[Pink Pig Time Machine: July 6, 2010]
A long trip to the U.K. by my standards, ten years ago. Usually two to three days on business, then back, but this time I had a friend's wedding in my sites, and it required a side trip from London, so eight days on the road.
Or in the air at first, overnight, still trying to catch up with John Ashbery by reading my way through his backlog of poetry before yet another new volume was issued. Houseboat Days on this trip, and I even had some Derrida to keep me company.
From airport to office directly, so the first part of the trip must have involved business (my diary troubles itself with no mundane details). A pint or two in the King's Head at the end of Gerrard Street to finish the day, then straight to bed.
I got away from meetings the next day early enough to see an unusually creative piece of curating at the National Gallery. Contemporary artists had been invited to respond to works in the permanent collection, and their newly created pieces were displayed alongside their inspirations. Paula Rego, that devastating painter of modern urban squalor, responded to Hogarth. Howard Hodgkin produced a large abstract meditation on Seurat's "Bathers at Asnières." Perhaps most fascinating, if not quite pretty, Frank Auerbach had furiously scribbled a series of jagged drawings based on paintings by Constable. A memorable show.
Eat? Yes, I did at last, quite simply: steak au poivre in a Highgate branch of Café Rouge, the modest French bistro chain. Back to culture the next day with a tremendous promenade production of Sondheim's Sweeney Todd at the Bridewell Theater. This was a fantastic space in a disused swimming pool in a truly ancient part of the city of London, near Lud Hill. The audience was deployed as a participating crowd of extras, expertly moved about the floor as the action shifted. The performers used the space's balconies and staircases too; a completely engaging night of theater.
I managed a late dinner afterwards at Axis Restaurant on Aldwych. A hot potato terrine, of all things, made interesting with black truffles, then squab with apple, almonds and - quite unpleasantly - licorice. Baked apple with cinnamon ice cream to finish.
Dinner choice the vollowing evening was The Beak Street Restaurant. This was in a spot formerly occupied by Atelier, a quite fantastic and ambitious endeavor by a young Manoir Aux Quat' Saisons-trained chef to bring cutting edge cooking to a relatively casual room; something quite normal today but unusual at the end of the '80s. Atelier had been succeeded by Leith's, and now by Beak Street, which was not as good as its predecessors. A smoked haddock tart (I recently ate this dish at Le Caprice in New York), then a pig's foot stuffed with blood sausage and foie gras. The dessert, rhubarb with custard, was served cold - perhaps they intended a rhubarb fool. Digestifs at the Berwick Street Blue Posts, one of several restaurants of that name in Soho (the blue posts having originally been a kind of bus stop for sedan chairs).
Next day, to the countryside. A trip which would be nothing in the States, but which counts as a journey in England: King's Cross to King's Lynn by rail. King's Lynn is a part-quaint market town in Norfolk, and a friend was marrying there as his bride's family were rooted in the area. I traveled the day before the wedding (I have had some bad experiences trying to get to the church on time using British public transport). I settled in at one of those English hotels which is really just a very large old coaching tavern with bedrooms, the Duke's Head on the main market square. Then a wander around the un-quaint part of town, a series of faceless pubs filled with one-arm bandits and young men in vests with tattoos.
I had come armed with one restaurant recommendation, Rococo, a snug little place (still operating under the name Maggie's). Service was chummy, the kitchen did its best with some good local ingredients. A little cup of chilled beet cappucino was the overture. One thing you must eat in Norfolk is the crab from the waters off Cromer. Best treated simply, here it was baked in phyllo pastry and adorned with a bisque sauce. Braised duck next with a raspberry vinegar reduction, then cheeses. I found a 1996 Aloxe-Corton 1er Cru on the wine list.
Saturday was wedding day. It started badly because proper coffee seemed not to have made it this far into the countryside. I walked along the River Ouse in light drizzle, then did my best with the Town Museum. The wedding took place a taxi ride out of town, in a village which - to my astonishment and dismay - had no pub. There aren't many of those in England. I had to wait until after the service for what was a generous and unending flow of champagne. Cheers to Kim and Alison.
The following morning was one of those difficult ones. Sunday in a corner of old England, with the main train route back to London spontaneously closed, and only the aid of a champagne hangover to cope with the situation. All I could do was throw money at it, hiring a cab to take me on some improbably cross country trip to a place called Littleport where trains, reputedly, could still be found. I made it to Heathrow without much time to spare, and watched American Psycho on the flight home.
Independence Day 2000 coming up next (yes, I am a little behind).
