2013-06-19T07:09:37-04:00 James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=james-emtage Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for James Emtage Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3280481 2013-05-16T13:38:13-04:00 2013-05-17T04:59:41-04:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/ The Clove Club, a Shoreditch restaurant offering up a five course tasting menu of 'often overlooked' British produce. I had indeed overlooked this particular egg from my bird based bucket list.

So in it went, down the hatch as one, as advised by the bigging up waiter. Cooked so that the white was only just robust enough to hold in all the yolk, it exploded in my mouth like an egg sized water balloon. Now I love a good yolk, don't get me wrong, by blimey those gulls know how to fill 'em. My throat became a water slide of undeveloped embryos. Super rich and super distinctive, it sort of slithered it's way round my mouth for a far longer than average egg based eating time. I mean, I could have gargled with it if I'd been so inclined.

Although I won't be popping out to stock up on gulls in too much of a hurry, finding these little seasonal delicacies enhances the whole dining experience. The main show at The Clove Club is the five course ever changing feast, which on this night consisted of grilled squids, legs of lamb and more succulent sauces, foams and jus than you could shake a gull's nest at. But if you go before the end of May, and if the primal stock flow of gull's eggs keeps up for that long, then I'd recommend giving this supplemantry appetizer a go, just to say you have.

Another thing to give a go this month is the cocktail range over at the bar in St James' Hotel, Mayfair. If, like me, you don't often trot off to this part of town, but happen to find yourself skulking around the Mall in need of a seasonal cocktail, then give this opulent little bar a try. Tucked away on the lesser known side of Mayfair's beaten tracks, it's mixing up a floral themed drinks menu in honour of the Chelsea Flower Show, complete with an indoor garden designed by the flower herself, Jane Packer.

Two of the three cocktails stood out as being worthy of their hype: the Flower of Scotland, which was a bitter sweet whiskey number (SO in to whiskey at the mo) and the Jasmine Buttercup, which is a hot vodka toddy served with a massive Jasmine in the middle. What is it about heating up your alcohol - completely revolutionises it, strengthens it, and immediately makes you want to go 'awwwwwwwwwhhhh' after sipping. Go now though, as this pop up menu is only available from 20th to 25th May, and while you're there you can gorge on king prawn skewers, chicken liver pate and crisp toast. Could have drank these cocktails all night, but I'm not sure rolling out of venues in Mayfair is totally acceptable.

If this is all sounding a tad pretentious for your post work pint, that's because it is. Both The Clove and St James' are pretty treat yourself type places. For something less formal though head to The Blues Kitchen in Camden for some pulled pork and whiskey. I did say I was in to whiskey right now, and this place has a bourbon list that would make even the most sturdy Scot go weak at the kilt. To top, they do whiskey of the month, and this month is the ultra smooth Buffalo Trace which is worth the trip to Camden alone. This matched with melt in the mouth pulled pork that comes with the Southern American slang of "fries and 'slaw", makes a reasonably cheap and very cheerful post work gourging place. I'm actually still thinking of that pork... one of those.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2852285 2013-03-11T08:52:11-04:00 2013-05-11T05:12:01-04:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
Tonight sees the launch of The Fox Problem, a live entertainment chat show delivered through a Google+ Hangout, streamed live on YouTube, and embedded across Google+, Facebook, Twitter and websites like Heatworld.

Why is this so important? Because it's bypassed all traditional routes of commissioning and production, and gone straight to the Internet to create it's own home. From its inception The Fox Problem, which is produced by Social TV company Telegraph Hill, has been an online proposition. Presented and co-Produced by three young female presenters Gemma Cairney (Radio 1), Georgie Okell (T4) and Georgia L-A (SB.TV), The Fox Problem is the first entertainment production to be optimizing the advanced technology of a Google+ Hangout.

A Hangout is incredibly simple in operation, but delivers a far more exciting viewer experience. It can display multiple video feeds simultaneously, from anywhere in the world, which can be delivered live to YouTube, in real time. Imagine Skype on speed and you're almost there. All it needs is a broadband connection to broadcast, meaning that live, global Outside Broadcasts just got a hell of a lot cheaper.

And here begins the game changing elements which the TV industry are taking note of. Doing an online show is nothing new, but delivering a live online show, with live feeds coming in from all over the world, to one YouTube window, at minimal costs, is new.

If you look closely on some news channels, like Sky News and Channel 4 News, you'll see the public are starting to contribute using their G+ profiles to join the news team's Hangout. They film themselves on their webcams and talk into the microphones on their laptops, whilst being streamed into a live TV programme.

Channel 4's One Born Every Minute were one of the first show's to try this kind of thing on a prime time broadcast, but their choice of Skype meant the end result looked a little ropey.

Hangouts are by no means at their visual peak just yet, but they are using technology in a way that could open up an extremely exciting opportunity for global, cheap broadcasting, by both being fed into a live TV programme, like the news, or by broadcasting their very own TV programme, like The Fox Problem.

For the latter, this again adds to the game changing element for TV, as Producers will be able to able to create their own content and, provided they can fund it, deliver it themselves without having to get things signed off by the commissioners. For some this could be the ultimate in creative freedom, but for others the removal of the commissioning safety net might prove disastrous.

As for funding, the Hangout provides an opportunity to work with brands on a platform where data capturing is key to the production process, and where 16-24's can find content tailored direct to their needs. So broadcasting on a Hangout could create a very valuable space for advertisers.

I don't think Hangouts will be replacing traditional TV just yet, but incorporated into production in the right way means that Hangouts could provide a really exciting opportunity for live programmes to reach global production levels on a small amount of money. And when a show like The Fox Problem doesn't quite fit any one channel, it's now a possibility to create it's own instead.

Watch the experiment live on www.thefoxproblem.com, Tuesday 12th March at 7.30pm. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2847485 2013-03-10T07:22:41-04:00 2013-05-10T05:12:01-04:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/ National Apprenticeship Week, and it's likely that debates will be flying around about whether every young person should be made to do one to help tackle the chronic youth unemployment issue crippling a generation right now. In my view the answer to that is no - apprenticeships don't suit everyone so making them compulsory would only work for a proportion of the participants. But they should be given more importance amongst employers, as I believe they are the solution to many a young person's perils.

I was interested to learn that Raymond Blanc, the two star Michelin chef, has taken on 21 teenage apprentices to work at his Brasserie Blanc restaurants, both in London and across the UK. Together with London Mayor Boris Johnson, who let's be fair loves to jump on a good news youth story, they've issued a 'rallying call to the food and hospitality sector' to take on more young apprentices. Riding the good news wave or not, this is the right thing for Boris to be calling for, as Raymond has pledged that his apprentices will be assigned to a mentor as they are supported through training in both chef and front of house roles.

And here lies the key difference between giving these teenagers an apprenticeship over getting them in solely to wash pots. Mentoring, support, and training. The latter part of your teenage years are open to any number of derailments, and if you're leaving school with few qualifications and no desire or ability to continue with formal education, where do you go? The ridiculously high turnover of staff in many high street retail stores shows that big employers often want to fix the short-term problem of staff rosters with a short-term solution of employing unskilled labour at cheap rates. If I was 16 and going in to a job with minimal training, knowing that the sole objective of my being there was to keep the business ticking over until closing time that day, I know my motivation of doing well for both me and the company would be minimal. You'll still have to wash pots as an apprentice, but if you feel like you're doing that as part of something bigger and better for you long term, you're more likely to get scrubbing and get on with it.

I didn't do an apprenticeship, but I did a close second, which was a trainee scheme offered by my first employer. Six months of constant mentoring and moving around different roles, learning how things ticked and why my efforts made a difference to both me, my colleagues and the company. What did it give me? A genuine understanding of and appetite for the work place.

I have worked in companies of all different sizes since then, and have sadly seen some genuinely horrific ways in which first jobbers are treated. I am all of the belief of starting at the bottom and working your way up, but this is a massive difference to starting at the bottom and being kept there for the company's budgetary and HR reasons. No matter what your company's size, I know it is in most firm's realms of possibility to offer training and mentoring along side entry level employment, and whether it's billed as a London Mayor backed apprenticeship or not, I believe this would lead to lower staff turn overs, higher fulfillment for employees, and better prospects for teenagers entering the bottom rung of employment. The stats back me up on this too: 85% of apprentices stay in employment after finishing their apprenticeship, with 64% staying with the same employer.

Most young people are hungry for work. They're not shirking from an opportunity, they're searching for it. So I genuinely hope schemes like Messieurs Blanc's give them the opportunity they're in need of.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2512418 2013-01-27T11:45:25-05:00 2013-03-29T05:12:01-04:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
Where that nose becomes a nuisance is clearly subjective, but there does seem to be enough people around who will happily pay exceptional sums for exceptional food. And sadly some un-exceptional food as well.

With some trepidation I ordered my way through the Italian feast of a menu that Novikov offered last Sunday. First impressions were good, the food sounded stunning, but could a mid meal bowl of ravioli really be billed at £30? And a side order of peas at £7? Apparently so.

Novikov makes it easy for you to spend lots of money. The slick feel of it all, the alpine style décor, the overly indulgent table flowers. Everything reeks of excess, and lures you in to the extravagant mood you need to be in to begin.

Begin we did with a trio of cured fish and a herb seared yellow fin tuna. All pretty delicate and fresh, with good pairings of sharp flavours like fennel and capers. At £16.50 each this would have been a decent top end starter, but here it was more like a pre starter, as in true Italian style there were more courses than your average starter, main and pud.

Next followed the aforementioned £30 ravioli, justified by the fact that it was stuffed to the rafters with pheasant, making it the meatiest and fattest ravioli I have ever eaten. As it should be at that price. Mixing this up with an artichoke risotto made this a punchy pasta course to be proud of. The prices, so far, were justified.

Sadly standards seemed to slip a little as we moved on to the mains. The wood oven roasted pork was a dry old bite and came presented in an odd platter sort of dish that looked like it was left over from a family buffet - a slip to the un-exceptional that shouldn't be made for £24. Luckily our other choice of venison, seared and served pink with its intense flavour radiating out all over the place balanced it out, and priced at £35 felt like one of the most justified, albeit expensive, dishes on the menu.

Happily full we skipped pudding, but still managed to amass a hefty bill for three courses and some wine for two. If you have the money, go. The food is good, the service is slick, and the style of the place is fun and unintimidating. Plus you know what you're letting yourself in for when you trot your way up Berkeley Street, nodding gratitude to the porters who open doors along your way. But if you don't have the money, you could probably do better elsewhere. Sacrificing one of the courses would leave you feeling hungry, and this is an all or nothing kind of dining experience that should be embraced with enjoyment instead of wincing with worry. And yes, the peas really were £7. All 20 of them.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2511062 2013-01-21T19:00:00-05:00 2013-03-23T05:12:01-04:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
A couple of weeks ago, I was having dinner with a group of friends when the thank you letter chat cropped up. Two of us were reminding ourselves to get going on the Christmas round, debating how long you could leave it before it was considered rude. This prompted another friend to ask why we were writing thank you letters at all. Turns out, she's never written one, and has no intention of starting now.

The camp became quite divided. To write, or not to write? The non-writing half didn't consider not writing to be rude, they were more than happy thanking people either verbally or, at most by text or e-mail. The writing half however, had the thank you letter so ingrained into our psyche that the thought of not writing was positively filling us with fear.

One of the non-writers took it a step further, and the following day did a 'company wide' survey on whether or not one should write. Well this opened a can of worms she wasn't expecting. Not only were people fiercely split on whether to write, but how to write was also a major factor. Apparently cards that say 'thank you' were considered totally naff, over enthusiasm for the subject to which you're thanking was considered false, and even saying the words 'thank you' was considered bad form to some, who would rather you just implied your gratitude without actually directly expressing it. I assume she did thank people for their feedback, but presumably not by writing to them.

For some, time is the clincher in saying thanks. Writing a letter by return of post is a little too keen, whereas over a month after is bordering the too late. An ex friend of mine used to count the thank yous that came in after parties and would be more offended by a late sender than by someone who didn't send at all. Hence why she's an ex.

One thing is for sure - saying thank you is a nice thing to do. It makes you feel good, and makes the receiver feel valued. We may not subscribe to the hand written parchments of old, with ruler straight lines and wafty words of gratitude penned from inky quills, but we do still subscribe to basics of liking to give and liking to be thanked.

You've still got just enough time to get in those Christmas thank you's before even the most hardy of receivers would consider you too late. So however you want to say it, get going and say thanks.

Also on HuffPost:
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2421922 2013-01-07T16:45:24-05:00 2013-03-09T05:12:01-05:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
Why is it, that upon seeing a buffet, we completely disregard our life's worth of known food pairings and think that it is absolutely acceptable to mix and match without any consideration or consequence?

I was at a buffet the other day where I found myself pairing some sushi with a shepherds pie. I mean, WTF? Who in their right mind would ever walk in to a sushi restaurant with the intent of mixing tuna sashimi with minced lamb? But no, at a buffet it's fine to mash up a delicate salmon hand roll with some Bisto infused mashed potato and diced carrots.

And as for the Chinese section. Sweet and sour pork *only* ever works with stir-fried rice, however when in buffet mode it's apparently fine to mix with a lobster salad and a slice of quiche Lorraine.

Orders of courses also become strangely blurred at the buffet cart. Feel like starting with a chocolate log and then moving on to a chicken liver pate? Why the hell not. Fancy a mid course meringue with a slice of blue cheese? Go for it. Want to end with a tomato gazpacho topped with a devilled egg? What's stopping you, it's a buffet after all.

NO people NO! Stop yourselves. Why lose all sense of self-control and mutate into buffet munching morons who see nothing wrong in mixing a fish stew with a strawberry pavlova and half a lager shandy. If I tried to serve up any of these combinations at a dinner party my guests would have a field day at mocking my miss matched meal. But the same guests would not think a jiffy about it at an all you can eat chow down.

Good people. You're worth more than this. Fine to fill your boots but just remember it's probably all going to come back up after you've done a loop of the dancefloor at the back end of the conga line later on that night. You have been warned.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2381322 2012-12-29T13:24:55-05:00 2013-02-28T05:12:01-05:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
The same can be said for most things this time of year. It's all about cutting back after the excessive indulges of the past two, three, four weeks... year. My housemate caught me eating cheese covered in mayonnaise yesterday. I'd skipped the bread and was barely even chewing - just hell bent on getting as much fat into my greedy little gob as possible. It's got to stop.

Quite apt then really that we'd met to try out the new Ramen range at Yo! Sushi - their latest foray into the world beyond fish. Ramen, or posh broth as I overheard a (northern) neighbouring diner call it, holds lots of hype about being a clincher in the cleansing steaks. Not too sure that it could cleanse my friends sexual slate, but for my pooped out pallet and me, I was holding high hopes.

Five variations give a good range to get going on: Miso-Dare Chicken, Chasiu Pork, Five Spice Beef, Seafood Fishcake and a Vegetarian Bean, all served in the katsuboshi stock of fish, veg and lots of soy. Clean tasting, the right side of salty, and packed with monstrously moorish bits and bobs like marinated bamboo shoots and shiitake mushrooms make all five quite easy winners. A stray hard boiled egg weirdly pops up when you get digging deep, but if you brush over that you can carry on unscathed.

Working our way through them all we came up with a clear pecking order of favourites: the chicken wins for its marinated credentials of miso and hoi sin sauce, followed by the pork for it's juicy throw back that hits you in the mouth. Seafood and Bean made third and fourth, with the beef only bringing up the behind because it was slightly too tough. Still edible mind, just not exactly melt in the mouth.

The fun, however, began with the add ons - as my friends tales of debauched sexual exploits spiced up the chat, I spiced up the food with hot chilli oil and garlic puree. Now I'm no Gillian McKeith but you know that a meal is doing it's cleansing job when your nose starts to run and you begin radiating chilli through your eyebrows.

Coming in at £7 or £8 each, with a nod to British produce and free range credentials, you can't really go wrong for a quick eat over lunch or a cleansing de-brief through your friends year's worth of sexual encounters. As for that, I personally would be more concerned about my post Christmas addiction to mayo covered cheese than her slightly over active libido, but I get her reasons for wanting to take stock. It is New Year after all.

Ramen vs Hunger is available at Yo! Sushi until February 2013. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2169882 2012-11-21T05:30:51-05:00 2013-01-21T05:12:01-05:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
For those living under a restaurant shaped rock, you will not have noticed the launch of possibly the largest steak house in London, MASH, nestled inconspicuously on the corner of Brewer and Air St. in Soho.

The entrance doesn't say much, but the arrival two flights underground into the old 1930's Art Deco ballroom says it all. This is steak the way Mad Men would serve it. And I like Mad Men.

In what must be annoying for both the veggies and the ecos amongst us, steak is having its moment in the capital right now. With chains like Sophie's and Hawksmoor popping up in ever increasing corners, we're becoming spoilt for choice for places that do one thing, and do it well. That's what I was expecting with MASH, however it wasn't quite what I got.

Despite billing itself as a steak haven, the Modern American Steak House (get it?) actually does quite a few things well, on top of its steak. We started with fried squid, chillies and lime: crispy, crunchy and deliciously oozing in squid appeal. Those mixed with the snails and steak tartare made for a schmorgers board of starters to shout about. Plus the tartare was served with crisps meaning you could treat it like a meatier version of a humus dip - scoop in and gobble up - which when matched with a soft Pinot Noir meant I was officially living the dream.

But as for the main event: Jesus' steak. I often find myself getting a bit philosophical when eating great hunks of meat. Was it all worth it? Has the effort paid off? Did some poor cow die in vein for some over excited chef to frazzle the life out of it and evaporate away any flavour and texture in the process? Well, luckily for MASH, the cow and my over analytic self that day, it was worth it. All of it.

Melt in the moth doesn't quite do the Uruguay New York Strips justice. The steak kind of fell off my fork and dissolved into my tongue. In comparison, the Danish Ribeye was lined with layers of marble fat, giving it that tender chewy texture that made me feel like a real man. A man that had to chew for his supper. Gggrrrrr.

There's an impressive range of types of meat and cuts of steak on offer, and the sharing is caring style of service encourages mixing up your orders and swap shopping your way through. Far easier than the "shall we switch plates half way" type chat, which, let's be honest can get tense when steak is involved.

As for the MASH up of sides? The spinach was SO creamy it could have almost been a pudding, but when mixed with fat chips, skinny chips and winter greens it virtually made a meal in itself. All washed down with a punchier Malbec, the house red, which stood up well to the richness of the meal.

I tried resisting a pudding until the waiter dropped the Monbazillac bomb - my favourite sweet wine produced in South West France. It was all I could do to not ask for seconds, of both that and the chocolate whatever it was that ended things off perfectly.

Several things made this a winner. The fact that we ate for four hours but didn't feel stuffed to the point of exhaustion at the end of it. The fact that lunch rolled on from 2 to 6 without so much as a whisper from an impatient waiter. And that fact that my date and I got gradually more sozzled on an increasingly good range of wines. MASH might not be the cheapest lunch you can find in Soho, but Jesus himself would probably agree it is one of the best.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2102365 2012-11-09T13:29:24-05:00 2013-01-09T05:12:01-05:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
The problem is, most restaurants seem to reject the idea of adding a sausage to the main body of the dish at its inception, because they see the dish as complete without. A goat's cheese soufflé is a wonderful creation, but a goat's cheese and sausage soufflé? Possibly too much for some. A goat's cheese soufflé with a sausage on the side, however, is the perfect pairing. No one's committed to mixing their sausage with their goat, but the option's there to ponder for every mouthful.

In my honest opinion, a decent sausage is just about all a man needs in his mouth. And with the ever-increasing range in happy organic, hand reared, spoon-fed and sea salt scrubbed sausages on the market, now is the time to be side ordering yours. Here's a selection of my faves:

Roast, in Borough Market: These sausages make the grand old journey in from Wicks Manor, Essex, which is so close to the restaurant that you can virtually see the piggies playing in their luscious green fields. They're served pretty straight: classic, British, and oozing the 100% meat wow factor. I was here for breakfast recently and felt that the Tattie Scone (bacon, mushroom and egg in a scone type formation) just needed one on the side to finish it off. My date joined in as well, and word on the street is that she now loves a bit on the side too.

The Russet Café, Amhurst Rd, Hackney: This bustling little gem looks & feels like you're eating on an industrial estate. Then again, you are. But where a Wall's sausage might have once been the staple in this neck of the woods, The Ginger Pig sausage now proudly sizzles in the Russet's pan. Ahhh, The Ginger Pig: the bastion of the great British sausage. I'm considering asking for my birthday present to be sausage shaped and from this place. And yes, for the eagle eyed amongst you, that WAS their advert in the X Factor break... who knew.

Morito, Exmouth Market: A tapas twist on the conventional sausage, and luckily no need to worry about the 'on the side' rule here, as they come as their own little dish that's intended for sharing, but in all honesty is better ordered for one. Their Middle Eastern merguez has been spiced to within an inch of its life and tastes the dog's doo dahs for it. Great to eat with a cocktail stick over a glass of fizz whilst saying things like "yah, yah, meeja, I KNOW, yah..."

I HEART Sausage: That's a name, not a statement, and belongs to a mobile sausage stand also known as the Great British Sausage Co. They pop up just about everywhere, from festivals to airport terminals, complete with matching T-Shirts and coffee cup branding overflowing with innuendo. These are the Godfather of all sausages. Long, meaty, served with onions and sauce. There's no side action here as they're the main attraction - be warned, expect to queue.

The Draft House: This little chain of independently owned pubs which have popped up over London are all about great ale, but they serve the best range of sausages to munch on the side over a post work pint. Their Viennese Kaesekrainer is a scrummy variation on the norm, and tastes that much better by the fact that you can't eat it without getting half of it all over your face.

The list goes on but you get my point. A sausage on the side makes for great eating, as well as being a more interesting conversation starter and a sneaky test in customer service. Some restaurants just don't get it, especially when you order a veggie dish with a sausage on the side - that always throws 'em. Sometimes you have to ask pretty hard and justify your reasoning, but trust me; it's always, always worth it.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1851802 2012-09-03T10:00:57-04:00 2012-11-03T05:12:01-04:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
For example, I once took a blind date to a specialist seafood restaurant only to find that he was a kosher Jew, who unfortunately left early with offence at my repeated attempts to feed him shell fish.

And I once took a second date to an album launch in a members club in Mayfair, only to find he could not be trusted around the surprise royal guest, finally being ejected by security for trying to 'touch' Prince Harry.

In these mismatches of mildly amusing dates I've come across some corkers of some places, and think I've not got three good options for three different London occasions, gay, straight or in between, which could help anyone suffering from that great Date Place Conundrum. Or DPC, if you will.

First up - a drinking den. You know when you meet someone and bond over a common love of booze? It's often the staple and consistent ingredient that you can be sure to pull out the bag, knowing you'll stand a good chance of being warmly received. So for the drink lovers who want a bit of drink infused lovin' I'd start with the Experimental Cocktail Club in China Town.

Now, this is a bit of a mystery of a place to many as it's elusive to say the least. You can only book by e-mail, and you sort of have to casually loiter half way down China Town, looking aloof and semi cool as you try to find the hidden doorway, upon which stands an androgynous hipster, gently eyeing you up an down, presumably assessing whether you're more cock than tail.

Should your tails pass the test, you're then whisked upstairs into a 50's style American spirit den, and promptly asked what flavours you like while a smooth stubbled number shakes crushed ice behind the stainless steel bar. It's got 'look how impressive this place, and therefore I, am' written all over it, and will get you steaming to say the least.

If this is sounding a bit too far poked up it's own arse, which to be fair it is, then you could go for a trusted old favourite of mine, Balans Soho, which by contrast has about as much pretention as a boiled egg on toast.

The cocktails are strong, the menu is vast, and the waiters are cute. There's also pumping music and a great vibe to the place, making the whole experience a bit like going to a civilized nightclub which, instead of serving up a dance floor, serves up seared salmon and duck confits.

I also think Balans Soho holds something that is key to any date - enough distractions to occupy the evening should your conversation run dry. We all know the feeling - it could be the first date, you could be four in, and suddenly you just realise there's nothing left in the tank. Balans prime Old Compton St spot is thankfully ripe for people watching, so as a safety net to fall back on you can, if anything, sit, point and laugh at the oddity of the Soho scene.

If pretentious cocktails or high octane dining are not quite what you're looking for, then my third suggestion might tick a more romantic box, albeit weather dependant. Down on the Southbank there's a fantastic gourmet pizza company, called The Gourmet Pizza Company, which should be easy to remember. They do great take aways, and conveniently opposite lies one of the old piers, jetting out into the Thames.

There are few places in Central London where you can walk 100 yards from the hectic urban throw and find yourself on the middle of a completely calm, quiet and seemingly unnoticed patch of turf. This pier is one of them, minus the turf. It's got the city buzzing round it from every possible angle, with boats whizzing past and horns honking from a far, but sitting on the end of the pier with a pizza in one hand and a glad of red in the other feels like you've been lifted into the OC and are starring in your own little title sequence of a Dawson's Creek remake. And for a date, that's pretty good going.

As for some other amusing dates? Well, if anyone ever suggests the wind tunnel in Bedford I'd strongly recommend Googling before committing. But that's a whole other story, and not really one for now...]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1585152 2012-06-10T17:57:27-04:00 2012-08-10T05:12:07-04:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
Mine doesn't do it too often, and when she does she usually comes armed with a plan of a show, a service or a sight that she's been recommended by so and so in the village to go and see. Simple really.

The other day however, I unexpectedly found myself with a day to fill with mum, and had not a plan in sight.

Plunged into a mild panic, wanting to do more for the old gal than a mediocre meal and a potter round the park, I started to hunt out a quirky something to do on a Friday lunchtime that didn't involve the words Jubilee, Olympics or BYOB, which are branded around the capital a little too much for my liking at the mo.

Up popped La Porte des Indes, a ridiculously delicious looking French influenced Indian tucked just behind Marble Ach, offering not only lunch but also a 90-minute Indian cooking demo from their Head Chef. Organised fun AND a lovely meal? This could have easily gone one of two ways.

Despite my slight apprehension, it turned out to be pretty perfect. The whole 'taking mum on a group activity' initially worried me, with the threat of polite chitchat and cringe worthy team bonding type scenarios hanging over me like an open top tour bus in a heat wave. But I need not have worried. The place was brilliantly unique for something random, interesting, and not at all touristy.

We arrived into what felt like a Rajasthan oasis of tropical plants, with a cascading marble waterfall and colonial style Indian furniture poking out of every nook and cranny. "Just like being back in the Raj" one fellow diner quipped, Telegraph in one hand, g 'n t rattling in the other.

The ten of us there were whisked around the kitchens and given a lesson on the running of the service, which if you haven't ever been in to a 300 cover London eatery was a good insight in to how the swans legs keep frantically paddling underneath while her top half effortlessly glides between courses without so much as a feather out of place.

The demo then followed where we were first taught how to make a Chicken Samosa from scratch ("MUCH better than the Waitrose readymade" remarked the same lady, now on her second gin), followed by a Mangetout and Water Chesnut Masala and a Seafood Cassoulet, both perfectly spiced and heated so they were just the right side of hot.

For the cooks who care there's a lot to learn about food, and for the cooks who don't there's a lot to learn about accompanying wine. The course included a mildly eccentric wine connoisseur who handpicked two whites to go with the different dishes. I loved this part, for wine lists can be daunting at the best of times, none more so than when you're up town with mother trying to treat her to something special. So having an expert advise us on what grape packs the most punch with a pilau was the perfect finishing touch. Eccentricity even more so.

After the demo came lunch, a full on banquet of a tasting menu where the only choices we had to make were whether to go veggie or not. Which was handy considering we were now well into our bottle of Riesling, as sampled earlier during the demo. This style of lunch was perfect, with its numerous bite size portions of different dishes, eliminating our indecision so we could sit back and munch away at our leisure.

Six starters, six mains and six puddings later, Mum and I were done. Giggly from the wine, in awe of the chef and positively glowing from the spice, we had well and truly set ourselves up for that potter round the park. Plus we were given a cookbook and a sample of spices on our way out, should we feel the need to try and replicate these impeccable French-Indian fusions at home.

La Porte des Indes was a complete surprise. Don't be disillusioned by the average looking Indian on the corner that it hides away underneath. Once you venture inside, London is long gone, and if you have three hours to kill and a mother to entertain, treat her to a cooking demonstration and a slap up lunch, all for a very good value of £45 each. Mothers are totally worth it at the end of the day.

FATHERS do apply as well mind, and with father's day on Sunday 17th June you could book your old pops on to the next course on Friday 29th June- he'd love it for sure.

www.laportedesindes.com]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1210565 2012-01-17T11:34:11-05:00 2012-03-18T05:12:01-04:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
Last week I managed to miss a flight by one minute. This is, one minute from the gate closing to board the plane, which is a lot worse than one minute from checking in. I'd successfully managed to get my boarding pass, drop off my bag and go through security (being scanned for explosives and everything) before I was seduced by the smell of a nearby sausage sandwich. And so, with ketchup dripping from my mouth, I munched away oblivious to the calls for the one last remaining passenger to go to Gate 11, immediately.

When I did finally amble round to Gate 11, I was told plain and simply that the gate was now closed, and that my bag was being removed from the plane. Sure enough, looking across the tarmac, I saw a motorised trolley for one pull round to collect my belongings, and drive them back into the depths of the terminal. And so the monster was born.

What followed was a five minute tirade of tuts, huffs, and insults. Admittedly the insults were mostly of a mild nature, said under my breath, and delivered in an apologetic polite kind of way, but they were insults all the same. I had cast the memory of the sausage sandwich stop aside and was hell bent on a mission to defect the blame of my mistiming to anyone other than myself. And ashamedly, I did. A glitch in the shuttle bus scheduling meant that the airport took responsibility for my slower than normal travel time and gave me the next available flight for free. A victory, you might say, but in my post monster mood I was not feeling particularly triumphant.

The monster was previously unleashed during another airport incident late last year. Flying to a wedding in the sun, I checked myself in then bought myself some sun cream, only to have it confiscated at security two minutes later. It was 25ml over the 100ml hand luggage liquid allowance. Obviously this is a nationwide, government-enforced rule and one not to be messed with. Not so for the monster.

Fuming at what would be essentially throwing away £8.99 I decided to make a stand and try to argue that I had only just bought it. I even produced the receipt and pointed animatedly in the direction of the shop. Not content with their default response, I laid in to the ridiculousness of the rule, and questioned how an extra 25ml could be a security risk. Then, in a final act of utter monster defiance, I took the sun cream, opened it up, and started applying it to my face and arms. If I had to throw it away, I was at least going to get some of my money's worth.

Pasty faced, I boarded the plane in a post-monster mood and absently rubbed my eyes, thus touching them up with sun cream, which in turn made them water all the way to the Algarve. This time the monster had lost.

But it's not just air travel, and I know it's not just me. I've got numerous friends who, upon boarding a taxi, decide that they know an unquestionably quicker route than the tried and tested black cabbie. And in true monster fashion tell him or her so.

Then there's the people who get on a bus and without hesitation monstrously blame the bus driver for the fact that they either don't have credit on their Oyster Card, or don't have the right change to buy a ticket.

And then there's the train. God help all inspectors when the ticket less monster prevails. In tirades of abuse I've witnessed normally calm and decent people invent extraordinary reasons as to why they are not in possession of a valid pass, or why they bought their ticket using a railcard that they don't physically possess.

But what is it about being on the move that reduces us to normally inexcusable behaviour? It could be the time pressure we immediately feel from leaving the house. We've got a schedule, we've got an end goal, and nothing is going to get in our way as we strive to reach it. Or it could be the feeling that we've already lost before we've even begun. With all the ridiculous rules, policies and paperwork that autonomous travel workers have to follow, there is almost certainly a computer that is going to say no at some point during our all too often ill-fated journeys.

While the monster may make good viewing for fellow passengers at the time, or a good anecdote to tell friends later, with hindsight I'm pretty sure it just makes me look like a twat. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1187187 2012-01-06T06:24:23-05:00 2012-03-07T05:12:01-05:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
I'm not detoxing this year. In fact I'm happily tucking in to the cheeseboard that others now refuse. See, I kind of did my time in the world of detoxing a couple of summers ago, and we are talking serious detoxing here. For what seemed like a good idea at the time, I checked myself in to a week long residential Detox Retreat in the Midlands, where I was fed on liquid broths and vegetable juices thrice daily, whilst mildly patronising therapists cleansed, toned and sucked every last ounce of a toxin out of me. It was an experience that still haunts and amuses me greatly.

I remember arriving at my most toxic level of the summer, after a continuous month of festivaling had got the better of me, literally petrified at the thought of going without solids or wine for a week. I was met by Judy, the camp leader and the don of the detoxing world. Being at the top of her non toxic game meant she winced at words like coffee and booze, and heaven help anyone who got a Marlboro Light within arms length. Dressed head to toe in the Autograph collection from M and S, she reminded me of a born again Christian: friendly, smiling, and eager to listen. But even more eager to preach. And always in sensible shoes.

The preaching began on the tour round the farm, where all of Judy's detoxing tools were presented to her eager audience. The usual suspects were there (treadmill, sauna, juicer) plus a couple of more interesting ones, such as the Inversion Board, where you strapped yourself in and spun yourself upside down, thus hanging like a bat. She wasn't amused at my suggestion of renaming it the Batmobile. Wrong crowd I guess.

It was a funny old crowd come to think of it. There was the likely mix of detox hungry folk (stressed out mother of six, health-freak couple in their 30's, mother and daughter from Solihul who won two places in a competition) plus a wealthy and newly single 49 year old step Granny called Gail. It didn't take long for Gail to latch on to me, and it took even less time for her to start talking to me about the club scene in London. It was blindingly obvious that detoxing was the last thing on Gail's mind...but weary of the present company I held back from telling her too much about the Fires and the Fabrics of the world.

We ventured out from the farm once and once only to power walk our way round the village. Dressed head to toe in lycra with dumbbells swinging from our arms, I was conscious of how moronic we must have looked to the outside eye, and was thankful for the fact that it was too early for most of the village to be up. We did, however, meet one local dog walker who was keen to stop and share his grievances towards the retreat and all detoxers within. It turned out that the owners of the farm had invested a fortune in a bio composing eco organic sewage system, which not only involved an installation process of two diesel-fuelled diggers drilling for a month, but also left a lingering smell of faeces wafting through the village. Especially, the dog walker loudly exclaimed, as most of the detoxers tend to "crap their guts out" during their stay. Conscious of when our next 'movements' would occur, we all powered back into the safety zone and agreed not to leave it again.

With walking out we took up other forms of exercise, namely bouncing: 10 minutes, 10 people, 10 trampettes, and one bouncing DVD. Dylan (the virtual bouncing instructor) then put us through a series of repetitive bouncing routines, which got us all hot and bothered. I don't know if it's a trait of detoxers as such, but very few in the group had co-ordination, something that is essential for an effective use of a trampette. The worst bouncer was Maureen, a lovely older lady who had told her husband she was going away with bridge club for the week ("he's not in to all this new age stuff"). Poor love - one over enthusiastic bounce and she was catapulted sideways landing in a pile of inflatable exercise balls. Bruises like that don't happen at bridge, that's for sure.

The week ended with a couple of talks from Judy, entitled "Caring for your Colon" and "Fasting in the Fast Lane", which went straight over the heads of the now emotionally, mentally and physically defunct group. After seven days of only juices I think most of us were prepared to chew on a cows ear if it meant we could use our jaws again. Not even her lame attempt of a joke ("a bloody mary does NOT count as one of your five a day") could raise as much as a smirk amongst our broken and sorry souls.

And so, as you can now see, I have earned my stripes in the big bad world of detoxing and feel not a shred of desire to enter myself back into the ring. Been there, done that, and got the faeces infused t-shirt to prove it. Now where's my bloody mary? ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1112668 2011-11-25T19:00:00-05:00 2012-01-25T05:12:01-05:00

James Emtage http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-emtage/
The poor sods. I remember being young(er) and desperately trying to seek my first paid job. Then when I got it desperately trying to make that blow-the-whole-office-away first impression, which inevitably led me to making a bit of a tit of myself. And so, I've compiled a list of top three do's and don'ts that should help any intern or workie or newbie to a job survive the first week or two:

1. DO ask for a tour of the company.

There is absolutely no shame in being shown around, and as one friend of mine found, it will soon enough prove essential. Three days in to the job he had still not been given a tour, and was asked to run something up to accounts. A fairly simple request, if he knew where accounts were. After two wrong turns he mistakenly walked through a drop lock door and found himself locked in the cleaners' cupboard. With no phone on him, and apparently not one passer by, he sat there as helpless as a stranded lamb until 9.30 that evening when a gaggle of foreign ladies unexpectedly unleashed him from his pen. Matters were only to get worse, as one of the cleaners took on the role of group self defence leader and floored him with her mop handle, both winding him and giving him a black eye. To top it off, his employers had called his recruitment agency to complain of his unannounced walk out, and were promptly advertising for his replacement.

2. DON'T be afraid of an awkward silence around your boss.

Sometimes they like a bit of silence, and verbal diarrhoea will NOT lead to a verbal promotion, as another friend of mine was to learn. Discovering she shared a coincidental weekend commute with the senior director, she offered him a lift home in her filthy post-Uni Golf, covered in "Jesus loves you all but I'M HIS FAVOURITE" type window stickers.

Panicked by the fear of not looking professional, and by the three hour motorway drive with the man who could make or break her career, she spontaneously subjected him to an endless cycle of lateral-thinking puzzles and general knowledge conundrums. She even tested him on ones that she'd forgotten the answer to, though quite where she thought the pay off of those would be I don't know. Apparently he insisted on being dropped off at the end of his (mile long) lane, and has never since mentioned the commute again.

3. DO act on your instinct.

If you think you should do it, then do it. Even if it goes wrong, people will admire your conviction, as one friend found out a fortnight in to her new job when she was asked to take a senior client on a site visit to Scotland. Pleased to have "made it" into the inner circle of trust, she duly flew him in to Glasgow, and escorted him from A to B to C without so much as a whisper of a hiccup.

It was the flight home, however, when things started to go wrong. Checked in and ready to go through security, he asked for one last cigarette, which she agreed to and took him outside. There they stood, smoking away, when suddenly out of absolutely nowhere she screamed at the top of her lungs "SNIPERRRR!" Not content at that, she threw her fag to the ground and floored him. She properly launched her entire body weight at him, taking his 6'1" torso down with such force that she ripped his suit. Unfortunately, Glasgow airport had just the week before been victim to a major terrorist attack, so security was, as one would imagine, tight.

Straddled on top of him, she continued to scream the S word, and sensing his confusion she clawed away at his chest, pointing out the little red dot that was aimed right at his heart. "STOP. STOOOOOPP!" shouted the client, trying to get through her screams. "THAT'S NOT A SNIPER." As she withdrew her hands from his chest to take a closer look, she looked on in utter disbelief and embarrassment as he reached for his shirt pocket, calmly saying the words "that's my BlackBerry". Three years on and several promotions later, the office still call her Jack Bauer. ]]>