Chef Ramsey has a successful TV show, a consulting business to turn around failing restaurants and a reputation as a hard charging, brash, outspoken and even perhaps ojectionable presence in the world of “great” restaurants. Based on our experience this evening, all of it, except the adjective “objectionable”, is deserved. We’re here in the UK on a “group” tour – not always the best way to visit any restaurant, let alone one with a reputation. For a good restaurant, coping with more than 8 is a significant challenge. Most haven’t the resources to assign a second server to the table, and asking a waiter to handle a table twice as large as usual with no additional resources puts a strain on everyone. (Think about the last dinner party you hosted – you probably swore you’d never do it again. Now think about the additional pressure you would have felt if your business reputation, future ability to attract clients, and earn a living was at stake.) The tour booked two tables, one for 5, and the tough one, one for 10. We sat with the larger group and everything worked out very well indeed.

This may, or may not, have been a typical “high end” tour group meal, but for anyone planning an evening out with, or without, another couple it offers a baseline experience. Our reservation was promptly and cheerfully honored. The table for ten was not stuck off in serving Siberia, some members of our party had a clear view of the open kitchen. Not only were we presented with the regular menu, our waitress recited the specials, once at each end of the table. Wine was included in our “deal” – and the white and red proffered flowed freely. The red, of which I partook, was a wonderful Bilal-Haut (probably, though I can’t be absolutely certain, a 2012) from southern France. It had significant body, smooth tannins and a taste of ripe plums on the finish. It was a thoughtful and appropriate pairing for any of the grilled red meats on the menu. I cannot speak to the choice of white wine, though I did notice smiles when it was sipped by others n the group – so I assume it was of similar quality.

I started with the Salt and Szechuan Squid. Lightly battered, perfectly cooked, the salt and szechuan pepper dusting was sharp and quite literally, mouthwatering. Milady enjoyed the chopped salad of kale, carrot and orange with a lemon dressing. It was festooned with slivered almonds and left her palate ready for her main course. Being in England, she ordered Dover sole grilled with lemon caper butter enhanced with mashed anchovies. Her perfectly filleted piece arrived attractively arranged, and with the spinach on the side. Her reaction was pure enjoyment – and despite her tredipations about London and English cuisine, she enjoyed every bite.

Tonight’s special was exactly what I craved. A magnificent hunk of chateaubriand (offered in any size from 11oz to 17oz, cut to order) charcoal grilled (they noted their grill is a Jaspar) to perfection (however you might conceive of it), and two sides. I feasted on a 12oz, medium rare hunk of beef with individual onion rings and sauteed portobello mushrooms. Here’s what separates really good wait staffs from great ones, and great ones from the immortals: my filet arrived on a plank with a head of perfectly roasted garlic but the mushrooms, and the bleu cheese sauce, were absent. That can easily happen when a waiter is juggling so many dishes at once, but it really shouldn’t. A request for the missing mushrooms was honored almost instantaneously (leading me to believe there just wasn’t enough room initially for them on the tray and they got overlooked) but the sauce never arrived…

Milady ordered the strawberry cheesecake and was disappointed. It was bedded on crumbled shortbread biscuits (cookies on our side of the Atlantic) and was creamier rather than cheesier. The result was a sweeter and less flavorful presentation than her tastebuds were expecting. I ordered the dark chocolate and honeycomb mousse. Mine was everything I had hoped it would be – dark chocolate flavor raised from its natural bitterness by pieces of sweet honeycomb. Sigh. The cappucino which ended the meal could not have been more perfect. Frothy, balanced and HOT!
I will freely admit the prepaid nature of the meal may have added to my sense of contentment, but as I sit here sipping my Jura 16 single malt as a digestif, I’d prefer to think it was all the result of great food being served by a knowledgable and caring staff. Or, maybe it really was Gordon Ramsey’s doing after all. Bravo!

Our first day in London actually began the day before (or was it the day after? Time zones confuse my inner chronometer when too many are crossed too in a single voyage). We strolled from the hotel to a little place, chosen at random along our route, for a pre-theatre dinner. The Parisienne style bistro was called Pierre Victoire and was reasonably priced, offered palatable food, and a waitstaff of surpassing competence. A pleasant surprise when one considers its name might be translated as “Stone(d) Victory”. Regrettably, the theatre performance of “Miss Saigon” we attended was less successful. Burdened with a dated, clichéed storyline the actors responded with the same lack of enthusiasm most Americans had for the Vietnam War as it wound down. They did their duty, but no heroic actions were forthcoming and the outcome was inevitable.

In the morning we awoke to a serious overcast and continuing URI symptoms. A hot shower, a good breakfast and tickets for a matinée at The Globe (to say nothing of the last doses of a z-pack and pseudoephedrine) provided the necessary loin-girdings,and we set off to conquer the Underground. London’s Underground is one of those things that every city might do well to consider. It’s clean, well-lit, signs are abundant and informational, and the escalators work. You can buy a day pass from a human clerk who will cheerfully provide directions to your intended destination and say “Thank you” at the conclusion of the transaction. (I will admit that Paris comes very close, but the “Merci” is sometimes strained, or more often, elided.) It is also remarkably quiet and fast, whisking us to our destination in less time than allotted (though not as fast as the TARDES).

Our intended stop was Southwark, the Underground station closest to the Tate Modern. Clear signs showed the correct “Way Out” to choose, and once at street level, a series of bright orange lampposts delineated the path. The Tate Modern is the epitome of what a museum should be to establish and maintain art as a vital part of a community. It started life as a powerplant, so the physical space is enormous. There are six huge floors for collections which can be displayed in spaces large enough for the most monumental of works, and smaller spaces carved from the larger ones to promote greater intimacy. Along that contemplative thought line, the works are physically accessible – one is asked specifically not to touch them, but one would have no trouble making contact if that was one’s intent. (The British are exponentially ahead of everyone else in understanding that one cannot prevent bad guys and madmen from damaging or destroying cultural icons, but that the bad guys win anyway if, to “protect” these things, we lock them away from everyone.) There are areas explicitly and thoughtfully designed for younger people (read 14 years old and under) which include magnificent computer drawing stations (thank you Michael Bloomberg), three dimensional sculptural blocks and active play areas. Finally, the museum (as are all British museums) is FREE! A donation is suggested, but there are no cashiers watching the plexiglass boxes adorning the lobby, and the amount requested is modest. (The humans recently took their four year old grandson to the American Museum of Natural History in New York and the “suggested” admission for 4 adults and one pre-schooler exceeded $100 – enough to discourage short, casual, just for fun visits. Perhaps our lower scores on global tests is related to a lack of shared values – and in turn a lack of shared values reflects a lack of sharing of our common treasures.)

Lunch was on the sixth floor at the Tate Modern – looking out at the Thames crossed by the Millenium Bridge and St.Paul’s on the other side. The food was nice – not worthy of a special visit, but certainly well above what passes for dining at most museums. I’ll try to review it separately, but don’t hold your breath. Briefly, excellent scallops as a starter, perfectly seared and nicely plated. Perfectly good bavette, prepared medium rare as requested and “chips” that were fresh, crisp, and essentially flavorless. A nice glass of reasonably priced red wine rounded out the repast. Adequately sized portions, friendly service and spectacular views. In keeping with my current FAA instructions to reduce my take-off weight to under 13 stones, dessert has been jettisoned as a regularly scheduled mid-day meal item.

Following lunch, a brief walk along the Embankment brought us to The Globe Theatre. A modern interpretation (health and safety codes weren’t nearly as stringently enforced in Shakespeare’s day as they are today) of the original, it lacks a complete roof, has stalls with benches, and pit for the groundlings. We were entertained by Dr. Scroggy’s War – an early 21st century look at an early 20th century event, treating casualties of World War I trench warfare. The cast was enthusiastic, the writing occasionally compelling, and the entire experience completely worthwhile.

Returning to The Langham was somewhat more challenging than anticipated. The human male’s internal navigation system apparently needed rebooting, or had succumbed to a nasty virus. Five minutes walk in entirely the wrong direction was followed by seven minutes on a less incorrect heading, followed by the hailing of a London taxi. Marvelous invention that it is, the London hack carried us across the Thames only to come to a dead stop somewhere in the vicinity of Oxford Circus. After 5£ of waiting time, the cabbie offered to perform a U turn on a major London thoroughfare as somewhere beyond the next traffic signal, the authorities had closed the road until further notice. We abandoned the cab and used Shank’s Mare for the remaining 9 furlongs.

We returned to our room at The Langham, a spacious abode with views to both the north and east from the sixth floor windows. Immediately east is the All Soul’s Church which has a magnificent Romanesque steeple. Just beyond it is the BBC World Headquarters which, for some reason I cannot begin to fathom, has what looks like a giant empty pilsner glass on the roof. Beyond that is the BT Tower with a neat purple band and the letters “BT” in white up at the top. I’ll try to get a picture of them so you can see what I mean – but the Freudian implications for the true underlying motivations in British culture are inescapable. I have more to tell, but the hour is late and I am weary. To borrow an appropriate phrase from the ultimate observer of Dr. Johnson and Britain, Boswell, “…and so to bed.”