Zetter Townhouse - review

Out of the thirteen house cocktails on the menu at Zetter Townhouse, there’s not one I wouldn’t want to douse my taste buds in. Hooray to 69 Colebrooke Row, the masters of mixology they collaborated with on the selection, for leaving off deathly boring classics, such as Sex on the Beach and Cosmopolitan; the Flintlock, containing gunpowder tea tincture (no, I’ve no idea either) and Nettle Gimlet are far more up my cobbled street. After trying just under half of them, I’d urge you to start with the Rhubarb Kir Royal, follow with the Les Fleurs Du Mal, and finish with the warm, sleep-inducing Harvard.

                      

The unique cocktail selection is only part of the pull for rocking up here. Zetter Townhouse, the brainchild of Mark Sainsbury and Michael Benyan, the duo behind the Zetter Hotel across the way, is a breath of fresh air for Clerkenwell, and London in general. It won’t be to everyone’s tastes but I, for one, fell in love with the place, which the owners accurately describe as The Zetter’s eccentric aunt from 200 or so years before.

With a vast taxidermy collection encompassing a stuffed kangaroo and Victorian dressed pussycat; an eclectic mix of oil paintings, sketches, sepia photographs, rustic rugs, stone pillars; and a dotting of glass-topped tables, through which collections of oddities reside – from tobacco and screw tins to maps and magnifying glasses – when I first step foot into the Townhouse, I feel like I’ve stumbled into Professor Henry Jones’s study (circa Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade). I almost expect to be directed through the folding doors of the private dining room for a starter of monkey brains (yes, I know that’s actually Temple of Doom; play along won’t you?); quite the contrast to Zetter Townhouse’s unassuming Georgian façade.

Read more: http://www.arbuturian.com/2011/zetter-townhouse

Royal Champagne - review

What did Napoleon and the Queen Mother have in common? Quite a bit it seems. They were both rarely photographed sans suitably eye-catching headgear. They both had an affinity for something beginning with ‘C’, Cologne and Corgis respectively; and they both stayed at the Royal Champagne in France. Google will no doubt throw up a few more factoids, but it’s the last one that interests me the most, for it’s one I too can tick off my list.


                     

The hotel, by far the nicest one within spyglass viewing distance, has not unsurprisingly undergone a spot of modernisation here and there since they visited; ma’am stopped by in 1983. Under the ownership of the Polito family (yes they are Italians doing French, but don’t let that be a deterrent) and their Baglioni Hotels group since 2002, and part of the Relais & Chateaux umbrella of luxury properties since 1975, plus a brief stint with LVMH somewhere in between, it has been in the hands of companies known for doing things rather well. As a result it projects a well balanced display of contemporary grandeur whilst staying true to local tradition.

Sat just off the official Champagne Route, a 40 minute drive south of Reims, on a hill overlooking Hautvillers and Epernay, its well manicured garden ending where the Premier Cru vineyards of Dom Perignon and Moet & Chandon meet, the location alone is enough to justify its four stars. Photographs just don’t do it justice, you need to stand on one of the terraces, take in the clean air, expansive views and blissful quiet to truly appreciate its charm, preferably accompanied by blue skies and Bollinger.

Read More: http://www.arbuturian.com/2011/royal-champagne

Paradise - review

How far would you travel to reach Paradise? I travelled all the way from EC1 to the depths of west London for a taste of it. Two tubes: one Central, one Bakerloo; a bit of walking and a five-minute drive.

              
The Paradise I was in search of on this occasion was the venue in Kensal Green, rather than mankind’s dream destination, though judging by the ridiculous number of people lugging a suitcase behind them on the Bakerloo Line, it seems they’d been victims of a Google mix-up. Fools! I’m all for the school of live and learn, so I followed silently behind, a raucous laugh hidden inside.

The name, although I’d immediately taken a dislike to it, is a critics’ dream, surely. In fact, despite the lengthy journey getting there, I was secretly hoping it would be awful, so I could say things like, “Paradise? Hell, more like!” or words to that effect, but alas, it was actually rather good.

I had other apprehensions about the place, fuelled by the online gallery of ‘fun times’ and partygoers enjoying some of the music of which it boasts a full calendar. I’m always dubious about pub-club-music hall crossovers, especially when they’re mixed with something as leisurely as an à la carte menu. If I want loud music while I eat, I’ll go to Camden Market, or sneak a sausage roll into Ronnie Scott’s.

But there wasn’t anything remotely noisy about the place on the Tuesday evening the boy and I went to eat there, except the din of mingled conversations, beats from the generic chill-out music trickling in between noises of cutlery touching plates, and glasses getting clinked in celebration of there being only three days until the next weekend (I’m guessing). It appears I’d got the place all wrong.