Having already been a massive fan of The Salt Yard and Dehesa I was very excited to see the opening of Blackfoot Butchers, a foray into retail by the team behind, quite possibly, the best two tapas restaurants in London.

Situated in pretty, paved Charlotte Place, just off Goodge Street, Blackfoot is a small, white tiled, gastronomes delight. The butchery side of things features a good variety of free range meat and game, including rabbit, pork, pheasant and various cuts of excellent beef. Meat is sourced mainly from the Home Counties and some from Devon. They also sell prepared meats such as delicious onglet – a traditionally French cut of beef, marinated in paprika and merlot vinegar - and make fresh pork sausages daily with fennel, chanterelle or herbs.

The deli counter serves a delicious selection of cut meats and cheeses, and nearly everything you can get in their other restaurants is available to buy here. On launch night we were treated to their fantastic padron peppers stuffed with sausagemeat, lamb chops which fell off the bone and some really excellent braised hare bruschetta.

It’s all about the meat here, so it’s certainly not an ideal place for a vegetarian – my carnivorous plus one was particularly taken with the still feathered pheasants and rather fluffy rabbits hanging in the window. It was nice to see a real butchers window display, as so many butchers and fishmongers seem to be closing down, unable to compete with the pseudo meat counters in overpriced supermarkets.

What I liked about Blackfoot Butchers was the knowledge of the owners, and the real excitement about quality and taste. They also make pesto, salsa verde and sell a number of quality wines, drinks, vegetables, olives and pasta.

Prices range from entirely reasonable to fairly expensive and they take orders for Christmas and cater for parties.  Anyone lucky enough to work in the locality can even nip in for the wonderful sounding parsnip and chorizo soup, or some of their freshly made sandwiches for lunch. For a pretty small shop it packs a meaty punch.

Blackfoot Butchers
14 Charlotte Place
Fitzrovia W1T 1SW

Tel: 020 7580 5096       
info@theblackfootbutchers.co.uk

Opening Hours: Monday to Friday - midday to 8 pm

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and feature.

No related posts.

A complete lack of exercise in my life drew me to Fulham’s Dance Attic Studios, along with a friend who wouldn’t take no for an answer. It’s hard to maintain the British ‘don’t care’ attitude when you’re gyrating in a room full of strangers to the Holly Valance version of Kiss Kiss. It helped that I could actually do it, I admit. No one likes to find out that they’re hopelessly inflexible and uncoordinated.

The hour-long Tuesday class at the studio began with some warm-up moves, which is where you find out exactly how Beyonce and Shakira do those things they do, and realise that they’re not so impressive after all. You also realise at this point that your arms have never really had much of a work-out before, as you snake them around like Cleopatra. “It should hurt a bit,” teacher Fleur Estelle calls helpfully from the front.  That’s a relief. 

We learn how to shimmy, and the wonderful thing about this class is that at least half of the women – and they’re all women – have those Turkish belly dancing skirts on, so the room is filled with the sound of light jangling metal and giggling. It’s a great way to feel less self-conscious about the fact that you’re wiggling your bum as fast as you can, while watching the fat on your stomach wobble in the mirror. 

“Let it all go,” beams Fleur, “it’s cathartic!”  She, of course, is absolutely tiny, with not an ounce of fat on her, and her T-shirt is pulled up so that we can see the precise movement of her hips along with everything else, so it’s easy for her to say.

After all this wriggling around, during which time the class has relaxed, we do some basic routine action, with our leader in front calling out instructions as we follow. It’s a lovely experience actually; you feel as though you have truly learned something and had a great time doing it. And if belly dancing’s not your thing, you can also learn ballet, salsa, Latin, ballroom, hip-hop, street dance and even breakdancing, all at beginner level if need be. And Fleur is an excellent teacher. I shall try not to begrudge her her flat stomach. 

Dance Attic Studios
368 North End Road
SW6

Tel: 020 7610 2055
www.danceattic.com

Image by Alaskan Dude courtesy of Flickr

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and feature.

No related posts.

Travelling on the London Underground can be a character building experience, to say the least. At times you can feel like a farm animal in a claustophobic pen, being pushed and elbowed into a corner, face pressed against pane, or worse still: into the pungent armpit of some stinking commuter. That’s not to mention the signal failures, suspect packages and extorionate fares that go with it.

So to get it off my chest I thought I’d share with you my top 11 reasons for loathing the London Underground:

1. The people who stand on the left-hand side of the escalator despite the fact they can clearly see that everyone below them is standing to the right. Does that not seem odd to them?

2. The same person looking highly offended/shocked when someone says ‘excuse me’, and then the subsequent overly dramatic look up and down the escalator to establish that, yes, they are the only idiot standing on the wrong side of the escalator

3. The fact that Transport for London can’t make the tubes cool even when it’s freezing outside

4. The people who stand in front of the end of carriage windows when it’s stuffy and don’t bother to open the window

5. Or the person who opens the window and then stands there fully blocking all the air that’s coming in

6. People who think, despite the fact it’s rush hour, they should still be able to stand and read a newspaper while you cram yourself into a corner

7. Tourists who leave their bags on the platform and then wander off, leaving the rest of us to nervously stare at the bag willing it not to explode

8. People who stop at the top of escalators – how stupid do you have to be to not consider all the people behind you needing to also get off. Move idiots!

9. People who get trapped in the ticket gates despite there being a luggage gate right next to them. Doh!

10. Idiots that don’t move down the carriage and then look shocked and offended when you barge past them with a loud ‘tut’

11. People.

What do you hate about travelling on the tube? Use the comments box below to share. Don’t be shy!

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and feature.

No related posts.

Like a modern Alice in Wonderland, getting to Brasserie Roux restaurant requires quite a journey: past a sanitised reception area - where one would assume ambience and character go to die - and through an expansive, marble, rabbit warren that is the Sofitel Hotel.

By comparison Brasserie Roux effectively capitalises on the spacious modernity of Heathrow airport’s terminal 5. The grandiose, oversized furniture may lead one to expect a dinner party hosted by the Mad Hatter himself; stylistically speaking it is provocative, exciting and comfortable. 

As if hired by a talented director casting for a naturalistic French play, the staff have clearly been selected on grounds of heritage, charm and cultural knowledge; able to discuss the menu as effortlessly as Stephen Hawking would varying constellations. The level of service is carefully monitored to ensure that the customer is never left hanging whilst being equally careful not to make them feel as overcrowded as an open can of puppy chow in a stray dog’s alley. 

In the spirit of GCSE revision sheets, the menu is written in both French and English; thankfully allowing for cultural resonance and ease of ordering. The gralinee l’oignon Normande - or the French onion soup with cream and cider - may be the most modest of entrees but its creamy texture should not be easily dismissed; it slides down the tongue with the enjoyment and ease of a daredevil child playing on a Vaseline-coated mega slide. 

A less salivating entrée, the salade de crabe a la moutarde et gelee de cucumbre (or the crab salad with mustard and cucumber jelly) is heavy on the jelly and light on the fish; a weighting that would prove far more appetising if reversed.  

An excellent meat dish not easily forgotten is the grilled fillet of beef (for two) with bordelaise sauce;  it is cooked to perfection, with The Gran Reserva Solar de Saman Rego providng the perfect full-bodied red wine accompaniment. 

Continuing in the sharing vein, proceedings are seamlessly rounded off with a delicious glass of port (Croft 2003) and cheeses for two. The ubiquitous-for-a-reason Camembert de Normande is always a safe bet that will not disappoint cheese fans, and the knowledgeable staff are keen to share their ample knowledge of the remaining, equally distinctive, fromage band members. 

The sparseness of clientele at Brassiere Roux may make one feel as uncomfortable as a Tourettes sufferer in a library, yet it’s important to revaluate one’s criteria when dining at the airport. This isn’t to say that hotel restaurants should aspire to be anything less than brilliant, but there are undeniable advantages for a French bistro located in the heart of Paris. 

It would be genuinely surprising to find the best French dining in terminal 5, but like a blind artist recreating the Sistine Chapel the chef at Brasserie Roux took on an almighty challenge, and he can sure stop the most adamantly sceptical taste buds in their tracks. 

Albert Roux’s Brasserie Roux
The Sofitel Hotel
Terminal 5
London Heathrow Airport

Photograph courtesy of Tara Fisher

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and feature.

No related posts.

So there it was, the long awaited, latest offering from the illusive Scott Walker. Although not performing, he was present, and the whole concept was essentially his brainchild: an evening of music and dance, which saw a number of excellent singers perform some of his most recent, and to be honest, less accessible works.

If you were hoping for renditions of the iconic ballads of the late Sixties that influenced a generation of musicians, you would have been disappointed. This performance was a combination of songs from the albums Tilt (1995) and The Drift (2006). Both complex, dark, almost harrowing works - and the evening followed that path.

The full orchestra and Scott’s band provided the music, and a host of guest vocalists gave their take on his songs. It was as much a visual as a musical spectacle. The Barbican theatre was in almost complete darkness and the stage stark and black. The songs were ‘acted out’ by dancers and some of the performers themselves, who included Jarvis Cocker, Damon Albarn, Gavin Friday, Michael Henry and Nigel Richards.

Jarvis Cocker opened, performing Cossacks Are from the Drift whilst reading a newspaper. Dot Allison sang Buzzers on an Island beneath a tree made of coat hangers, her beautiful vocals contrasting with the lyrics of the song. The atmosphere was so tense it bordered on comical.

Probably, the most shocking part of the performance was the rendition of Clara from The Drift. Owen Gilhooly gave an amazing performance, especially considering he sang the whole song lying on his back, below a noose. The percussion was provided by a boxer hitting a real pig carcass that was strung up from the ceiling, surely not an easy thing to watch in anyone’s book?

The evening came to a close with some relatively light relief. Damon Albarn, once famous for his cheeky Brit pop persona, performed Farmer in the City. Dressed as a farmer, complete with Wellington boots, he was flanked by two men in huge masks with grass hair acting out the ‘Do I hear 21’ auction. Although the least operatic, Albarn’s performance was a real highlight and his voice seemed to suit the song perfectly.

The performers took to the stage two or three times to rapturous applause; but as they gave a final bow there was a definite anticipation that the man himself may appear. We waited with baited breath, but he remained illusive. His talent behind the evening was clear for all to see though, and this musically brilliant assault on the senses will be difficult to forget.

Drifting and Tilting – The Songs of Scott Walker - last show Saturday 15 November
Barbican Centre
Silk Street
London EC2Y 8DS

Box Office: 020 7638 8891

Image courtesy of The Barbican

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and feature.

Related posts:

1. Brighton Comes to London via Edinburgh
2. Theatretrain at the Royal Albert Hall
3. The Bloomsbury Festival 2007 - Blooming Marvelous

As a freelancer I work here, there and everywhere, and my current contract means I have to drive to work, gritting my teeth against the torture of traffic on the north, then south circular (which is a whole other rant altogether) and make the unfortunate shlep across town to Shepperton Studios: Destination Nowhere.

This journey is often a four hour round trip. The actual problem unfortunately is that on my arrival to my car the other morning I find a Penalty Charge Notice slap bang in the middle of my windscreen. Oh dear.

The situation is this: I live in the glorious Islington district (trendy Upper Street to my left, villagey Highgate to my right) but I’ve downed tools in the slightly less glamorous part of Islington: Holloway Road (prisons included), which is not only the more hostile cousin of the above inspiring areas, but is annoyingly in the parking catchment zone for the Arsenal Stadium punters. To avoid parking hell and an overrun of thunderous supporters each with their own cars (and horns for that matter) Islington Council enforces parking limitations on match days. Gulp.

So it is a Tuesday, I acclimatise from a long and relentless drive home as I reach my street; I don’t need to buy a ticket as the pay and display times stop at 18.30 on weekdays. Watch check - perfect its 19.45. I park up and check my windows and doors are locked (you can’t be too careful in this area). I am home to eat, sleep and be merry.

Wednesday morning - I scurry to my car past the creepy, staring café owner, I am only aware of the bitter cold and the joyous fact I am already five minutes ahead of schedule, but unaware of the fine awaiting me, devilishly given out by a (probably) bored Civil Enforcement Officer.

The painful part of this story is the actual punishment in pounds of my accidental parking actions. “A penalty charge of £120.00 is now payable…if the penalty charge is paid no later than the last day of the period of 14 days…the penalty charge will be reduced by 50% to £60.00.” What? How much???!!!

In my shaky defence, Arsenal’s little men normally kick that silly ball to each other on their big green field on a Wednesday, not a Tuesday, plus I hadn’t heard any whispers anywhere of a match at all and I can normally hear the roar of the crowds on a Wednesday evening. But silence. Nothing. No incoherent chants echoing down the street, no extra crowds hanging around the kebab shops making a mess, no drunken fools staggering home with joy (or defeat depending on the result).

Does it make me a small child if I feel compelled to scream out loud “IT’S NOT FAIR!!!”?

Since arriving in the office I am still fuming and am sure I can hear whimpers from the innocent cards in my wallet who are scared at the thought of shelling out that amount of money on a silly mistake, rather than treating themselves to the lovely plum mascara at Benefit they’ve had their eyes on for weeks.

My mood is not lifted when a colleague guffaws and states that “everybody knew it was the first round of the Cup last night.” Well I didn’t. And I will have to pay at least £60, if not £120 for my lack of football knowledge!

I have decided to challenge this ludicrously expensive charge. As you can see from the above I don’t exactly have a concrete argument. Damn. But I’ll give it a go, I will send my sentiments to parking.appeals@120englishpounds and hope they take pity on my inabilities to hold an interest in football matches.  

As a Holloway resident I should obviously be able to run-off the dates and times of all matches this season. I will have to do my research in the future, which really riles me; I am a Researcher by trade. Grrrrrrrr.

Irritability rating ***** stars.

Image by PSD courtesy of Flickr

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and feature.

Related posts:

1. The Garden State - London’s Best Beer Gardens
2. Dehesa: No Longer Soho’s Best Kept Secret
3. Brick Lane’s Chilli Crab Festival

The world of Japanese car design set against the backdrop of Japan’s unique culture is being explored in a sophisticated new exhibition at the Science Museum from November 29.

Japan Car, an exploration of the car as a “mobile cell”, has been conceived by two world-class names: Kenya Hara, the man responsible for much of the success of Muji, and Shigeru Ban, the distinguished Japanese architect currently designing a new satellite gallery in Metz for Paris’ Pompidou Centre.

The exhibition, sponsored by seven Japanese car manufactures, shows how Japanese car design reflects the ‘soil and the spirit of Japan’, shown through concept cars and special home market models. Japan Car will explore three themes while examining the future of mobility in cities. Japan, being both highly innovative and densely populated, can be seen as the driving force behind transport solutions for 21st century cities. 

As an exhibition of cars, alongside Japanese bonsai, art and design, Japan Car will display 14 unusual cars from the past decade and conceptual models, including the Nissan PIVO2 and Toyota i-REAL. When entering the exhibition, visitors will be greeted by an intriguing display of small model cars juxtaposed against live bonsai trees, the model cars taking the place of the natural stones which the Japanese often use to accompany bonsai trees.

A specially commissioned painting by Akira Yamaguchi will conclude the exhibition. Yamaguchi’s work uses traditional Japanese painting techniques to convey his vision of the future of mobility.

Japan Car
November 29, 2008 – April 19, 2009

The Science Museum is open daily from 10am to 6pm. 

For more information call 0870 870 4868 or visit www.sciencemuseum.org.uk

Image by Gaetan Lee courtesy of Flickr

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and feature.

Related posts:

1. Jack’s Back: The Ripper Returns to London
2. London’s Art Fair Week: The Future Can Wait
3. Capturing the Mood of the Moment

It was recorded many centuries ago, in 1222 - two years after Henry III’s coronation on the night of November 30 - of dragon-like forms soaring through the pallid skies over London.

These beasts often appeared during times of great thunderstorms. Such documentation may have been hazy and mythical or today more connected to the phenomena of unidentified flying objects, but in the 1700s reports were far more credible of such beasts over the capital.

Dragons are monsters we have become aware of since the dawn of our origination, and despite their folkloric connotations, they are very much part of our history, and possibly our countryside, even if as simply magical forms never really understood.

The Gentleman’s Magazine once gave mention to an incredible encounter commenting: “In the beginning of the month of August 1776, a phenomenon was seen in a parish a few miles west of London, which much excited the curiosity of the few persons that were so fortunate to behold it.

“The strange object was of the serpent kind; its size that of the largest common snake and as well as could be discovered from so transient a view of it, resembled by its grey, mottled skin. The head of this extraordinary animal appeared about the same size as a small woman’s hand. It had a pair of short wings very forward on the body, near its head; and the length of the whole body was about two-feet. Its flight was very gentle; it seemed too heavy to fly either fast or high, and its manner of flying was not in a horizontal attitude, but with its head considerably higher than the tail, so that it seemed continually labouring to ascend without ever being able to raise itself much higher than seven or eight feet from the ground.”

Hardly the archetypical dragon we’ve come to know since legends of St George and fantasy stories. However, such an incident was not a one-off, for the magazine once again in 1797 reported another winged serpent account, from June 15 between Hyde Park Corner and Hammersmith.

The witness, only known by the initials JR wrote a letter to the magazine to speak of the encounter, stating, “…the body was of a dark colour, and about the thickness of the lower part of a man’s arm, about two-feet long…the wings were very short and placed near the head. The head was raised above the body. It was not seven or eight-feet above the ground.”

Just what weird creatures were being seen around the capital during this particular time? Or, had the magazine simply created the monsters themselves, but surely in doing so, wouldn’t they have manifested a far fiercer, fire-breathing scaled anomaly?

Who knows when the next flying beast will make its presence known over the capital, but for now, we must surely stand in awe at the statuesque dragons in areas such as The Embankment, and wonder just what inspired such forms to guard the world’s most historical city.

Image by Lilly courtesy of Flickr

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and feature.

Related posts:

1. The Mysterious Beast of Brentford
2. Do Big Cats Roam the Outskirts of London?
3. A Sanctuary in Oxford Circus

Some people choose to substantiate their existence with capital gain, social standing and a career descent that gives us mere 9-5er‘s severe social vertigo. 

21st century Britain is still a mere infant, growing up without its predecessor’s religious coherence, choosing to substitute family values for gang culture, drug abuse and promiscuity. Dangerous propaganda masquerades as rap and pop music encouraging teenage girls to jiggle like a dashboard Hawaiian dolly; seemingly begging for sex like a ravenous wolf blowing at the piglet’s door. 

Dog-shit-ripe with social anxiety it’s no wonder we have evolved into a spiritually concave and emotionally vulnerable nation (and moreover generation) that is in more denial than charity workers who claim to ‘do it for others and never their own personal satisfaction’. No place is the void more prevalent than London; the capital and therefore the recalcitrant zit for concentrated perniciousness on Britain’s increasingly directionless face.

My boyfriend’s face is like a gnarled Etch-a-Sketch image: each new premature line and negative expression tells of a life that London has drawn upon him; he has become unknowingly subservient to its needless decay.

Reaching for the tangible ‘I’ve made it’ rather than the non-corporeal spirituality which tells us ‘we don‘t have to make it‘, it’s becoming as easy to undermine the structural unity of our personal existence as it is to topple a block of flats based on a foundation of Haribo and birthday wishes. How are we to remain centred  when we are grounding ourselves around unstable concepts such as property, relationships and careers? 

In the 21st century ‘purpose drought’ we are all clawing for a reason to exist. Any good psychotherapist will tell you that people need purpose in order to live happily. If you know that you must pray to the East twelve times a day or roll naked in crucifixes once a month whilst eating only bibles then you have a purpose, a religious destiny. 

But if, like me, you regard religion as the original weapon of mass destruction (or at least a highly effective catalyst) and have as much enthusiasm for climbing ‘the ladder’ as City boys have for cocaine abstinence, then how do you repair the indelible holes in your purpose pockets? You can endeavour to stitch these holes via superficial means (drink, drugs, sex, money in the bank, two bedrooms overlooking the Thames) but you will have more long-term success selling rationality to the Taliban.

When moving to London, the capital city, the express till of dreams, one assumes that a greatly fulfilling destiny is as keen to mount us as a crack-addicted prostitute climbing into a chauffer-driven Bentley. Void of any semblance of direction we have created the worst religious following of all - hyper-capitalism as a reason to exist. This is not sustainable, not healthy and most of all not worthy of our great potential as human beings. Please, I beg of you, take stock and re-order your ‘list of importance’. In this period of financial concern, what better time to find real self worth.

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and feature.

No related posts.

It has been said that 2008 was not the best year for the Edinburgh festival. However this play, Pebbles on the Beach, was one of the highlights and has transferred down to London for a short run at The Old Red Lion Theatre, Islington. 

Written by Joanna Pinto and directed by Timothy Hughes, the Weaver Hughes Ensemble presents this complex and moving exploration - mostly set in Brighton - of the life-long impact of adoption.

This theatre is a real gem. Above a bustling pub in Islington, the tiny room consists of three rows of comfy seats complete with plush red cushions. The place is so tiny; you have to walk across the pebbles on the set to get to your seat, and once it starts you feel you are part of the play. But this just adds to the intensity of the evening. The proximity of the performance, the clever lighting and the emotional content has the whole audience gripped. Yet, despite the intimacy of the venue and the intensity of the material, the atmosphere manages to remain relaxed.

At the centre of the play is Leo, played by the talented Michael Armstrong. Now 27, he was told by his father (Ian Draper) at age 11 that he was adopted. This bombshell was dropped on a family day-trip to the seaside. The ensuing feeling of rejection, and the typical story of father/son repressed emotions, leads to the breakdown of the relationship, and all Leo has left are letters and postcards of useless advice, void of emotion.

Leo now finds himself back on a beach, this time in Brighton. Trapped here on a journey of self discovery, he continually searches for answers to the questions that have been haunting him, in a desperate bid to define himself.

As if he is dreaming, key figures from his life (played by Annabel Cleare and Jenny Rowe) appear on the beach. Gradually his past is pieced together as he re-lives his own memories and the memories of those close to him. All these little things, the pebbles on the beach, come together to make Leo realise who he is, but is it too late?

A difficult subject to approach and at times not an easy play to watch, Pebbles on the Beach is an emotional yet beautiful portrayal of the lasting effects of regret and missed opportunity. The peppering of humour, including a quirky reference to the parenting issues raised in Star Wars, is a welcome relief from the dark subject matter. The intimate theatre and the simple set design ensure that the cast are the focus. Their powerful performances and the emotional interaction between the characters carry this off perfectly.

Pebbles on the Beach is showing until 22nd November 2008

Old Red Lion Theatre
418 St John Street
London EC1V 4NJ

Box office: 020 7837 7816

Image courtesy of the Weaver Hughes Ensemble

This post is from The London Word and should not be republished elsewhere without prior permission. Please check out our site for more great stories and feature.

Related posts:

1. All About Her Mother: ‘Well’ at Trafalgar Studios
2. Memory: One at the King’s Head
3. Timothy Leary’s Six Wives at Riverside Studios