Eight of us gathered for one of our periodic NewsRevue alum evenings at the Holborn Spaghetti House.
There were no controversial shortages of certain dishes this time, but there was an especially irritable waiter who seemed to decide that I am an idiot, perhaps because I turned up a little late and didn’t want to partake of the Prosecco and sparkling mineral water already on the table, but wanted to order my own non-sparkling beverages.
Most unusually for me, I prevailed in Colin Stutt’s quiz about the faces/quotes of Irish writers & characters. A lot of informed guesswork in my answers, plus some lucky, uninformed guesswork. But on the whole it seems I can tell Shaw from Wilde, Joyce from Beckett and the like.
I did not fare so well with John’s intriguing game about famous movie stars and the obscure locations from whence they hail.
The next day, John summed up the evening, wonderfully, in his inimitable words:
I am sure you will all be celebrating the 234th anniversary of the Mutiny on the Bounty, which falls today (I know I am) but if I could drag you away from your Tahiti-shaped cupcakes for a moment…
Just wanted to thank you all for turfing yourselves out last night to the Ivan Shakespeare Memorial Dinner. I would like to thank Colin for his wonderful Irish-themed quiz. I tried bits of it out on Jenny this morning, because she got herself an Irish passport last year in response to Brexit. One of her grandfathers was Irish, which is enough to make you count as Irish, apparently. Sad to say, she didn’t shine, so her citizenship may be re¬voked. I would like to praise Ian for winning said quiz and Mark for know¬ing the birthplaces of more Hollywood Royalty than anyone need to.
I would like to thank Colin again for the generous touch of the Prosecco and each and every one of you for your warm congratulations on Jenny and I becoming man and wife after all these years. I was very touched.
As I looked around the room, I thought how lucky I was to enjoy the friendship of such erudite, witty and good-hearted men. Such a shame that none of them could be there. You’d like them. And Caroline, I left you off that list cos it spoilt the flow of the joke, not because I’ve forgotten you.
We don’t go to people’s houses much for dinner any more. We don’t have people round to our house much either.
I guess the dinner party has sort-of gone out of fashion, but it really shouldn’t have done so, as it is a very pleasant way to spend an evening with friends old and new.
I have known Jilly for many decades – since we were youngsters at BBYO. Similarly Simon – in fact I have known Simon for longer than I have known Jilly…and Jilly has known Simon for even longer than that blah blah.
Simon…so sensible back then.Jilly was even more sensible…and in colour
We were also supposed to be joined by Timothy, but he had somehow managed to get a diary clash, having agreed to accompany Simon’s mum to see András Schiff at The Wig.
Ruth and Daniel are good friends of Jilly’s from the locality, which means Watford and also means that they too have known Jilly for decades…just not as many decades as me and Simon…about as many decades as Janie has known Jilly.
Anyway, point is, it was a really super evening. Jilly made a wonderful meal, with a slightly spicy tomato soup…
…this year’s Crisis at Christmas experience was an unmasked affair.
The “needs must” experiment of using hotels rather than colleges for the residential centres had proved so successful in 2021, Crisis decided to repeat that model in 2022.
Thus Ged and Daisy returned to the “secret location near Hyde Park” where we did our volunteering last year.
Rudolf spotted near that secret location near Hyde Park
A couple of days before our first shift, Daisy was excited to see our actual “secret location” on Breakfast TV:
ICYMI Charly and Matt talked to BBC Breakfast yesterday about why #CrisisAtChristmas is important for so many people and why our support is needed more than ever this year. pic.twitter.com/B63AgWiHrh
As in the past, we met some really interesting people over this period while doing our Crisis shifts – both guests and other volunteers.
Interesting characters, neither guests nor volunteers, seen near our location
This time, probably because we were returning to the same centre, we encountered several volunteers and team leaders that we had got to know the previous year, which was pleasing. Even more satisfying was the fact that we saw hardly any of the same faces among the guests, which hopefully helps to confirm the evidence that the majority of guests last year were helped back onto their feet.
Feeling Old – Feeling Useful!
When you get to our age, stuff happens that makes you realise how old you are. For example, the realisation that England cricket’s latest wunderkind, Rehan Ahmed, is younger than my cricket trousers, as reported recently on the King Cricket website:
But when volunteering at Crisis, sometimes our age comes in handy – especially as Daisy and I are as fit and able as most of the youngster volunteers.
On our first shift, Christmas Eve, a late arrival had possibly missed his slot and was at risk of being turned away. Our shift leader asked me and Daisy to look after him and keep him occupied while “Crisis central” tried to resolve the problem and find him a room.
An interesting character, we asked him a bit about his background. He told us he was born and raised in South-East London. Almost the same vintage as me. When I asked him where he went to school, he said, “oh, my school’s not there any more. I was a Billy Biro…”
…”oh yes, I know”, I said, “William Penn. I went to school around there too”.
We went on to discuss the relative merits of The Specials and UB40…the time flew by. He also took the opportunity to wipe the floor with me at chess. Twice. Bernard Rothbart would have been stunned – not so much at my rusty rubbish – but at how good this fella clearly was. Mr Rothbart would have approved of the matching up I did on subsequent shifts to help this guest and others who could play to get some good chess match-ups.
It’s not all serving food, chess and chewing the fat with guests
That “Billy Biro” was one of several really interesting characters we met this year. From some, we learnt how they had fallen on hard, crisis-ridden times. Some chose not to discuss such matters and left us wondering. In all cases, we just hoped that our small contribution would help them back on their feet.
Utilising Our Food Charity Skills
Daisy and I did dinner service a couple of times, utilising our FoodCycle skills, which we have been deploying on communal meals for the last 15 months, to good effect.
I particularly enjoyed getting the opportunity to do the washing up (yes really!) in a commercial hotel kitchen, never having had the opportunity to use machines and equipment on that scale before.
Dreaming of washing up
Some of the guests are overwhelmed by the experience of being in a hotel and being looked after by a team of kindly volunteers. One guest almost refused to let me take him to his table and serve him his food, because he felt that “wasn’t right”.
Some find it quite difficult to make a decision along the lines of “vegetarian or non-vegetarian pasta”, one guest seeming almost paralysed by indecision until I suggested that he might like a bit of both. “No thanks, I’ll have the meat please”.
It can be quite a leveller, though. When we were on the coffee stall, one particularly demanding guest came to me for a coffee three times during the 90 minutes or so we were on that duty and complained each time. The first time he complained about the coffee, the second time about the sugar and the third time about the angle from which I poured the milk (left-handed, from a full, large flagon, as I politely and smilingly pointed out). Another guest, when I asked him to repeat his order to be sure to make the coffee to his specification, told me off for not having listened properly the first time.
I was reminded of my father’s favourite put down, usually directed towards a politician of his loathing, that the person in question “couldn’t even run a coffee stall”. In less robust minds than mine and Daisy’s, the experience could induce a crisis of confidence.
But, joking apart, the experience is, on the whole, hugely rewarding and satisfying.
It won’t be the same secret location next year, but of course we plan to return to help Crisis next year; of course we do.
Postscript: Returning To Crisis Sooner Than We Expected
Actually we returned to do a couple of additional part-shifts during the final few days at that location. There were rail strikes on those days so we agreed to cover a few hours over the evening meal surge, utilising our FoodCycle skills.
We saw some of our volunteer colleagues from January last year whom we hadn’t seen earlier in the season, which was nice. It was also good to follow through with some of the guests towards the end of their stay.
The leveller motif was continued and even enhanced though, with one guest who seemed especially keen for me to serve him virtually clicking his fingers in my direction for “service”.
On the other side of that coin though, one guest with whom I had chatted several times over the weeks came up to me to shake my hand as he left after his last evening meal. One other regular, whom I had judged to be painfully shy, quietly said to me as he left the restaurant area on the last evening, “thank you for serving me”.
With thanks to John Random for several pictures, not least this one: me with Noel Christopher– Caroline is also there, trying to hide in the corner of this picture
Given that Ivan Shakespeare Memorial dinners are principally gatherings of comedy writers, they have not been much of a laughing matter of late, with many of our number having departed permanently. Indeed John Random pondered various re-namings this time:
Ivan Shakespeare Debbie Barham Nick R. Thomas Gerry Goddin Mike Hodd Chris Stanton Memorial Dinner
or
“Ivan to Stanton Memorial Dinner”
Yet plenty of us still survive to dine, chat and play silly quizzes. A dozen or so of us gathered this time.
Random gets busy with his camera phone while Barry looks on and……Hugh Ryecroft shows off the new trophy: The Hoddy
Following the departure of Mike Hodd, we toasted our patriarch and played an extra quiz for the above magnificent new trophy: The Hoddy, provided by Mark Keegan, who set the seminal Hoddy Quiz. Professional quiz dude Hugh Ryecroft took that trophy.
Hugh couldn’t win the regular annual Ivan Shakespeare Trophy, as he won it last year and set that quiz this year. Bit of a busman’s holiday for Hugh, setting quizzes for Ivan Shakespeare dinners. Still, it was Keith Wickham who took that magnificent prize, which will no doubt grace his trophy cabinet for most of 2023:
Wickham lands the big one
I was close, but no cigar on both quizzes, in particular one of them on which i only missed out by a couple of points.
But of course all were winners, as it was such a heart-warming and convivial evening, as indeed it always is.
Was that Keith’s classic James Mason impression making me laugh?
Violets & Fatt Pundit With Mark Ellicott, Simon Jacobs & John White, 17 October 2022
For some reason we were all being too grown up to take photos, but this was a special get together reuniting people who had all known each other at Keele for one reason or another.
In particular the musical aspects intrigued Simon Jacobs, who wondered out loud to me why I hadn’t set up a get-together with Mark.
Simon, in 2019, trying to make a silk purse out of my (then) sow’s ear voice
Actually, John said something similar when I shared my Mark correspondence with him when we met up in the summer. I had no excuse, so I felt duty bound to act.
John questioning my judgement with his eyes and body language, August 2022
I played tennis at Lord’s – a draw at singles seeing as you were going to ask – before hot-footing it (via the flat) to Soho.
I arrived at Violet’s, grabbing a table – just inside but suitably quasi-open to the street – about five minutes before Simon arrived. From that vantage point, we observed Mark walk straight past us and then four or five minutes later he returned having got as confused as everyone else by the Berwick Street door-numbering. John arrived fashionably but not ridiculously last.
We had a good chat and a drink at Violet’s before heading a block or two up the road to Fatt Pundit, where the food was excellent and the chat got even better.
A few comedy moments with the sweet waitress whose high-pitched voice is possibly in a register that none of us, given our advancing years, could hear. But the menu was pretty-much self-explanatory, so a mixture of sign language, reading the menu and common sense allowed us to order a cracking good meal.
It was a really enjoyable four-way catch up.
Goldmine With Rohan Candappa & David Wellbrook, 18 October 2022
It was basically a “barbeque meats challenge” based on my assertion that the Queensway specialists therein, especially Goldmine, are better than those in Chinatown.
It turned into a small-scale Alleyn’s School alum thing. David Wellbrook, being Wellbrook, needed to join in the challenge, not least because Queensway is an alma mater of his where he attended the University of Romance (his wife used to live there when they were courting).
We tucked into plenty of barbeque meats, diverting briefly at the start and end of the lunchtime feast for some dim sum, just in the interests of science.
At school Rohan Candappa was always known as Candy, so it was with great mirth and merriment that David spotted “Candy World” across the street.
For those who don’t like to click and/or who don’t want all the tennis detail – here is an extract:
“It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall,” said your intrepid reporter to Carl Snitcher, having braved the 3.5 mile high-pass journey from Notting to Primrose Hill in just over 35 minutes.
“There’s a bad moon on the rise,” agreed Carl, gnomically.
We arrived at a rain-soaked Hampton Court Palace in the nick of time; just as well, as your intemporal reporter was playing in the first rubber. Some might argue that our arrival was actually “worse than two”, but a more substantial discrepancy soon revealed itself; the marker’s sheet was showing a lesser handicap for the Dedanists than the sheet that James McDermott & I had been sent.
In order to avoid a major diplomatic incident, James & I acquiesced to the lesser handicap, yet still somehow contrived to win our rubber, albeit narrowly…
McDermott hitting, me watching
On finally staggering away from the court, your incognizant reporter picked up a message that the Prime Minister had resigned. “That’s the second Liz whose expiration has been announced while I was on the real tennis court in the space of six weeks”, I mused, having been informed of the late Queen’s demise by Tony Friend while I was on the Lord’s court.
I thought I might be the tidings-bringer this time, only to discover that most of the group had learnt the demise of Liz Truss some 45 minutes earlier.
Anyway, this was no time to ponder the fate of shambolic politicians – it was time to tuck into the pies before they too were to become a footnote in history. A positive footnote in the case of the pies of course – once again a delicious choice of • Chicken Ham & Leek; • Steak & Ale.
Bread and cheese (yes please) and two species of yummy desert that self-discipline allowed me to avoid, along with the jolly wines on offer…
Pictures by Tony Friend
There’s no better way to lift the spirits on a gloomy, worrisome day than a day of pastance with Dedanists and Hamsters. Symbolically, as the nation’s political shenanigans moved on to its new phase, the heavy clouds and rain of the morning had lifted to reveal a gorgeously bright, sunny evening as we all left.
“So foul and fair a day I have not seen”, said Carl, gnomically, as I dropped him home.
…I was acutely aware that we only have one actual relic of Grandpa Harris: the large certificate of honour depicted in the headline picture. We do not even have a surviving photograph of him – he died in the early 1940s – all such things were disposed of when Grandma moved out of the family home (104 Clapham Common Northside) in the 1960s.
I suspect that the certificate only survived because of its religious significance and the lingering, somewhat superstitious sense that such a thing should not simply be destroyed.
It lived at the back of my dad’s shop for at least a quarter of a century – then it lived in our Woodfield Avenue attic for another quarter of a century.
Mum nearly (accidentally) gave it away when dad died, but I managed to rescue it thanks to the good offices of Michael and Tessa Laikin who in any case hadn’t quite believed that I wanted shot of it, even if mum did.
It was in a pretty shocking state by the time I took it to Janie’s favourite picture framer in Bayswater, who declared the artefact to be on the verge of disintegration and recommended a specialist restorer to preserve it and bring it back to life before framing.
Several weeks and several hundred pounds later, it has pride of place on the hall wall in my flat.
The stunning, large certificate (60 x 45 cm unframed, 75 x 60 cm framed) commemorates my grandfather being honoured in the synagogue as Chatan Torah on the festival of Simchat Torah on 14/15 October 1922 – now 100 years ago. Or, in Hebrew calendar terms, 17/18 October 2022 is exactly 100 years after the event.
As it happens and by strange coincidence, Janie and I found ourselves on 15 October this year just around the corner from 14 Manette Street, which is the building which was, back then, the West End Talmud Torah & Bikkur Holim Synagogue.
I couldn’t resist the urge to walk around the corner and photograph the very building on the very 100th anniversary of Grandpa’s honour:
14 Manette Street, Soho as snapped by me, 15 October 2022
Religion isn’t my thing, but it was my grandparent’s thing and this honour would have been one of the most notable moments in my grandfather’s (relatively short) life.
That Soho synagogue – the West End Talmud Torah and Bikkur Holim was a rather fascinating and controversial thing, if Gerry Black’s Living Up West book is anything to go by (which it is…go buy it if you are interested). He describes it as an
orthodox and shtetl-like shule [synagogue, where comparatively] …the service, rabbi, and fervid atmosphere were more typical of the heim [the old country].
There are some wonderful passages in Living Up West about that Rabbi; I do remember my father talking about him as a formidable figure, even though my father was still quite small when the family moved away from Fitzrovia/Soho. Intriguingly also, the book reports that, by 1926, the congregation had grown so large that they needed to hire The Scala Theatre in Charlotte Street for overflow services.
Living Up West also has an astonishing, detailed account in it about the 1930 AGM and elections in that community that
…were on the point of coming to blows…
…Ultimately the meeting broke up in chaos and confusion.
I am minded to write more about that strange community, not least because those detailed accounts include the names that appear on Grandpa’s certificate.
But at the moment, 100 years on, we get more than enough such chaos and confusion from a more southerly part of Westminster. In any case my purpose today is really to commemorate my Grandpa’s big day in 1922.
…my cousin Angela Kessler (née Harris) leapt in to the research fray and started uncovering all manner of wonderful stuff about our family’s earliest steps towards and in the UK.
Let’s start with the family legend that my grandfather Harris (aka Herz aka Hescha) set off for America but ended up in London due to a relatively minor infection/illness on arrival at Ellis Island that resulted in him being turned away from the USA.
On the above document Angela found Herz Russinov on a ship’s manifest setting off from Hamburg 6 May 1911, but clearly not for a USA destination as this is not a USA manifest. Left hand column just over half way down, record 518, listed as a 22 year old shneider (tailor).
Angela also found Hersch Russinov on a USA bound ship out of Rotterdam on 12 May 1911. He’s third from bottom on this manifest, listed as a “Hebrew” from Vilnius, aged 23. It states that his occupation is tailor, that his wife’s name is Hesha (Grandma Anne’s real name) and that the wife hails from Minsk province. This ticks our family boxes.
Uniquely on this page, no destination in USA is listed for Grandpa Hersch. Instead, in very small print, you can see a stamp that says “hospital” and “discharged” just above the hand-written word “tailor”. This does seem to prove the family legend.
One intriguing aspect of the boat records is Grandpa’s stated age; 22/23 years old. For the 1921 census and subsequent documents he had added 6 or 7 years to that age. It seems unlikely that he would have pretended to be younger than he really was for the journey, unless there was some financial/regulatory incentive so to do. It seems more likely that he added a few years subsequently, perhaps to suggest more gravitas and/or experience than was actually the case. Either way, “naughty Grandpa, cousin Angela caught you out”.
Cousin Angela also found traces of our family’s early years in London, before my father’s arrival, via birth records, in 1919. For example, Angela found the following directory entry in a 1915 trade directory:
Just in case that isn’t good enough for you to prove that this is “our” Harris Russinov, she also found her father (Alec) and our Uncle Manny in the following School Board register:
These records (around 20 rows down), which we believe to be Pulteney Street School, show seven-year-old Uncle Alec there between April 1915 and October 1915. He was previously at Lancaster Road School, near All Saints’ Road.
In early January 1916 Uncle Manny, not yet five, is removed from Pulteney Street and switched to Marylebone. Intriguingly, that Schools Board record says that Uncle Manny had attended no previous school, but the following record suggests that Uncle Manny had a very short stay at Lancaster Road School as a four-year-old.
At the time of the Pulteney Street School Board records, our family address is stated as 13 West Street, which, as Angela’s detective work ascertained, is now Newburgh Street (near Carnaby Street). Possibly Uncle Manny’s January 1916 school switch to Marylebone coincides with the family moving to Upper Marylebone Street.
It was time for me to take a stroll.
27 All Saints’ Road is, at the time of writing, Amanda Thompson Couture, despite retaining (presumably due to planning laws) the old Treggs Grocery sign. It seems to me, if retaining old signage is the rage, that the Treggs sign itself should be excavated to see if there is a Harris Russinov The Chandler sign underneath.
It is interesting that a tailor would have a go as a chandler during the Great War. I suppose there was not much business for a tailor at that time, with the men almost all away at war.
I suspect also, with the family moving around at that time, that it was struggling somewhat to settle. Still, it was a surprise to find the family in Notting Hill so early in their time in the UK. I have always thought of Notting Hill as MY stomping ground.
Above is Uncle Alec’s (and very briefly Uncle Manny’s) Lancaster Road School – now a Virgin Active Health Club.
As for 13 West Street, aka Newburgh Street, that building remains – majorly repaired perhaps but not replaced – and looks rather splendid now:
I don’t suppose the burgeoning Harris Russinov family occupied all of this premises, but who knows? There was a war on and perhaps they were engaged temporarily to “shop sit” for someone.
Now that I have disambiguated Upper Marylebone Street and New Cavendish Street numbering, I can confirm that the Harris Russinov family then took up residence at 4 Upper Marylebone Street, which is now 162 New Cavendish Street. Another building that appears to have been majorly repaired relatively recently, leaving its Fitzrovia slum days far behind.
Our guess is that the family settled there around 1916 and for sure they were settled enough by the end of the Great War to start expanding the family again. My dad was actually born in the above building on 11 August 1919.
Having only got to know them as middle-aged folk, it’s hard to imagine the Harris brothers as babies and/or mischievous school kids.
Uncles Manny, Michael and AlecDad: “I took that colour photo, so there!”
For several months prior, we had eagerly awaited our joint birthday celebration trip. We had long since abandoned the idea of having a party for the joint 60th, deciding instead to celebrate, as we have done several times before, as a group of four.
Prequel: Dinner With John At Dai Chi, Soho, 11 August 2022
Every great epic movie or three has at least one prequel these days. In any case, John and I felt that we are so out of practice with fine dining, we simply owed it to ourselves and to the girls to have a rehearsal in London earlier in the month.
That miso aubergine and gooseberry dish was to die for…or to Dai Chi for I should say.It was all so good
A very enjoyable evening indeed. Or, as we put it to the girls solemnly, “we had indeed done our boot camp training to prepare for the culinary trials to come later in the month”.
The First Afternoon & Evening At Whatley Manor, 24 August 2022
Whatley’s up, doc?
The girls had done a magnificent job of conspiring ahead of this trip. John and I knew that something…some things…were on their planning boards, but felt we owed it to them and to ourselves to just go with the flow.
As it turned out, the first “event” for me and John was a “surprise” visit to the spa, where we enjoyed a glass of wine in a hot tub prior to full body massages.
The hot tub had so many buttons and knobs it took us most of the half hour to work out how to operate the thing. Once we had sunk our glasses of wine and soaked in the tub for that much time, we were both a bit dazed and confused. John almost forgot his glasses and I almost forgot my flip-flops. Considering that neither of us had more than one or two incidentals about our person, that was a pretty high forgetfulness rate.
The massages were excellent (the place has a top notch spa) which got both of us into thoroughly relaxed mode.
But I was not so relaxed as simply to buy the idea that Whatley Manor is a 17th century building, as one of the receptionists had suggested. In fact the building is mostly 19th century and the “mock Tudor” extension is 20th century. Worse yet, the place was originally called Twatley Manor. Hats off to the marketing folk who thought that Whatley Manor would sell better as a name.
it’s a lovely manor, whatever it’s called and whenever it was built
John and I enjoyed the late afternoon sunshine after our massages while the girls were too polite to come and find us, but soon we were reunited and got ready for the “easy-peasy” Grey’s Brasserie meal we had arranged for the first night.
John went for steak & fat-frittesMandy & I both went for the pork. Mandy’s plate colour-co-ordinated with her rose wineJanie went for the duck – it was all delicious grub, oh yes it was
In honour of my mate Philip The Bold, Duke of Burgundy, we treated ourselves to a bottle of Domaine Faiveley Mercurey La Framboisière 2019 that first night and jolly gluggable it was too.
John had begged Mandy not to arrange cake and “happy birthday singing” in a public place – thank goodness – so Mandy & Janie had conspired to arrange cake and an opportunity for “happy birthday singing” in a private place – in the living room mezzanine of John & Mandy’s suite:
Did we ask for this?So symbolic – 60 illuminated by two candles
The cake was seriously yummy death by chocolate.
Day Two – During The Day, 25 August 2022
Blowing out my own candle
The chocolate cake desert had perhaps been overkill, as we had each been given a mini chocolate cake and candle which Janie and I enjoyed as a pre-breakfast treat the next morning.
Breakfast was of course excellent – we went full English that first morning – then we realised that the scheduled good weather for our trip was being interrupted by a couple of hours of drizzle and rain. I suggested that we defer our scheduled walk until that was over – about 12:30.
We walked from the hotel – across Easton Grey bridge (over the Avon) around to Foxley and then on to Malmesbury. I’ll let the photos tell the tale of this charming walk.
Easton Grey BridgeChecking the cricket score from Old Trafford, not weather or directionsThe local moofia came over to greet usThen the Foxley longhorns let us know what they thought tooFoxley ChurchJohn can see an excellent long cut back to the manor – Mandy and I talk him out of it.A brush with an emu at a farm just outside MalmesburyAlpaca and hen at the same farmOutskirts of MalmesburyThe Old Bell Hotel, Malmesbury, possibly the oldest in EnglandRefreshments in the Old BellThen a wander around Malmesbury Abbey
We wandered around the town, thought about walking home, then called for a cab when we realised that we wanted to be fit and awake for our big dinner tonight.
The Big Dinner At Whatley Manor, 25 August 2022
Drinks before dinner
We won’t talk about John’s “poking himself between the eyes” incident before he came down to dinner, because that would be unkind, especially as he didn’t even need to confess to it given that his specs covered the tiny gash. I tried the concussion test on John, which he failed, but we concluded that he’d fail it under any circumstances, so that was OK.
After drinks in the lounge, head chef Ricki Weston (above) invited us into the kitchen for our first few nibbles and a chat.
Is that all?John & I listening intently to the descriptions of the first two nibblesJanie wandered deeper into the kitchen with her camera-phone
Then we sat down at table for the rest of the nibbles and the main dishes. At this juncture, it was out with the camera phones big time. We weren’t going to eat the hell out of this feast – oh no – we were going to photograph the hell out of it.
We all staggered back to our rooms after a wonderful evening.
The Morning After And Home, 26 August 2022
We’d had a wonderful time. We were all suffering a little the next morning, having become unaccustomed to long evenings of eating and drinking.
We mostly went a bit lighter on breakfast, although John still went for bacon and black pudding, claiming it to be lighter than my cereal and yoghurt!
After breakfast and check out, we met up in the grounds and strolled around those before heading home.
OK, so birthdays are meaningless milestones of decay…
…but there’s nothing meaningless about enduring friendships. We’d had such a great time – it was so special to spend that much prime time celebrating the birthdays with close friends.
If you want to see all the pictures – trigger warning – there are more than 250 of them – the Flickr link here and below takes you to all of them:
…asked Rohan, while we were messaging each other to make the arrangements for a lunchtime meet up.
Is the sky blue, is the Pope a Catholic, do bears shit in the woods and is a pig’s arse pork?
…I felt like replying, but instead I sent Rohan a link to the Ogblog piece about my first ever dim sum experience, so long ago it was before I had even met Rohan…whom I met when we started Alleyn’s School in September 1973:
In that case, let’s meet at 12:30 in the middle of Gerrard Street.
Great, I thought, this will be my first visit to Chinatown for years and I miss the place.
My childhood memory of trying dim sum for the first time must be my favourite anecdote about dim sum in Chinatown, but I do have another treasured memory on that topic.
In the mid to late 1990s, while working with the late, great Professor Mike Smith, we found ourselves nearby and decided to continue our discussions over a dim sum lunch. Studying an extensive card, I wondered whether Mike had ever tried duck tongues – a dish I had tried before (I think in Hong Kong) and rather liked. Mike said he was up for anything and thus we ordered, amongst several other things, a portion of tongues.
Mike Smith, normally calm
On tasting the anatine delicacy, Mike freaked out.
Oh my God – they’ve got bones in their tongues! Ducks have bones in their tongues! Uggh.
Even after we agreed that the bone-like core of the duck’s tongue was probably hard cartilage rather than bone, Mike was too discombobulated by the discovery to eat any more of that dish…
…which, to anyone who knew Mike well, proves that he was seriously discombobulated. Indeed, Mike told the “dim sum discovery that ducks have bones in their tongues” story to anyone who’d listen for ages after the event.
Returning to 2022, I wondered whether Rohan had chickened out (or should I say ducked out) of picking a venue, but it turned out he had a specific venue in mind all along: New Loon Fung. As we entered, I was pretty sure this was the same venue as the Mike Smith tongue incident all those years ago. Seeing duck tongues on the menu pretty much confirmed my theory – you don’t see those on the menu in many dim sum places in London.
I told Rohan the story. Of course he agreed we needed to order some, along with the several other things we both wanted to try.
Perhaps the waiters had a sense of foreboding about non-Chinese people ordering a delicacy so quintessentially Chinese as duck tongues. The restaurant was heaving by the time we placed our order, almost exclusively with people who were visibly Chinese or at least of Chinese origin.
We asked a couple of times for the tongues, once it was clear that all our other dishes had long since been delivered. Eventually our portion came:
Duck got your tongue, Rohan? He sure doesn’t look 100% sure
We “toasted” Mike, each of us with a tongue on our chopsticks, Rohan tried that one tongue, then he deferred the rest of the plate to me, leaving me in a similar position, plate of tongues-wise, as I had been in 25 or so years ago with Mike Smith.
I’m old enough and ugly enough now that I don’t do anything I don’t want to do…
…said Rohan, when I pressed the point, just to be sure he wasn’t simply deferring my chosen delicacy out of politeness.
I guess I might be on my own in the matter of liking the duck tongues dish – I recall Janie not much liking it either.
Rohan and I chatted about many things, including how most of the eateries we knew from the old days had gone from Chinatown – New Loon Fung being a rare perennial. I think it was known as Dragon Phoenix “back in the day”, but it looks and feels like the same place of old.
After parting company with Rohan, I took a stroll around Chinatown, confirming that most of my old haunts had vanished.
Strangely and most coincidentally, I got an e-mail from Michael Mainelli about 48 hours later asking me if I could recommend a place in Chinatown for him and the family to go to after a show – all the places he remembered had closed down since his last visit.
I was able to provide some helpful advice. Really I should put the time from my afternoon off onto my timesheet as R&D for the business. Only joking, only joking.
But it turned out that one of Janie’s cohort, Sini Simonen, is not only a good Samaritan but also a virtuoso violinist. When Sini let it slip that she and her quartet, The Castalian String Quartet, were due to appear at the Wigmore Hall in a few month’s time, Janie and I agreed that, if we were available that day, we would go.
The links in the above piece to the exploits of my mother’s cousin Sid, not least his virtuoso playing of both violin and hand saw, are worth the price of admission alone. OK, there is no price of admission, but the stories are priceless.
…the Wigmore Hall concert on 1 May 2022 was an all Mendelssohn string quartet affair, but with a twist: we first heard Fanny Mendelssohn’s sole String Quartet, followed by Felix Mendelssohn’s 6th String Quartet.
Both were a very enjoyable listen – Fanny’s piece much lighter and easier on the Sunday morning ear than Felix’s. Felix was in sombre mood when he wrote his 6th, dedicated to his recently deceased and beloved sister Fanny – possibly also anticipating his own impending doom – he died soon after completing the work.
Impending doom? Felix portrait c1846
The concert was very well patronised – if not a complete sell out then surely the place was near to full. The performances were, deservedly, extremely well received by the Sunday morning audience.
Janie and I asked the elderly gentleman sitting next to us if he had enjoyed the concert.
Yes indeed. I prefer Fanny.
On balance, so did Janie and I.
Sini had said to Janie several times that we simply must show our faces in the Green Room after the concert, so it would have been rude to partake of the traditional Wigmore Hall sherry rather than visit the artistes in that hallowed room.
There were plenty of other groupies around in The Jessye Norman Room, but Sini greeted us warmly and we chatted for a while.
Before setting off for The Wig, I had discovered that the Castalian String Quartet had released an album this week, Between Two Worlds On Delphian…
I also couldn’t help but notice that the album includes a couple of arrangements of Renaissance pieces – one by Orlande de Lassus and one by John Dowland, as well as a Beethoven late Quartet and a modern quartet by Thomas Adès.
Sini, with characteristic modesty, mentioned in passing that she has arranged the Renaissance pieces as an experiment. She also kindly pressed a copy of the Between Two Worlds CD into my hand as we said goodbye to her.
Following an enjoyable stroll around Fitzrovia and Marylebone, Janie and I listened to the album as soon as we got home. We can both thoroughly recommend it; in particular the beautiful sound of the Renaissance piece arrangements. Choral works of that era were often arranged for consorts of viols, of course; the string quartet being the direct progeny of the viol quartet.
It was an enjoyable day and such a fitting way to remember my mum’s 100th anniversary.
But there was one more coincidence to come – as I read the programme notes to the Between two Worlds album. The viola player on the album was not Ruth Gibson (whom we saw at Wigmore Hall) but Charlotte Bonneton. Wasn’t Charlotte Bonneton the young musician mum and I saw along with Karim Said that very last time mum went to a concert?
Yes indeed – it turns out Charlotte was The Castalian String Quartet’s viola player until quite recently – for some 10 years – perhaps already with the group when we saw her perform with Karim Said in September 2011. Perhaps Sini and/or some of the other Castalians were even there to support Charlotte that day.
I know the classical music world isn’t big – but it isn’t that small either.
