A couple of months ago, Thomas Keller ruined my life. If only I could have predicted the full impact of that late March evening spent at his flagship restaurant, The French Laundry, in Yountville, California, I may have had the sense to turn and run at that very first sublime mouthful of pearl tapioca with Kumamoto oysters and white sturgeon caviar. But I didn’t. And now, I can no longer eat out. Read more here
With a spate of exciting new openings and old favourites being rejuvenated, Midtown Manhattan is back as the place to stay in New York.
“April is the cruelest month… mixing memory and desire,” wrote TS Eliot in The Wasteland. Pulling up outside the Chatwal Hotel in New York City last weekend, I finally grasped what he meant.
Walking into the lobby, you’re instantly transported back in time: film noir meets a Tamara de Lempicka painting world of Thirties Gotham. Everything smells like something to either eat or smother yourself in, thanks to wafts of the hotel’s signature scent, The Chatwal No.44 by Krigler, a French perfumer whose scents have been worn by everyone from JFK to F Scott Fitzgerald. Read more over at GQ here
Last night I had a Joan Rivers red carpet moment at the Sky Media Centre in Bristol. Everyone else was diving into the post debate spin room scrum, grabbing whichever party representatives emerged from the ashes (Theresa May, David Milliband, George Osbourne, Harriet Harman et al) and grilling them on the latest polls and their leaders’ performances. In contrast, Josh Bell (of Dawn Capital fame – my favourite venture capitalist, resplendent in Jsen Wintle’s eponymous label) and I clocked a hot man in a suit. I strode over, put on my best Joan Rivers squawk and hollered: “David, who are you wearing?” The seasoned political hacks looked baffled. Miliband and his adviser started laughing. He seemed relieved that someone was asking him a question with an easy answer and happily flashed open his suit jacket: Ozwald Boateng.