of the roller-derby, the meal was spanking good. In fact, the tuna was cooked to perfection – just as I had requested – and I had requested ‘however you think it should be done’ as I’m not used to asking how my fish should be cooked. Ask me if my goose is cooked and I’ll tell you, but fish? That’s just not cricket.

 

So, we eat, we chat we ‘do’ grappa and then we dessert. Well at least B and B do. Upon asking for a cheese plate by a waiter we presume was called Todd (no reason, he just looked like a Todd) we were told ‘we don’t do cheese plates, it’s just not on the menu’.

 

Holy moly. So they can offer 3 types of cheese on a cheeseburger but not 3, or even British Airways style, 2 types of cheese and a bloody water biscuit? 

 

It’s not like I’m asking for unicorn tears; I’m asking for what is proper and normal. And yet the Odeon can’t bring me this passed your eyes delight. So passed my eyes it’s clearly in the next sodding restaurant.

 

Shame on you Odeon, with you lovely meal and your fabulous grappa  - is a little cheese too much to ask?

Is there anything left to buy?

So Marie and Julian are here. That’s Ben’s Sister and her husband. And they’re a big part of my family. It’s Julian’s first visit to New York and I have to say his wit is really refreshing; as is his addiction to shirt buying. In effect we are both shirt-lifters – albeit in different areas… as it were.

Marie looks amazing – she really has lost a lot of weight (not that it was at all necessary)  and she radiates in her brand spanking new Uniqlo adjusted-for-free jeans. Ben, meanwhile adjusted the fragrance shelf once more with more Tom Ford. It smells good on him, you’d think given that he’s told me countless times he’d drop me in a heatbeat for Mr. Ford I’d be against it – but I’m not.

And me? Well I’ve got into pants. That’s American for trousers.

With having lost nearly 24 pounds in the past 3 months (don’t ask me how – I just ate less) I was overjoyed to find trousers in The Gap of all places, that fitted and looked quite nice… Clearly my recent adult life has been based in the small cul-de-sac’d town of ‘Low-Self Esteem’, twinned with ‘does my head look big in this?’… so to enjoy being in a changing room was quite some moment.

So we’ve actually been ’shopping’ for 7 hours. 7 hours. Can you Adam and Eve it? And you know what? It was FUN. A lot of fun. That’s me saying I enjoyed shopping. As Shaun would say ‘well shit in your hat and punch it’.

Anyhoo. We’re back home now. I’m sipping beer and and we’re preparing for a last-night dinner at BoBo – in the West Village, it’s tres tres

More later.

Another year… another oyster.

So, cast your mind back to May 8th. That’s the night before the ‘Epic Trip’ began. But I’m not sure we’ve talked much about it. It was the beard’s birthday and for his birthday I had booked an epicurean feast for those who are passionate about LSOS (Little Shells Of Snot) – or Oysters as they are more commonly known.

Batia joined us for a SUMPTUOUS dinner at the Grand Central Oyster Bar, deep in the bowels of the station and a New York Classic. Ben’s face lit up as we approached (not just because of the self-tanning) and he looked as excited to be there as I did to be there with him.

Shortly after Batia arrived, looking PRECISELY like your best dream of Chanel – in delicate layers, precise quilting and hair as sleek as it was raven. Stunning frankly.

Nearly as stunning as the nigh on 30 oysters that Ben pretty much consumed on his own with a face of such abject delight that I could cast aside any thoughts for his poor insides.

An experience is often worth more than a gift, and this experience with some very special people was both a wonderful birthday present for him – and a great parting memory before my big old tour.

Sublime.

Always on my mind.

This is the question that has been on my mind for the past 3 days. So much so that I reminded myself of it by noting it in my moleskine.

During our trip to the Catskills we went on a hike. A hike that was meant to be 1.5 miles to the top of the Fire Tower on Red Hill. Well it turned out to be a full 5 hours.

It was a wonderful hike (and this is a sentence I NEVER thought I’d draft) taking in amazing views of the mountains, a hell of a lot of trees and some amazing landscapes. And indeed, given that we were totally inadequately prepared for the hike paid testament to our never giving up, even when the going got tough.

And by tough I mean near vertical climbs up sheets of ice without a crampon/tampon whatever you call it. Walking through a soup of leaf mulch not unlike the pit of ever-shrinking filth that Luke, Leia and crew fall into in Star Wars.

And it’s on that note that this tale is being told. After the hike I had a word on my mind. Not just floating about but steadfastly sellotaped to the front of my skull. The word wouldn’t leave me, and kept jumping in front of all other thoughts. Now, as a point of clarity and before the ‘big-reveal’ it’s worth saying that I’ve NEVER been a sci-fi anorak, never really liked Star Trek post-puberty and couldn’t give a lightsabre about the Star Wars films after my balls dropped.

So this word was Dagobah. And it was only when I got into the car and hit the City on our long drive back that I Google’d it on the iPhone.

It’s the land where yoda comes from. Looking back at the walk, the scenery as I now recall was remarkably like Dagobah (see correct spelling now) – the home of Yoda.

So this word must have pulled itself forward from the deep recesses of my mind, triggered by the visual richness of the Catskills.

Or I’m a geek.