Jersey Boys

‘Come back when you’re black’, says a record producer, before carelessly slamming the door in the faces of the hopeful, white four-piece band trying to make it big in Sixties’ America. Whether this encounter actually happened or not is left unsaid, but either way it’s funny because that record producer got it so wrong. Little could he have known that this band would go on to inspire one of the best tribute musicals of recent years: Jersey Boys.

Oh, what a night. From start to finish this jukebox musical based on said Sixties band, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, hits all the right notes.

It all starts with a bit of a wobble, as a tracksuited guy performs a modern-day rap of a song called ‘Ces soirees-la’. Just as the audience begins to wonder if they’ve got the right show, Tommy DeVito, one of the band’s original members, turns up and explains the rap is a cover of their famous hit, December 1963 (Oh What a Night).

And from then on, the musical doesn’t look back. Hit after hit is churned out, a conveyor belt of feelgood hits from ‘Oh, What a Night’ and ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’ to ‘Bye Bye Baby (Baby Goodbye)’, ‘Walk like a Man’ and ‘Sherry’. It would take a hard, cynical soul not to be willingly bundled along on this infectious tide of enthusiasm. There were a lot of bottoms, young and old, swaying in their seats. Not bad for a band that took their name from a bowling alley that rejected them from a job.

The action is cleverly and chronologically structured into four seasons, each narrated by one of the four band members (Tommy DeVito is spring; Bob Gaudio, the band’s prodigious songwriter, is summer; Nick Massi, the Ringo of the band, takes autumn, and Franki Valli narrates winter). It’s a slick device (hats off to script writers Marshall Brickman and Rick Elice) that adds spice to the band’s rags-to-riches story.

Not that it needs it. The band’s real-life background is a drama in itself – a whirlwind of jail cells, criminal records, and connections with the mob. What makes it even juicier is the fact the script is based on interviews with the real Four Seasons. When it came to DeVito, the band’s troublesome founding member, his version of events was completely different to the other three – practically handing the scriptwriters the storyline on a plate.

It makes for fascinating viewing. As each original band member confides his version of the story, the audience gets a range of viewpoints. In doing so, the story perfectly captures the thrills of life on the road, the girls, the drugs, the rock n roll of making it big. There’s real heart and humanity here, made better by the inventive staging. Bright pop art fills the screens above the stage, and authentic black and white footage of their screaming fans is cleverly mixed into a real-time feed of the cast performing.

Of course the slick storyline would be scuppered if it weren’t for this spot-on staging of the songs. Director Des McAnuff gets this right, too – smoothly weaving their hits into impressively fast-paced action. For four Italian-Americans from the wrong side of the tracks in New Jersey, the Four Seasons certainly cleaned up their act for their mainstream listeners. They might have walked like men, but they didn’t sound like them. Their bright, dapper suits and trademark elongation of every vowel (cry-yi-yi) is a case in point.

Ryan Molloy is the embodiment of Franki Valli (born Frankie Castellucio), all soaring falsettos and leading man charisma. There are also mega-watt support performances from Jon Boydon as the reckless and dynamic DeVito, and Edd Post as the educated Bob Gaudio. Even David McGranaghan captures the quiet Nick Massi who fades from the band.

There’s a reason why Jersey Boys is still around, seven years after it first swept up Tony Awards on Broadway. If a good musical is defined by a great storyline with cracking gags and a repertoire of catchy hits, then Jersey Boys has it all. That’s why it’ll be a long time before the West End waves Bye Bye Baby (Baby Goodbye) to this smash hit. 

For tickets, visit http://www.showsinlondon.co.uk/show/jersey-boys

Viva

Forget Girl Power. In spite of a promising script rewrite, Viva Forever! still lacks attitude. Sure it’s fun, frothy and full of the good old numbers that’ll have you bopping in your seat, but as musicals go it’s below par. Imagine Geri with the flu, Victoria in a bad outfit, or Sporty Spice on crutches. In short, it’s a limp effort.

That’s not to say it isn’t entertaining. It is. The problem with Viva Forever! is the public’s phenomenal expectations. The Spice Girls dominated the 90s, and the childhood of every girl my age. Their songs weren’t ground-breaking (‘I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazig ah’ isn’t exactly inspired) but it didn’t matter because they were the mouthy, energetic girls who did things like pinch Prince Charles’ bum. 

So basing a storyline around their brassy repertoire was never going to be intelligent theatre. Jennifer Saunders certainly hasn’t tried to draw a clever narrative arc – either in her old script or in this rebooted version. In fact, the plot is weak at best, convoluted at its worst. Accept that you’re in for 2 hours of dross theatre, and you’re sure to be entertained.

The story goes like this: a talented girl called Viva is in a girl group called Eternity, who make it through to the final round of TV talent show Starseekers (X Factor, anyone?). But in a surprise twist, her mentor and judge, Simone, forces her, live on air, to go through solo, and ditch her friends in the process. Will Viva ever realise that friendship never ends?

Meanwhile, back on her mother Lauren’s hippy houseboat, we learn that Viva is adopted, and that Lauren is some sort of uber feminist type from the 1980s who has never owned a television and shunned a normal house on land in favour of a ‘Rosie and Jim’ existence. There seems to be a suggestion that Lauren might detest the idea of her daughter finding fame on a mainstream programme, and becoming a manufactured pop star – but unfortunately Saunders never delves far into this storyline, and a lot is left unsaid. Shame. 

And that’s what holds Viva Forever! back. The building blocks of a decent musical are all there, but Saunders seems too intent on writing a funny script to actually bother drawing her characters or explore anything worthwhile. But the script’s not funny enough. Lauren and her best friend Suzi are sex-starved old alcoholics – sound familiar? Hello Patsy and Edina, but without the Ab Fab wit. Most of the time, they’re just plain cringe.

The funny moments are few and far between, but when they do come along they remind you of Saunders at her best. In particular, the tongue-in-cheek rendition of ‘2 Become 1’ sung by Lauren (Sally Ann Triplett) and her fumbling lover Mitch got a lot of laughs, and there were sparky performances from the likes of Hatty Preston as Simone’s Bubbles-like assistant, Minty.

Sadly, though, these entertaining moments don’t detract from the weak performances. Hannah John-Kamen looks the part, but she’s really quite bland as Viva, and the same could be said of her fellow indistinguishable girl-groupers, Lucy Phelps, Dominique Provost-Chalkley and Siobhan Athwal. Sally Dexter valiantly injects life into Simone, but at times she was guilty of crude overacting, and Tamara Wall is grating as bimbo judge Karen. 

No surprises, then, that these stars murder the songs. The opener, Wannabe, is like a really bad audition on Britain’s Got Talent – lots of embarrassing dance moves and backing dancers trying too hard to get noticed. Halfway through, the action ups sticks to a clichéd Spain, presumably so they can fit in ‘Spice up your Life’, and at one point they desperately borrow one of Geri’s solo ‘hits’. ‘Headlines’ and ‘Say You’ll Be There’ are good - but in the end, not good enough. 

As I said, this musical isn’t terrible – it’s just worth lowering your expectations. If you just want to sing-along to the Spice Girls then you’d be better off staying at home, putting on their greatest hits, and dancing around your bedroom. That’s girl power. 

For tickets, visit http://www.showsinlondon.co.uk/show/viva-forever

The Connaught

It’s 3pm in a decadent restaurant in London’s Connaught Hotel, and my eyelids are getting heavy. In an hour, I’ll be back home fast asleep on the sofa. As it is, my upholstered seat is so comfortable I could cat nap at the lunch table. Ordinarily, I’d be sitting at my desk at work, wishing I’d eaten more than a measly salad for lunch and contemplating the office biscuit cupboard.

But today is a special occasion, and that’s why I’ve just lunched myself into a food-induced coma. Though can you really blame me, when the restaurant in question doesn’t just boast one Michelin star, but two? That’s the level of cooking one has come to expect from head chef Hélène Darroze, a disciple of Alain Ducasse, and the culinary star that lends this restaurant its name.

In an age where chefs are revered as celebrities, it’s surprising that Darroze has managed to keep such a low profile. There are just a handful of women who have earned multiple Michelin stars, and Darroze is one of them. In Paris, she has one star; here in London, she has two. More remarkable still is how quietly her eponymous restaurant at the Connaught Hotel flies under the radar. Since it first opened back in 2008, it has divided opinion. A minority sees it as too French and too fussy, while others praise it for its incredible menu and thoughtful detail.

All I can say is ignore the minority opinion. Hélène Darroze’s eponymous Connaught restaurant is the rightful owner of those two stars. From the moment you walk in, it’s a study in fine dining. Dark wood panelling and muted upholstery set the tone – sophisticated, elegant, but restrained. The service is in the same vein: yes it’s eeencredibly French, but it’s charming and impeccably polite, too.

And then there’s the food. Oh the food. If Gordon Ramsay’s cuisine is a comforting thick-knitted jumper, then Hélène Darroze’s is sleek cashmere. The experience kicked off with a basket of fresh warm bread and butter (salted or non-salted, we could take our pick) and a dainty amuse of foie gras brulee laced with peanut butter that positively revved our tastebuds.   

Then came the first course. Unaware of my unbilled pre-starter delight, I had ordered the ridiculously decadent dish of foie gras balls rolled in black truffle. Overwhelming as the dish sounds, the foie gras was deliciously smooth, and cleverly offset by sharp apple, celeriac and shards of grilled toast. My companions, meanwhile, went for the Norwegian spider crab (which came with a shellfish consommé and a metal straw), and the veal sweetbreads served with Jerusalem artichokes and sautéed calamari. Though all three dishes were overwhelmingly rich, the flavours were exquisite. Already we were feeling distinctly full.

Our main course was equally considered. While I had Scottish Blue Lobster with shavings of Pata negra ham and sun dried tomato, all served on a bed of what was, in essence, macaroni cheese (the best mac and cheese I’ve ever had, no less), my dining pals went for the roasted black pork and a delicate side of mashed potato with black truffle. It’s just as well this dish was for two guests: it was so enormous it arrived on a trolley of its own. Food fatigue was beginning to set in.

A decadent pudding of exotic fruits and meringue, chestnut rum baba soaked in a 1989 whisky, and rhubarb crumble would have been the big finale, had it not been for a selection of petits fours chosen from a trolley laden with candies and macaroons. As if we weren’t full enough, we even got a mini takeaway chocolate cake each.

Though this meal fully lived up to expectations, be prepared to splash out. Forget the menu, the impressive wine list is also aimed at clientele with large pockets. The Connaught is the sort of place where silver cloches are ceremoniously lifted from your plate, and our bill was a whopping triple figures (that’ll be down to our choice of wine). If you can look past the expense, and dig deep, then here’s one final word of advice – especially if you go for lunch. Clear your afternoon schedule. The food here is so rich that chances are, like me, you’ll leave content - but in desperate need of a nap.

http://www.the-connaught.co.uk/mayfair-restaurants/helene-darroze/

Bramble

It’s strange, but finding Bramble, one of Edinburgh’s most celebrated bars, is a bit like searching for a needle in a haystack. To locate it again, you have to have been there before, and have its entrance mapped in your head. Unmarked and underground, it almost feels like it doesn’t want to be found. But when you do find it, memorise how you got there because, chances are, you’ll want to come back.

Luckily I was with someone who knew where to go. We turned up late on the Saturday evening over Easter weekend- only to be politely turned away because of overcrowding. So much for this bar being top secret. Fortunately when we returned over an hour later, it was less busy. And soon it became clear it was worth the wait.

 The reason is simple. Walking into Bramble is a bit like stumbling into a cosy, quaint cave. Small and warren-like, it nestles underground with exposed stone walls and tight nooks and crannies. In the dim fairy light, we made out a bed here, a soft sofa there, and a handful of small antique tables and mismatched chairs in between. There’s no denying it. The place has atmosphere.

Not that it needs it. Here in this dark basement, the bartenders (complete with bow ties and buckets of charm) know the real meaning of a good cocktail and it’s worth the trip for these alone. Without taking themselves too seriously, these bar staff turn mixology into something of an art form.

The menus, disguised in old book covers, brim with a range of aromatic concoctions - and it seems especially aimed at those who like their gin. I chose the Mint 500, a delicious cocktail made from Hendrick’s gin, elderflower cordial, mint, basil, apple and lime juice, Fee Brothers peach bitters, and a smattering of vanilla sugar - served in a teacup perched on a wine glass stem. If it felt like we’d fallen down the rabbit hole, the menu certainly agreed - my friend ordered A Most Unusual Drink (gin, cucumber, like juice and rose water), which turned out to be not only most unusual but most extraordinary, too. Throw in the cavernous atmosphere, and we had ourselves a cocktail wonderland.

Another cleverly crafted tipple is Tom Foolery, a potent poison of Fifty Pound’s Gin, Laird’s bonded applejack, apricot brandy and freshly squeezed lemon juice and soda. Half of these ingredients I had never heard of - let alone tasted - but I now know that they compliment one another perfectly. A problem with the card machine would later earn us a few apricot brandy shots on the house - turns out that tastes just as good on its own, too.

Best of all, if you can get a seat near the bar, not only will you receive excellent table service, but you’ll have the perfect view to watch the expert staff whip up incredible cocktails in the time it takes to say Gin & Tonic. With drink prices firmly between £7.00 and a tenner, this is a fun and relatively affordable spot to spend an evening. Just make sure you don’t arrive too late. Despite its best intentions to remain hidden away, Bramble might just be Edinburgh’s worst-kept secret.

http://www.bramblebar.co.uk

Yalla Yalla

Tucked away down a tiny lane off Soho’s Brewer Street is a Lebanese street food eatery, and it’s a real gem. So famed it is for its delicious Middle Eastern dishes, that Yalla Yalla regularly has queues snaking out the door.

And it’s easy to see why. This bijou spot is small but utterly charming, and a cosy place to grab a bite to eat. Less than ten tables are rammed into the space, so the vibe is more takeway café than fully-fledged restaurant. It’s got atmosphere, though, with black and white photos of old Beirut lining the whitewashed walls, and acid pops of yellow (yellow cushions, yellow lamps, even yellow menus) livening up the wooden décor.

Roughly translating as ‘Hurry up’, Yalla Yalla is true to its name. It was packed when we turned up, but once seated the service was speedy and brought one delicious dish after another. We ordered a selection of impeccable mezze dishes, beginning by jazzing up piping hot pitta bread slices with Hommos Shawarma, a warm chickpea puree topped with marinated slices of lamb. 

Then came grilled halloumi, its smoky flavour neatly offset by tomatoes and black olives, all garnished with a sprig of fresh mint, before we jolted our tastebuds with Soujoc, spiced little Lebanase sausages with tomato, parsley and a kick of lemon juice. The Manaee’sh lamb added to the fire, delicious and spicy pastries stuffed with minced lamb, onions, tomatoes and curiously sweet pomegranate molasses. The grilled chicken was juicy and full of flavour. These mezze dishes look small, but don’t be fooled by their size – by the end we were so stuffed, we couldn’t even contemplate the warm baklavas for dessert. 

At roughly £15 a head, Yalla Yalla is great value, too. It’s fun but affordable – and in London that’s a winning formula.

 http://www.yalla-yalla.co.uk

Once

At first it’s like we’ve stumbled across a session lock-in. As we take our seats in the dress circle, audience members down in the stalls abandon their seats, and join the impromptu hootenanny that has broken out on stage. It all feels a bit conspiratorial: like we’ve interrupted rehearsal. But when the lights dim, the stage empties until a lone figure is left under the spotlight with his guitar. Slowly the final notes of the Irish ceilidh die away into his opening strum of the first proper number. This isn’t rehearsal at all. This story is just getting started.

It’s this informal storytelling that has audiences falling for Once the Musical. The show has already stormed Broadway, winning hearts, minds – and 8 Tony Awards – on its way to London’s West End, and it’s easy to see why. Based on the budget 2006 film, a refreshing tale packed with humour, hope, and an uplifting repertoire of music (written by the film’s original stars Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová), it was an instant hit with audiences. Adapted for the stage by Irish playwright Enda Walsh, it’s even better.

Unlike other musicals, there’s no random bursting into song here, just an old-fashioned love of a good tune - and it’s matched by the simple story of boy meets girl. Guy, a down-and-out Dublin busker, is ready to quit music when a chance encounter with Girl, a Czech pianist, rekindles his dream. Connected by their love for music, they reach for something higher, something great. But that’s as far as their story goes. This is not your average fairytale: it’s bittersweet and honest. In the end, it’s about people trying to find a voice.

And find a voice they do. Seated around the stage (Bob Crowley’s pub set), the cast is the musical’s orchestra, and director John Tiffany coaxes the best out of his talented ensemble. It’s all underpinned by master class performances from the two leads. Declan Bennett is magnetic as Guy and Croatian star Zrinka Cvitešić does a good job of making Girl warm and likeable, for all her quirks. Of course, it helps that there’s incredible range in her voice, too (look out for her soulful solo in ‘The Hill’). There’s a strong supporting performance from Aidan Kelly, who conjured up laughs as the balding music shop owner, and you can’t help but warm to the immigrant Czech community who sincerely hope for a better life in the Fair City.

Though Steven Hoggett’s overly stylised choreography often distracts from the folksy freedom of the songs, the transition between numbers is inventively seamless, and often with a comic touch. How often does a hoover fixer sucker guy bump into a beautiful and talented girl who needs her hoover fixing? Not often, and Walsh’s script acknowledges these plot contrivances with a cheeky nod.

But it’s the music that weaves the biggest spell of the night. Banjo, violin, cello, drums, piano, and guitar  - as instruments pass from hand to hand, it’s almost as if the cast is busking each number. You can hear it in the haunting a cappella harmony of Gold’s reprise, and detect it in the soaring melodies of the Oscar-winning number, Falling Slowly. This is not so much a musical, but a love song to music. So captivating, it will have you falling for it at once.

For tickets, visit http://www.showsinlondon.co.uk/show/once

Burn the Floor

Strictly fans, the wait is over. Those suffering withdrawal from their weekly dose of sequins and glitter will soon be tapping their toes with delight. Burn the Floor, the West End’s answer to ballroom extravaganza, is back - and it’s a triumph. This is dancing at its best - fun, vibrant, and full of pizazz. Sequins galore. As Craig Revel-Horwood would say, it’s FAB-U-LOUS.

Of course it helps that it has three brilliant Strictly dance professionals to take the lead, including headline acts Robin Windsor and Kristina Rihanoff, and the inexhaustible Karen Hauer. They sashay their way across the dance floor alongside an ensemble of world-class dancers, each with astonishing stamina and a relentless passion for their art. With a repertoire that packs in ballroom classics like the Waltz, Quickstep, and Foxtrot to Latin favourites including the Salsa, Jive, and Tango, there’s plenty to showcase such talent. Hauer’s blindfolded Rumba is eye-wateringly good, and the Viennese Waltz (to ‘Everybody Hurts’) is unashamedly cheesy – though beautiful to watch. The music is spot-on too, even if the song choices do sometimes turn this spectacle into a cruise ship show. Peter Blewden and Vonzell Solomon lend their considerable vocals and shine as brightly as the dancers themselves. 

There’s no plot to speak of, and the disappointing set relies on one tiny glitter-ball that randomly drops in and out, but Jason Gilkison’s choreography is so dramatic that in the end it doesn’t really matter. Each couple brings their own brand of chemistry, so that the floor doesn’t simply burn - one moment it sizzles with sexual tension, the next it’s set ablaze by fiery passion. That’s story enough, and it’s mesmerising.

Don’t be surprised when it’s over all too soon, and you’re left wishing for an encore. Burn the Floor is unadulterated entertainment from start to finish, two hours of depilated flesh, long legs and toned torsos. Oh the toned torsos. If this isn’t motivation to hit the gym then it’s difficult to know what is.

For tickets, visit http://www.showsinlondon.co.uk/show/burn-the-floor

Soho’s Secret Tea Room

It’s a Sunday afternoon and the Coach & Horses pub on Soho’s Frith Street is full of people fixated by the Six Nations rugby. They nurse their pints and keep their eyes fixed on the match. It’s bustling, tense, like any average local on a Sunday afternoon. But we’re here for something entirely different. We’re here for Soho’s Secret Tea Room.

In truth, it’s not so secret at all, with large chalkboards outside proclaiming its whereabouts. But getting there certainly feels a bit secret, as we step behind the bar, and up the pokey little staircase by the kitchen. Sure, it doesn’t boast the same thrill as walking through a fridge door or pulling a toilet flush to reveal a hidden entrance, but sometimes taking it back to basics feels just as magical.

Upstairs is like stepping into a room bursting with vintage delights and happy people taking afternoon tea. The retro décor creates instant atmosphere, as your eyes feast on lace tablecloths, flowers spilling out of teapots doubled as vases, and china cake-stands piled high with cupcakes.

What’s more, traditional cream tea here hits the spot. Served with a warm homemade scone and generous portion of clotted cream and jam, it’s good value, too – £14.50 will not only get you a sizeable scone but also a vast pot of loose leaf tea. For those looking for a little less, there’s sandwiches and a delicious variety of cupcakes to choose from.

Sipping your cuppa from a china tea set might feel a little twee, especially with 1940s jazz crackling on the gramophone, but on a wintry Sunday afternoon this charming little tearoom is simply the bee’s knees.

http://www.sohossecrettearoom.co.uk

Great Expectations

As we take our seats in Vaudeville Theatre’s dress circle, a haunting soundtrack overhead, alternately peppered with screeching high notes and abrupt thuds, is slowly building the suspense in the audience. It’s chilling, almost spine-tingling – and feels like a promise of good things to come.

And when the curtains open to reveal Miss Havisham’s decaying mansion, Satis House, it seems Graham McLaren’s revival of the Dickens’ classic, Great Expectations, might make good on its promise. Robin Peoples’s striking set is a visual treat, a neglected drawing room filled with cobwebs and dust, peeling wallpaper and derelict rococo plasterwork. This is a room of disappointed hopes and unattained dreams – great expectations gone awry - as a lopsided wedding cake slowly rots on the dining table. Cleverly, it’s also the setting for the play’s entire action, where the adult Pip and Estella first arrive to look back on their troubled past.

But superficially bold as the set may be, the play itself falls short of great expectations. In Jo Clifford’s script, Dickens’ characters aren’t the robustly drawn figures that jump off the page, but roughly sketched caricatures – grotesque and disturbing forms that make a pantomime of the play. At times, it feels like the action has fallen down the rabbit hole, with characters materialising through holes in the walls, emerging from beneath the dining table, and vanishing through the fireplace. Herbert Pocket (Rhys Warrington) even spends the entirety of his stage time reclining on the mantelpiece like the Cheshire Cat.

This is the first time Dickens’ tome has been staged, and there are moments when its surreal and evocative approach nearly pulls it off. Framed as a memory play, with the adult Pip (Paul Nivison) looking back at his younger self, it’s an inventive device to condense the novel for the stage. But Nivison’s lurking presence just inches from every interaction is overbearing and awkward – and the lack of dialogue between past and present leaves his emotional endurance untapped. As a boy, he had greatness within his reach, and lost it. A shame, then, that Taylor-Jay Davies proves largely insipid as the pivotal young Pip.   

Grace Rowe’s Estella is an enigmatic and alluring presence, but lacks the spite to bring her to life. Paula Wilcox, too, might cut a ghostly figure in her frayed wedding dress, but her Miss Havisham is sadly underplayed. She’s not nearly deranged or eccentric enough, and the brilliant staging of her violent death therefore lacks emotional ballast. It’s left to Chris Ellison as the convict, Magwitch, to command the stage, neatly treading the line between growling intensity and a profound desire to put his past wrongs right. 

With a running time of just over two hours, this visually arresting production makes a decent stab at distilling Dickens’ classic, but as the evening goes on it’s too hurried and cartoonish to emotionally triumph. 

Great Expectations is on at the Vaudeville Theatre until June 1. For tickets, visit http://www.showsinlondon.co.uk/show/great-expectations

Fiesta

Hemingway’s great work, Fiesta: the Sun also Rises immortalised a lost, post-war generation. With its pared down style and compelling fascination with the art of the bullfight, it’s the heartbeat of a bygone era – a novel of raw and volatile energy unafraid to approach regeneration and the beauty of death. And Alex Helfrecht’s spirited production attacks the work in a single sword thrust - a debauched and frenetic fiesta that leaves its audience thirsty for more.

Jake Barnes, a cynical American journalist in Paris, is a product of what Gertrude Stein labelled the Lost Generation. An injury from the First World War has left him both sexually and emotionally maimed, a wound that symbolises the anxiety and deep frustrations felt by an entire generation. Isolated by his impotence, he wanders from bar to bar in an aimless haze of alcohol and cigarettes, his destructive love for the promiscuous Lady Brett Ashley breaking down purely because it cannot be consummated. Where the matador is an idealised masculine figure who dances with death in the ring, Jake is the powerless American hero - a spectator who cannot participate but merely watch from the sidelines. The volatile love triangle between Jake, Brett and Jake’s great rival Robert Cohn reaches a climax in the sweltering heat of Pamplona, Spain when they meet the young but brilliant matador Pedro Romero.

As Hemingway’s anti-hero, Gideon Turner is a commanding stage presence, ably getting to the heart of Jake’s restlessness and tortured feelings of inadequacy. This is a man who cannot consummate his love for the only woman he has ever loved, and Turner wisely underplays his plight in true Hemingway subtlety. Robert’s empty love scenes with Brett have a comic touch, which, at times, renders Frasca too pitiable for the rough Robert.

Josie Taylor, though, shines as Lady Brett, effortlessly holding the production together as the wild temptress who seduces the men around her. Neatly treading the line between sympathy and antipathy, Taylor single-handedly harnesses the spirit of the age throughout. Meanwhile, Jack Holden’s fluctuating Spanish accent is the only distraction from his otherwise poised and prancing Pedro. 

Though the production omits key reflective scenes from the novel, namely Jake’s escape into the wilderness on the fishing trip between Paris and Pamplona (an interim for masculine retreat), Rachel Noel’s stripped down set of corrugated iron walls and a dancing canopy of wine glasses perfectly conveys the necessary hedonistic loss of control as the characters shower themselves in red liquids during the running of the bulls. But the crowning touch must be the infused live jazz performance from Trio Farouche, which ignites the intimate space of Trafalgar Studio 2, and adds to the heady atmosphere of this irresistible fiesta.

Fiesta runs until 2nd March 2013, for tickets visit http://www.atgtickets.com/shows/fiesta/trafalgar-studios/

34

Walking into 34, the elegant restaurant off Mayfair’s Grosvenor Square, feels like stepping into a bygone era. As the waiters take our coats, we are ushered towards the art deco-inspired bar, and a beautiful baby grand, where the house jazz trio is quietly entertaining the Saturday night crowd with a self-assured repertoire of jazz numbers. 

Meanwhile, burnt orange leather seating, crisp white tablecloths, and oak panelled walls lend the restaurant an old-world sort of charm - 34 may have opened in recent years, but it does a grand job of looking and feeling like a beloved establishment. No surprise, really, when its owners are also the driving force behind the Ivy, Le Caprice, and Scotts – the latter a pricey fish restaurant just around the corner.

But it’s game, not fish, that’s at the heart of 34’s expertise, and not just the cornerstone of the menu but the focal point of the décor, too. The open-plan kitchen lays bare a custom-made parrilla shipped straight from Argentina, where the restaurant’s top chefs grill the house steaks to perfection.

Naturally you can’t dine at 34 without sampling its steak. The menu spoils its guests for choice, with prime beef from Scotland, Australia, the USA and Argentina, as well as a fine selection of wagyu beef. We had exquisite Black Angus beef from the States, and a flavoursome Argentinian steak – both rare, served with delicious sides of spinach, burnt baby carrots and creamed potato, and neatly complimented by a bottle of velvety Argentinian Malbec red.

Carnivorous diners need not worry though- the menu here promises something for everyone. The lobster macaroni with black truffle shavings was a treat, as was the barbecued pork belly with crisp crackling and a complementary green apple salad. The starters were mouth-watering, too. Our table enjoyed thin shavings of iberico ham, fried duck eggs with confit duck, chorizo and watercress, and fresh sashimi with wasabi vinaigrette. 

And then came dessert. Forget crème brulee or chocolate fondant, 34’s pudding menu is a treasure trove of other, more exotic delights. Between us, we sampled shavings of pineapple with a dizzying mojito sorbet, cinnamon doughnuts, apple pie and a trio of icecream scoops (not vanilla, chocolate and strawberry as you might have guessed, but the decidedly more sexy black truffle honey, apple crumble, and turkish delight).

A meal this good obviously comes with a three figure price tag, but it’s worth it for the impressive menu, thoughtful service and sumptuous decor. After all, this is luxury dining at its very best.

http://www.34-restaurant.co.uk