In the depths of the covid pandemic lockdown in spring of 2020, all travel was cancelled or postponed. Who knew when, if, we’d ever go anywhere again—aircraft grounded, ships in dock, restaurants, bars, clubs, gyms shuttered. Shelter at home. Then came the unbelievably fast and miraculous vaccine toward year-end. By February, people in the West and Europe were getting jabs, followed by seconds. Stats were improving by late spring into the summer, and we had a feeling we were getting through…then snuck in the Delta variant, and infection and death rates shot up,worldwide—but concentrated in the unxvaxed. The third shot/first booster came along, and we’re wondering week by week if our year-plus postponed trip to London for September might still happen?
Troy makes it to Nantucket with her girlfriends for a week, and it seems like her JFK—LHR flight will go. 72 hour prior test, proof of purchase of day-2 after arrival test, lengthy documentation and declarations, and she finally calls to say she’s in Britain!
‘Twas for me an erie un-cocooning into international travel on the last Sunday in September in 2021. The global terminal at SFO was ghostly, deserted, devoid of humans….almost literally. The fully masked flight was uncomfortable but tolerable. Whisking through Heathrow on arrival in no time despite all the document requirements of Delta-spike covid travel was uncanny. Riding into London with Lushi in his stretch Beemer was smooth….he said no one is driving if they can avoid it because there was a petrol shortage….not due to lack of fuel, but because there are no lorry drivers to get the petrol to filling stations. "They will be drafting soldiers to drive petrol tankers around the city tomorrow."
A silkier trip from San Francisco to a doll-house flat in the Kensington Borough has never been had. That flat sits itself in a lovely row of two story Regency houses in leafy Launceston place just off the Gloucester and Cornwall roads. The streetscape feels almost Mediterranean, or the banana belt of south Cornwall. It’s simply gorgeous. A quick bit of research show the most recent sales in ‘19 and '20 at 5 to 7 million pounds. Our lower flat is indeed jewel box like, and will be a fine pied-a-terre for a week's stay in London—compact, elegantly furnished with a postage stamp garden out back. Marble tile floors, granite counters in the one-butt kitchen, efficient storage tucked around, and typical London sitting room-cozy furnishings, a big king bed that one oozes around to crawl in. This by way of London Perfect, the agency
we’ve used who’s branches in Paris and New York have found quality short term let’s. Recommended firm.
Troy has been here a day and stocked up on bare essentials. We need to add to that, she has a shoe to get repaired, and we want to scope the near neighborhood. A couple of miles perambulation takes us up to Kensington High Street, along which we find the second largest Whole Foods in the world, where we delve into their spirits and wine section, and then the cheese cave for a few goodies. Shoe repair, sniff in Uniqlo, a quick pint at the Gloucester arms and we amble up Greenville place, which changes to Launceston at the next corner, to prepare for a long-awaited dinner at The Ivy in the theater district.
One of our go-to spots in London has always been Le Caprice, tucked in behind the Ritz, and just off the edge of Green Park. We are horrified to find that it’s closed, but intrigued to learn it’s a sister restaurant of the famed Ivy in the wEest End, and are able to book there. A triangular bar is centered and surrounded by comfortable tables and club chairs in a very colorful room—one wall translucent and colored wirh diamonds of glass.
We had always dined at the bar at Caprice, and have booked the same here. The menu is very similar. British classics, and interesting more modern offerings: Cornish shellfish bisque, dressed Dorset crab, shepherd’s pie, grilled lobster, crispy duck and watermelon salad. We are shown to two seats at thebar, where a pretty server from Romania makes us welcome. We share
shatteringly crisp Nobashi prawns accompanied by a half carafe of Domaine Picq Chablis. Troy opts for one of her go-to's—calves liver with bacon drizzled with Bordelaise sauce paired with a lush Savigny le Beaune 2017. I take grilled Dover sole off the bone—my single favorite fish in the world—with hollandaise and cress and little gem salad. We’re too full for dessert but share an espresso martini to cap off a terrific meal. We hail a black cab for the trip back to Launceston Place, and realize it’s electric. Querying the driver, we find that almost a third of the black cabs are electric, that their range is only about 50 miles, and he has to find a fast charger at least once a day for 45 minutes, and charge overnight at home.
Tuesday morning we wander around lanes and mews of Chelsea and Belgravia, take a turn through some of the floors of Peter Jones, cross Sloan Square, pass near Troy’s age-three white-columned residence on Eaton square, zig through Cadogan Gardens and curve around Hans Place to arrive at mighty Harrods. Much is unchanged but the famed food halls are a bit too pristine and......a bit soulless ......especially the old raucous dining hall integrated with food stands, where you could choose a sole at the fishmonger, he’d pass it to the stand next door and they’d cook it and serve it to you with brown bread and chilled white wine as you sat at counter stools. Now the dining setups are in a separate hall and uniform and soulless—even colder feeling with covid plexiglass partitions all around. Worst of all, the magnificent, daily created fresh fish sculpture/fountain at the Brampton Road entrance to the halls is history…..a great loss!
The rest of the emporium remains a temple to luxury goods of all types for the very small side of the equality gap. After a jet lag-soothing rest at the flat, we ventured forth in some basic neighborhood exploration and 
ended up on Kensington High Street for our dinner reservation at Min Jiang, said to be one of the best Chinese restaurants in the city. Elegant surroundings, with a nighttime view out over Hyde Park. We’ve been dead set on duck, and a three-course half Peking duck is the house specialty. We precede that with a dim sum assortment—extremely delicate dough encasing pumpkin and crab, mixed mushrooms, shrimp and scallion, and white prawn. Such delicate dumplings! Three course Peking is crispy shavings of skins on their own, thin slices (many..from a half) of tender duck and skin, with the pancakes and the usual accompaniments as well as garlic/ginger
purée and thin shards of kimchee. The third course is the rest of the duck meat, chopped with veg and pine nuts in mini-lettuce cups. A spectacular duck-centric feast.
A history and pub tour sounds just the ticket and we set off at 2 to meet the tour near St Paul’s Cathedral. A mix up by the taxi driver sets at the wrong Cafe Nero (just two blocks apart) and when 2 comes with no tour we realize the error, and arriving at the right place ten minutes late, the tour has left. Itinerary on phone we try and catch up, but seem to hit each spot minutes later—Viaduct Tavern, The Blackfriar, St Brides Church. At 
the Old Bank of England we decide to give up and enjoy the elegant surroundings and high ceilings of the former Law Courts branch of the old bank, along with a pint of independent brewer McMullen’s finest real ale.
We wander up Bell’s Yard, through the Inns of Court, surrounded by barristers' and solicitors' chambers, then cut through Lincoln’s Inn Fields, laid out as a large public square in 1630 by Inigo Jones: emerald lawns, herbaceous borders and huge ancient oaks, maples, and birches. We’ll have to return to visit Sir John Soane’s Museum, recommended by our dear friend Stanley.
Passing High Holborn, we look in at the Victorian “gin mill” the Princess Louise, but the tour has gone again, and we settle in for a pint of Samuel Smiths Best Bitter in the ornate period surroundings. There is a curious sign above the bar “Digital Detox Zone"—phones, computers, tablets not allowed!
Dinner is at Mossiman’s, a private membership dining club in West Halkin Street, Belgravia. Set in a deconsecrated Scottish Presbyterian Church, it was formerly the Belfry Club, which Troy’s father joined when the family lived in England in 1953 (the year of Elizabeth’s coronation) and was a member for years. We dined there several times, and I became an expat member in the late seventies. When famed chef Anton Mosimann bought it in 1988, and rechristened it eponymously, the expat membership fees went up tenfold, and I declined to join. Troy emailed explaining our history and they graciously extended an invitation to dine sans membership. There is an octagonal mezzanine bar under the belfry and overlooking the dining room—below, where we sip icy martinis and peruse the menu. Mosimann was awarded an OBE in 2008, and the club is run day-to-day by his sons Mark 
and Phillip. A delicious, rich risotto ai funghi leads off, followed by steak tartare for me and poached filet de boeuf for Troy. A daily special is grouse, which brings the memory of our first dinner in the seventies, when I ordered hung grouse—this means essentially leaving the bird to rot for a period of time before cooking—and we’ll never forget the smell when the dome was taken off the plate. The British chap at the next table orders the special, but hanging/aging must not be done now, as it smells perfectly fine. Full and unable to consider dessert, we choose a 30 year-old tawny Port and a Calvados to settle the meal.
The club suffered as all did during lockdown, and this Wednesday night is well less than full, creating a slightly eerie feeling. The staff is great, Eastern European as is almost all restaurant staff in Britain, and we leave feeling a bit melancholy with the thought that sometimes you can’t go home again.
Kynance Mews runs a block each way off of Launceston, with a brick archway over each entry. Cobbled, the 
flower-filled mews is a jumble of different two story dwellings that began life usually as stables…..they were service roads behind the grand houses of the Georgian and Victorian elites—which we will encounter shortly. When London expanded to the west in the 18th century, grand terraces of town houses where built on the fields in areas such as Mayfair, Kensington and Marylebone. They needed spaces for horses, coaches and servants, and the solution was to build a road round the back where stables could be built. They consisted of stables and a coach house on the ground floor, the first floor having a hayloft and a couple of rooms where the coach driver and the ostlers could sleep. Not sure what it says about prices for grander houses in the area, but we see one of the mews houses—3 bedrooms—listed for sale in an estate agents office for 3.9 million pounds!
A stair leads up to Christ church and Victoria Road and a few square blocks of enormous grand houses—this is like the top blocks of Pacific Heights or Presidio Terrace in SF. A further indication of wealth in this area is the plethora of Ferarri’s, Bentleys, Astons, Porsches, Maseratis and McClarens parked on the streets….no-one has a garage. We stop at the Builders Arms, a pub dating to the 1800’s, looking for a bite, but they’re fully booked for lunch, so we book for 
lunch tomorrow and nurse a pint of Powerhouse Special Bitter before heading to the number 74 bus to the Wallace Collection on Manchester square in Mayfair.
A large museum, bequeathed to the British public in 1987, the Wallace was Hertford House, the London seat of, and the result of the collecting of the First through Fourth Marquesses of Hertford in the 18th and 19th centuries. The blockbuster we’ve come for is Frans Hals: the Male Portrait. The Laughing Cavalier, considered his finest, is in the Collection, and it’s joined by 15 other portraits of mostly Dutch men, borrowed from institutions around the globe. It’s really stunning and captivating work, and the juxtaposition of diverse 
portraits painted over his lifetime, in one place, is amazing. The brushwork detail of the fine and intricate costumes, the ruddy, jolly, just-had-a-few-beers faces of these wealthy brewers, merchants and bankers is stunning. This is a case where the audio commentary of the curator, director, and specialists adds immeasurably to the viewing experience. We depart rather stunned.
A fifteen minute walk down posh-shopped Duke Street lands us at the Connaught, where we planned to have a drink in the Front bar. A fellow—possibly a floor manager—says that they’ve just opened a third bar, the Red Room, and would we like to peek? Red and rose it is, with Matisse-like stained glass windows, intricate mosaic floors, red art, and a flashy pink/peach bar. We order a couple of Perfect Manhattans which are quite delish, and a new record (for us) of 30 quid ($40) a cocktail—29 euros the previous record for a 
martini at the Four Seasons Geneva. A swank hotel’s gotta make a livin’, eh?
Our culture tescapade the next day is the British museum, with timed tickets for an exhibition of the 18th c. Japanese artist Hokusai. He is famous among other things for his Thirty Six Views of Mt Fuji. The most iconic , the giant wave, the museum has three copies of. The exhibition is a little diifferent than expected, as the 100 plus drawings are very small, and just black and white. Unexpectedly, we find a separate exhibition titled Nero: the Man Behind the Myth. Quite a blockbuster of statuary, gold treasure, sculpture, frescoes and more. Very well annotated with a timeline for his relatively short rule, ended by Senate-mandated suicide at age thirty.
We Tube back on the Piccadilly Line to Launceston to relax before our last dinner In London, which is a half block up the road at the like named Launceston Place. Open since 1986 and supposedly a favorite of princess Diana, current chef Ben murphy has been at the helm since 2017, and has been shaking things up. The interior is elegant, the staff there when you need them. Choices are a seven-course tasting menu, or a three-course menu, mix and match anyway you choose from three each of starters, mains and dessert. With martinis comes a delightful 
trio of a pastry straws filled with smoked haddock mouse, and a tiny taco of beef tartare, topped with a dollop of caviar on a thin slice of Persian cucumber. Bushy bearded (mask doesn’t close to cover) sommelier Nicola Peroni suggests glasses to pair our selections, and as you’d hope his choices are right on….
The squab course Troy orders is arrayed artistically like a horizontal 
ikebana: tiny bronze leg, slice of dead-rare breast, a medallion of foie scattered with chopped apple, and an “s” drizzle of rich sauce…..she’s delighted, as with the Langhe Nebbiolo Nicola brings. My starter of a poached cylinder of Celeriac on a reduction sauce, topped with mint and scattered with shaved pecorino is a total flavor-bomb, with the humble root vegetable elevated to an unusual height by a very clever combination of flavors. I was a little unsure of the recommendation of Riesling, but the Mosel Nicola pours is dead-dry and spicy.
Next up is a mixed wild mushroom ragout scattered across a toasted whole meal crouton atop a pool of deep orange egg yolk—most reminiscent of a similar dish eaten stand up at Bar Ganbara in San Sebastián. The menu often features turbot, but tonight a cylinder of perfectly poached, tender cod sits atop a vin jaune reduction, surrounded by shreds and coins of miniature courgettes. The house “Chips” served with both are shatteringly crusted batons of potato mille-feuilles whose every thin slice separates on under the knife.
Dessert brings a rice pudding soufflé, whose golden crust is parted so a sweet-tangy mango sauce can slither down inside and mingle. Yuzu is a yellow-tinted white chocolate shell looking exactly like the fruit, filled with piquant yuzu mousse, all set atop chilled sautéed apple dice spiced with dill. Final mignardises feature squares of sea-salt caramel and strawberry pâte de fruit again presented atop a ceramic vessel filled with raw black rice. Nursing a DuPont Calvados, we muse that we’d passed the restaurant several times walking around the neighborhood, glanced at the (very simply worded) menu, and expected a casual, local joint with simple service and humble food. What we encountered was a chef on the way up, food, presentation and service on the hunt for stars—seems little doubt they will come.
Back to our little flat for a night's sleep before a quick side trip to Oxford.