Category: Travels With Victoria

Another Wellington pub, this one near Savile Row.

14 King Street, just doors away from Almack’s.

Another Bag O’ Nails, not to be confused with our local near the Palace.

The Duke of Wellington, near our hotel in Kensington Square

The Hatchet

Leicester Arms

Red Lion

Great Expectations in Reading

Duchess of Cambridge, Eton

The Henry VI, Eton

The Two Brewers, Windsor

The Ship and Shovel

The Sherlock Holmes, London

The Wells, Hampstead, where Victoria had lunch and Kristine managed to choke down some bread and butter. But that’s another story . . . . . 

16 Brewer Street, Soho, London

Victoria and I have eaten many a meal together and we know what we like – seafood. Especially moules, or as you may know them, mussels. And oysters. Lobster ain’t bad, either. The menu at Randall and Aubin is huge – what to choose?

We needn’t have worried because our server, Adriana, was the perfect hostess. R & A is that rare place where the entire staff – servers, line cooks, chefs and host – are not only consummate professionals, they believe in their product, i.e. fresh seafood. Nothing, really, could be better. 

Arianna, who was not only knowledgeable, but also gorgeous, served us some bread with anchovy butter and then led us through the menu,  suggesting that we try is the mixed rocks huites – in other words, the oyster sampler, served with challot vinegarette, horseradish and Tobasco. This is what’s so great about restaurants like R & A – even the most dedicated foodies will learn, and taste, something new as suggested by the staff, who are passionate about what they serve. 

Tastes of heaven!!

Victoria and I were served two of each type of oyster, so that we could taste them together and rate them as we went along.

Here’s our ranking: 

Native = 5 best!

All gone…too fast.

Then it was on to the great moules (mussels) with garlic, parsley and cream.

The sauce complimented the flavour of the meaty shell fish and we made quick work of them. I think it was at this point in the meal that Victoria and I swore we’d never had so much fun digging into fruits de mare. I can’t recall exactly which of us suggested that we eat here at least twice a week when we move to London, but I know I didn’t argue. 

For an entree, Victoria opted for the pan roasted Hake with spring onion. Cooked to perfection, the white fish was melt in your mouth perfect. 

I opted for the crab and lemon risotto, which tasted as good as
it looks. 

Always looking for a new London adventure, one night Victoria and I took Diane and her sister, Marilyn, to Mr. Foggs in Mayfair for a drink. Hidden away on Bruton Lane, there’s no outward sign that an establishment of any sort is housed behind the Victorian facades that line the street. Up a few steps to the door, one has to knock in order to summon the door keep to slide the peep hole back. It’s at this point that one is tempted to say something suitably snarky, such as “Rick sent me” or “Let us in, we’e got a fresh body for ye” or even “The password is Brummell.” None of these are necessary as, unless one looks truly iffy, the door is typically opened to admit you into another world – the world of Victorian London and the townhouse of Around the World in 80 Days adventurer Phinneas Fog. 

Picture the scene.

You’ve instructed your date to meet you on Conduit Street in Mayfair.

They’re excited. And happy.

You stroll together through Mayfair, past restaurants and designer boutiques; past jewellers and art galleries. There’s a spring in their step, and a smile on their face…

….until you direct them down a dingy back alleyway – menacingly encased on every side by concrete, shadows and high-rise office buildings – which they intuitively believe can only lead in one direction: towards their brutal and untimely death. 

But just around the corner relief sets in, as they spot Victorian lanterns hanging outside the immaculate exterior of a truly glimmering beacon of peculiarity: the fictional home of Mr. Phileas Fogg… which you can call “Mr. Fogg’s”.

Because that’s its name.

After climbing the steps to Fogg’s abode – having possibly just manoeuvred yourself around a horse and carriage in the street, depending on which night you go – you’ll enter the madcap home of one of fiction’s most eccentric adventurers, which overflows with artifacts and trinkets collected from his travels. Stuffed Indian tiger heads, whole crocodiles and umbrella stands made from elephants’ feet; portraits of Fogg’s ancestors; wall-mounted busts of the man’s favourite pets; annotated maps and pictures from his travels; birdcages, bicycles and one large penny-farthing swinging from the ceiling, alongside the very hot air balloon in which he travelled the world for 80 days.

Expect to see staff clad in military uniforms – coloured according to their seniority within the household – serving up absinthe aperitifs, sazeracs and stirrup cups. Expect to enjoy live sing-alongs around the piano; expect monthly visits from Mr.Fogg himself, who will regale you with tales from his most recent travels…

…and expect your date to be excited.  And happy.