The Irish Giant

Suspend your disbelief and put on a jumper in Southwark Playhouse’s ice-cold vaults – as devised theatre company Cartoon de Salvo plunges its dirty hands into the controversial story of “The Irish Giant” – and sadly fails to set the stage alight.

Based on a true story, science and faith awkwardly collide as obsessive anatomist John Hunter claps eyes on Charles Byrne, the 8 foot tall Irish Giant and toast of Georgian London, and becomes hell-bent on claiming his body for anatomy. Framed as a medical lecture, the entire set-up makes clever use of the audience and performer dimension- posing some serious ethical questions about who really owns our bodies and what must be sacrificed for scientific progress.

Devised theatre relies on stellar talent and the three gifted Salvos certainly deliver – alternating between their multiple roles as confidently as they swap medical instruments for musical ones. Although the live musical interludes are a delight – especially alongside Rebecca Hurst’s whimsical animations that tell most of the story- they clash inharmoniously with the show’s attempt at theological dissection. For all the heart-warming rays of humour, the result is an improvised production that unwisely shows its cracks, not helped by somewhat sloppy illusion (darkness didn’t quite conceal the actors crawling behind the operating table) and a story that tries to teach too much but loses its way.

Jekyll and Hyde

‘How far would you go to play God?’ Dr Henry Jekyll goes the whole distance – and so does Morphic Graffiti’s updated adaptation of “Jekyll and Hyde: The Musical” – chilling proof that the Victorian tale of good versus evil can still rear its monstrous head in contemporary London.
 
Director Luke Fredericks brilliantly strips mankind’s condition apart and lays bare its soul in this spectacular musical. As Dr Jekyll casts ethics aside and experiments on himself, the initially hesitant production really finds its stride. His dreams of saving the world unravel as quickly as his character – and soon he’s a hooded hooligan rampaging around dodgy backstreets in a violent serial-killing spree –as his evil alter ego threatens to consume him.
 
An initially tentative Tim Rogers eases rapidly into the lead role: timid and tense as the virtuous Jekyll before letting his wild side run riot. It’s a compelling transformation: physically, he only removes his glasses, but psychologically he removes all inhibitions, becoming unpredictable and sinister. Musical theatre relies on a stellar cast to pull off songs at the most unexpected moments – and this production has monstrous talent – wonderfully complemented by Dean Austin and his orchestra and a powerhouse performance from Madalena Alberto as Lucy, the hooker with a heart. Darkly revealing mankind’s inherent evil, this musical is absorbing, disturbing - and downright terrifying. 

The Art of the Armourer

If you haven’t queued up to admire the Mona Lisa (and realise how disappointingly small she turns out to be in real life), then you will at least be familiar with that famously enigmatic smile. But I doubt you’ll have ever appreciated the rapier of the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian II - an exquisite sword crafted from solid gold, set with glittering jewels, and commonly regarded as the epitome of the Renaissance sword. In fact, I’d bet good money that you didn’t even know it existed at all. And neither did I. Until now, that is.

We’re here at the opening champagne reception as the team over at the fabulous Wallace Collection unveil Maximilian II’s rapier as the star of their latest exhibition –The Noble Art of the Sword: Fashion and Fencing in Renaissance Europe - which finally places weaponry on the must-see museum map. Delving behind the unsung history of the Renaissance rapier, this free exhibition is hugely illuminating- neatly exploring the historical and social context behind these lethal art objects with razor sharp attention to detail. Wielding a sword in the street may be a public offence nowadays, but back in Elizabethan London it was all the rage. Rapiers were not simply for gentleman duels: they were fashion statements, status symbols as devastatingly beautiful as they were devastatingly lethal. Expect gold and silver galore (not forgetting a wealth of jewels), the finest regal costume, and priceless fencing manuals on loan from the Howard de Walden library- all brought together from prestigious collections including the Wallace Collection itself, the Royal Armouries, and some of the greatest pieces from the continent.

The exhibition runs until September 16^th, and with Olympic hysteria steadily building the capital, there’s no better time than Summer 2012 to get to grips with sword-fighting, the ancient precursor to the modern Olympic sport of fencing. These fine weapons are the secret to a cultural day out – and you’ll soon be wondering why you never equated fashion with fencing before.

Behind the Door

In front of the shabby, unmarked door right in the middle of Chinatown, two hostile bouncers are deliberately sizing us up. Their unfriendly eyes flicker over our outfits and our (bemused) faces, deciding whether we are either fun or young or cool enough to be granted entry. They hope we’ll be all three, but you may delete as appropriate. Awkwardly, we wait a few agonising seconds as they pass their horribly scrutinising judgement. The bouncers haven’t said a word, and for all we know we could be waiting to enter some dodgy brothel or underground Chinese lair. But then, miraculously, they both nod their assent – and the pathetic, peeling door swings open to reveal a dark flight of stairs.

So it’s not a warm welcome here at the Experimental Cocktail Club, a hidden drinking spot randomly nestled between a dim sum restaurant and a shop selling roast duck on Gerrard Street – and the frosty service sadly continues once inside, as you climb the narrow carpeted staircase only to be greeted by harassed waitresses busy shepherding customers to their seats. Luckily, the chill in the air is saved by the intimate atmosphere: snug velvet chairs, mirrored ceilings, and ornate wallpaper lending the place an opulent sort of vibe. Think low-key boudoir elegantly blended with fin-de-siècle decadence – a ridiculous combination that somehow translates as self-assured Parisian chic. And it’s all the more fun when you consider this two-floor joint remains largely a secret in Soho, its unremarkable exterior brilliantly belying the reworked Georgian townhouse within.

And there’s a certain magic in the menu, too. Cocktails here are dazzlingly creative – prescriptive potions that will have you thirsty for more. Almost aromatic, the menu is a never-ending list of impossibly-named concoctions – all fashioned from perfumed ingredients as eclectic in range as lavender-infused gin, orange and celery bitters, and spiced tea. Mine, a Kota Ternate (whatever that means), was a bubble bath mixture of Trinidad rum, Ceylan tea, spices, coconut, lime juice, milk, and Batavia arrack (again I hadn’t a clue what it was). On paper, it sounds like a overindulgent mixture of everything in the cupboard, but in my tumbler it tasted exotic – almost like drinking a deliciously liquid scented candle. It may sound off-putting, but cocktails here are definitely unique - especially as my drink was shaken up and bizarrely served in a tiny brown bottle which I had to slowly pour as the evening progressed. One thing is certain: they didn’t miss a beat when they named this place the Experimental Cocktail Club. At £10, it was reasonably priced as London bars go, and deeper pockets can always splash out on classics such as the vintage Cognac and Rye for an eye-watering £250. With prices like that, there’s always the risk that you’ll be rubbing shoulders with pretentious crowd-seekers, but those just looking to have a fun evening with friends needn’t worry: the slightly more relaxed second floor, complete with resident DJ and chilled young crowd, is sure to keep this place fresh and upbeat. So next time you’re wandering past the decrepit door of 13 Gerrard Street, just remember it’s really a secret portal to an upscale bar-and a guaranteed electric evening. Don’t let the bouncers’ attitude put you off. 

http://www.chinatownecc.com/

Titus Andronicus

The murder of Titus’s son is the spark that fires Hiraeth Artistic Production’s gory adaptation of Shakespeare’s “Titus Andronicus”. As its opening vigil descends into murderous revenge, the scene is violently set for three hours of severed heads and mutilated tongues. Throw in a couple gallons of blood, and this is certainly not for the faint-hearted. 

Zoe Ford directs this wild version– replacing Roman togas with the anarchic uniform of 1980s punk London. Her tattooed skinheads, largely clad in ripped denim and combat boots, make perfect sense of Shakespeare’s play, plunging us into a vicious turf war between extremist gangs – led by Titus and Queen Tamora– and an inescapable cycle of revenge. Meanwhile, Nadia Malik’s stripped stage makes clever use of intimidating punk culture, as the reviled Emperor Saturninus lounges on his sofa throne surrounded by expletive graffiti and discarded bricks. 

David Vaughan Knight’s untiring Titus holds the production together, his bloodthirsty rampage unapologetic in its scope. After all, this is a man who strategically decides to cook his enemy’s sons whilst contemplating his Rubix cube. Rosalind Blessed’s scheming queen is overdone and pushes the production to the brink of parody. Fortunately, the rest of the cast grow into their roles- particularly Maya Thomas’s Lavinia in the crucial rape scene- individually shining when it matters most. 

Although it’s carnage, Ford’s adaptation is provoking precisely because it’s incoherent. Shakespeare in collision with “This is England” was never going to be straightforward and although this is a frantic and often faulty production, it violently rocks the establishment - proving that revenge is best served hot, baked in a pie.

Long Day’s Journey Into Night

Onstage the whiskey bottle is once again being shunted back-and-forth, its level of liquid steadily dropping as each character takes a desperate swig. Round and round the bottle goes, from mouth-to-mouth, acting almost as a barometer for the play’s tragic family woes. Occasionally, its level is surreptitiously topped up with water as each character attempts to conceal their drinking from one another. Pointless, really, as they all know they’re a bunch of dysfunctional alcoholics. It’s as depressing as watching Macbeth’s three witches struggle with their one, pathetic eyeball. But the intensity is such that it wouldn’t be amiss to say half the audience could do with a drop of the strong stuff themselves.

As the whiskey level ebbs and flows so, too, does the audience’s overall happiness levels. Here we are, deep in the middle of Anthony Page’s powerhouse production of Eugene O’Neill’s autobiographical masterpiece, Long Day’s Journey into Night, and the barrage of accusations, counter-accusations and lies is at full throttle. Written in “tears and blood” (the playwright’s own rather forceful choice of words, not mine), this play was always going to be a tricky one to watch. Let’s put it this way: you don’t book tickets to see O’Neill if a night of light entertainment is what you’re after. No, this is raw, high-voltage drama that surges with heartfelt loneliness, human misunderstanding, and cruel self-deception. Steadily charting the Tyrone family’s downward spiral into despair, deceit and addiction (itself modelled on O’Neill’s own troubled relationship with his thespian father and drug-addled mother), the play takes place over the course of one day in summer 1912. As the relentless pea soup fog thickly swirls outside, we watch as the family play out their past failures, present miseries, and deep-seated resentment in their cramped living room. James Tyrone, the miserly patriarch, is played brilliantly by David Suchet - a commanding presence on the stage that arguably glues the entire production together. Tyrone is a selfish old miser who jacked in a promising career on the stage to earn big bucks as a proprietor and thereby support his wife and two young kids. But his penny-pinching, selfish, alcoholic ways drive his wife to morphine addiction for the birth of their youngest son - a tragic error that ultimately drives their two disappointing sons (one a selfish alcoholic, the other a rootless consumptive) into self-destruction and despair. Suchet is simply spot-on as the ageing patriarch, delivering his lines with a quiet authority and pitch-perfect Irish lilt. One minute, he’s a raving, disappointed tyrant, the next a remorseful, even tender family man. At one memorable point, there’s even a brief glimmer of the actor Tyrone could have been as Suchet stands, in a moment of drunken delusion, atop the living room table, perfectly illuminated by the living room light, and delivers the poignant line, “I could have been a great Shakespearean”. And this is exactly how Suchet plays him: it’s powerful, precise, restrained. In short, Shakespearean.

Instead it is Mary Tyrone, in the text surely the tragic victim, that here seems to be portrayed as the true villain of the piece. Laurie Metcalfe, an American actress last seen on the West End stage in All My Sons, is an unsparing and unsentimental Mary: from the very first, she pours paranoid accusations onto her tenderly loving husband and worried sons, a manipulative, unstable woman deep in the unforgiving throes of going cold turkey. As the play progresses, her relapse into morphine is terrifyingly rapid - and she becomes a poisonous, deranged woman trailing around the house with her old wedding gown like some sort of granny Ophelia. Can you blame her, though, when the morphine delivers her into the hands of the past -  the tragedy of a dead baby son and a lonely life on the road with her husband that she never even wanted. “The past is the present” says Mary, and yet when these memories are so tainted with resentment, it’s no wonder poor Mary wants to drag the whole family down into her fog. It’s a persuasive performance and definitely frenzied - but, at times, Metcalfe goes overboard, rapidly rattling off her lines at such manic speed, it was hard to hear her. 

To call this play hard-going wouldn’t be enough: O’Neill takes his depiction of human weakness and addiction to the furthest extreme and lets his audience descend into madness alongside his poor protagonists. It’s all the more tragic when you consider the play’s personal overtones - James Tyrone is a barely concealed version of O’Neill’s own cruel thespian father, and two of O’Neill’s sons committed suicide from alcoholism and drug addiction. The consumptive youngest son, Edmund Tyrone, is meant to be O’Neill himself: an itinerant writer struggling against the difficulties of his tragic life. Throw in the swirling fog, the persistent cry of the foghorn, and that bottle of whiskey, and you have yourself a compelling and high-voltage drama. Sure, there are the odd bright moments of humour to keep the audience’s flame alight, but ultimately this is a slow dance through one family’s tragedy. And, as the final curtain drops, you’ll find yourself wondering what the Tyrones ultimately learn from their day of suffering (that’s 3 long hours you’ll never get back). I emerged from the theatre feeling slightly crazed, my nerves slightly shredded. The play’s title really works: it truly does feel like you’ve endured the longest day’s journey into night. 

http://apollo.official-theatre.co.uk/london/journey-into-night 

Boat

Every city has a story to tell. Forget the swath of hot tourist spots viewed through outsider’s eyes – it’s the long-forgotten tales, quietly whispered secrets, and native cultural quirks that embody the living, breathing soul of a city. Those that hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons fade away as suddenly as the media turned on them, and their real stories are left untapped, unspoken. No wonder, then, that Boat magazine – run by visionary husband and wife team Erin and Davey Spens - is a revitalising breath of air. Their premise is clean and simple: decamp to a new city every few months, maraud the local creative talent, and document their city experiences in an edition entirely devoted to refreshing people’s idea of that place. In a vast sea of publications, its nomadic spirit is just what is needed: giving us a vibrant snapshot of a city that has so far managed to remain anonymous, if not misunderstood, in the world’s eyes. Take the inaugural issue, a beautifully shot edition that dropped anchor in Sarajevo, delving beyond the war-torn façade of Bosnia’s capital to show us its relentless pulse – the creative energy of Bosnian youth that proves the city is still very much alive. To follow-up, Boat’s second issue cruised around Detroit - a city in ruins due to gun crime- yet somehow a resilient and scrappy economic spirit through Boat’s itinerant eyes. Relocating off the radar to each of these cities allows this rootless magazine – itself born out of its desire to see the world – to in due turn deliver sharp, anecdotal cityscapes that firmly remove the millstone of negative media attention. No wonder Boat bills itself as “an antidote to lazy journalism”. Its approach is immersive, hands-on, and entirely legit. The result? A creative publication with its eyes wide open to the hidden merits of neglected places.

For the current issue, however, Boat is riding the wave of interest in London, harnessing the power of the Olympics and the Diamond Jubilee with a cool edition devoted to our much-documented capital. Sure, there’s the worry that London has been much hyped of late, if not throughout history, but somehow Boat’s London is rewritten as we’ve never experienced it before. With a thoughtful intro by ‘About a Boy’ author Nick Hornby, powerful insights into ethnic subcultures within the capital, and a scintillating piece on the Isle of Dogs of all places, it’s a refreshing take on a city that is so much more than just double-decker buses, red phone booths, and rain. Playfully illustrated maps, pictures taken from the iconic Top Deck photography exhibition, and an A-Z pullout of London’s bursting streetfood scene just add to the fun, somewhat scrapbook, feel to the magazine. At £8 a copy, it may not be the cheapest magazine in the shops, but you can’t beat Boat for its unique, enduring take on our beloved London. Besides, with its sleek cover and cool photography, it’s certain to look good on the coffee table. 

http://www.boat-mag.com/

The Old Swiss House

In front of us the waiter is generously scooping a large lump of creamy butter into the frying pan. Scoop is no exaggeration: after all, he’s abandoned the butter knife in favour of a dessertspoon and he’s now expertly shovelling more than half of a 250g slab of butter into the waiting pan, where it practically sizzles the words Pure Fat. Moderation is clearly not a word in his vocabulary. Much as I am enjoying this novelty table preparation of my meal, I can’t help wishing the waiter had kept this much butter a little kitchen secret, instead of parading it before my eyes. My heart palpitates just from looking at it, whilst my derriere is dreading the endless treadmill sessions it’ll need to work it off. But then, just when I begin to worry about this exceedingly feminine approach to food, my inner foodie thankfully kicks in, and with it the familiar excitement food brings. Anything cooked like this has got to be delicious and calories, I decide, are just a tiny price to pay. I hope he puts in a bit more.

We’re dining at the Old Swiss House - a traditional timber chalet that sits somewhat awkwardly between two modern glass buildings in the picturesque Swiss town of Lucerne. It’s a beautiful restaurant – an elegant waltz through Switzerland’s history with its opulent chintz décor, antique oil paintings, and stunning stained glass windows. Little china figures sit gracefully beside gleaming silverware, and by the entrance there are jaw-dropping wines on proud display - the complete Château Mouton Rothschild collection, dating all the way back to 1911. Every year, Mouton Rothschild has invited a celebrated artist to design a label, and so this impressive cabinet now holds priceless bottles designed by luminaries such as Picasso, Warhol and Dali. It’s a bit like dining in a museum, or your grandparents’s lavish living room (albeit grandparents with very good taste and a penchant for collectibles). In fact, the restaurant is so artfully cluttered that even an antique porcelain tiled stove in the corner doesn’t look amiss. As you look around in wonder, it’s clear that tradition is the Old Swiss House cornerstone, with all the waiters even dressed in Alpine style costumes. The menu, too, is a celebration of all things Swiss, each with a contemporary twist. I’d list a few for you, but who cares about the rest of the menu when we are here to eat just one thing, and one thing only: the legendary Old Swiss House wienerschnitzel.

So back to that generous scoop of butter. As it sizzles away (Pure Fat, Pure Fat), the waiter delicately coats two paper-thin veal cutlets in the special Swiss House blend of beaten egg, Swiss cheese (let me tell you, the Swiss know how to make cheese), and herbs, before rolling them in breadcrumbs and lowering them into the pan. As the aroma of roasting schnitzel floats around us, the waiter magics another pan of fresh tagliatelle out of thin air (cue yet more butter), and begins arranging it onto our plates with a practised flourish. By now, the schnitzels are ready and he serves them alongside the pasta, topping everything off with a squeeze of lemon and another spoonful of surplus breadcrumbs. Oh yes, and more butter. And I can now wholeheartedly report that I will eat butter with a spoon any day if this is what it makes a humble veal cutlet taste like. The schnitzel was tender and incredibly flavoured, and although it was nearly the same size as my plate, I polished it off along with all my pasta. It took a while, but I made it. By the end, all that was left was my hazy face reflected in the grease of the plate. My friend surpassed me, and somehow managed to eat two more portions of pasta and breadcrumbs. An impressive, carb-loaded feat. You might feel slightly disgusted (we estimate we consumed at least 90g of butter and 150g of meat each), but don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. After all, it was delicious and, like most things in Switzerland, it was eye-wateringly expensive (priced at 56 Swiss Francs, or £38) so you can’t blame us for eating our full money’s worth. Now I understand why they say it’s the best wienerschnitzel you will eat anywhere in Switzerland. 

And for all the schnitzel and pasta we ate, we still thought ahead and saved some crucial dessert space, too. The Old Swiss House chocolate mousse is as famous as its schnitzel, and again they prepare it especially for you at the table (because apparently showing you how much butter you just ate is not mean enough). Out come two wooden buckets: one filled with chocolate mousse, the other with cream – and the waiter generously takes a spoonful of each and artfully dollops it on your plate. And if the Swiss know how to make cheese, then making chocolate is an ingrained, inherited skill. Pure paradise on a spoon. 

It’s no wonder that this restaurant boasts an impressive hall of fame. From Frank Sinatra and Richard Nixon, to Roger Federer and Keanu Reeves, guests have been visiting from far and wide since 1858 to enjoy the Old Swiss House’s unrivalled traditional cuisine. The schnitzel and chocolate mousse may be two simple classics, but here they were outstanding, elevated to a Michelin-starred standard. Sure, the service may have been slightly neglectful at times, but overall this was an experience that showcased Switzerland at its very best: charming, high quality – a quaint celebration of tradition. You’re sure to be rolling out of here a few pounds heavier (and a few sterling pounds short), but it’s utterly worth it for the remarkable dining experience. Just as well the stunning Lake Lucerne is a mere short stroll away: I guarantee you’ll be needing to sit down again for a while, and there can be no better (nearly wrote butter) view than the snow-topped mountains. 

http://www.oldswisshouse.ch/en/weine/rothschild-sammlung/

The Smoke that Thunders

As the plane begins its dramatic descent into Zambia’s Livingstone Airport, there’s a small-scale commotion. Seatbelts are defiantly unfastened, crowds begin to develop around the window seats, and the cameras begin to flash. As the air stewards restore order, I smile, my nose pressed up against the window. For there, in the distance, is the cause of all the fuss, the focal point of all our admiration– and it’s surpassing all expectations. A white spray that powerfully rockets some 400 metres into the air - almost mythical, and certainly theatrical. Here we are flying over the Victoria Falls and we’ve got the perfect aerial view. Magnificent, spectacular, downright beautiful: it’s no wonder these Falls are renowned as one of the world’s seven natural wonders. We’re all still gawping in admiration as the wheels touch the tarmac.

Nestled between Zambia and Zimbabwe, to say the Victoria Falls were incredible wouldn’t even begin to do them justice. Their sheer power and volume take your breath away in more ways than one: they’re roaringly loud, a sound so deafening the pressure practically knocks the air out of your lungs. Named by the Scottish explorer Dr Livingstone in dedication to Queen Victoria, it is the Falls’ indigenous name - Mosi-oa-Tunya – that truly harnesses its stunning spectacle. Poetically translating as the Smoke that Thunders, it simply but accurately pinpoints the beauty of this waterfall. An epic sky-high spray with the acoustic power of a storm.

We stayed at the Royal Livingstone Hotel, an exquisite resort on the banks of the Zambezi River with the spray of the Falls rising in the distance. Along with untamed vervet monkeys, chilled out giraffes, and grazing zebra wandering the hotel grounds, this was an African paradise. Five-star service and comfortable rooms made this hotel a delight, especially as we enjoyed a surprise candlelit dinner down by the river to celebrate a very special birthday occasion. Sadly, the hotel’s food didn’t always live up to its considerable price tag – in particular the steaks were too chewy, and some of the dishes looked like they’d just been microwaved. That said, there’s no denying they bake a mean chocolate birthday cake. Top points to the dessert chef.

And the hotel offers unrivalled access to the Zambian side of the Falls which more than makes up for the food. On our first day, we took a boat across to Livingstone Island – the only accessible piece of tiny land perched on the crest of the falls- where we got a vivid, vibrant taste of this natural wonder of the world. Standing in the Zambezi River, clad in a full-body waterproof poncho (not my finest look, but hey we were all forced to wear one), and peering over the very edge of the Victoria Falls was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that you don’t really believe in until it happens. Cheesy, but it’s true. We then swam in the Devil’s Pool, a naturally occurring rock pool in the Zambezi River right by the edge of the falls – famous for its rock formations that stem the river’s rapid flow. Sure, there’s always the risk of being washed over by the torrents, and I’m fairly certain something was nibbling my toes (here’s hoping the guide was joking when he said baby crocodile) – but once you overcome all those terrifying details, I promise it’s a great experience. And at last count, I still had all 10 toes.

The Victoria Falls cannot claim to be the world’s highest waterfall– nor are they the widest – but if there were an award for Largest Sheet of Falling Water in the World, they’d win hands-down. We loved the incredible bird’s-eye view so much we even took a helicopter ride over the Falls and then down into the Zambezi River Gorge – a trip so dramatic the Ride of the Valkyries could have been the soundtrack. I felt like Indiana Jones. And if heights aren’t your thing, then you can walk across the bridge from either the Zambian or Zimbabwean side and admire the scale of the Falls from the relative safety of the land (well as safe as that wooden bridge can be, anyway). Yes, you will get drenched by the waterfall spray, and you might have to look silly in a waterproof poncho, but it’s worth it for the beautiful views. Just beware of the baboons that are attracted by bright, zesty colours (that’s a first-hand terrifying story for another time). 

Crazy baboons and ugly ponchos aside, the Victoria Falls should be on everyone’s list of things to see. Sure, they’re not an epic ancient wonder, but they’re still legendary in their own right: breathtaking, monumental, picture perfect. My advice? If you’re lucky enough to visit, go during a full moon season and you’ll see a moonbow in the mist, nightly replacing the permanent rainbow in the spray. We went in April - the perfect time to visit - and if you ask me, the moonbow crowned this mighty spectacle. And that’s saying something: after all, it’s not often you see Smoke that Thunders. 

Rainbow Cuisine

Freshly cracked oysters, fragrant langoustines, fillets of fish cooked simply with lemon and butter – Cape Town is a seafood lover’s mecca. Reading each restaurant’s menu is a roll call of the oceans, with meat dishes listed like a hasty afterthought, and the limited vegetarian options limping in last, if at all. One thing is certain: if seafood isn’t your thing, the incredible freshness of the cuisine here will be completely lost on you. Sure, you can order a delicious kudu steak, or some barbecued boerewors, and you’d most probably enjoy a fantastic slice of South African cuisine – but you’d still be missing out on the astoundingly fresh ingredients the surrounding seas have to offer. And Cape Town’s gastronomic scene is not just fresh: it’s creative, colourful, and consistently good.

First up, to the renowned Cape Grace Hotel and its Signal restaurant– named for Signal Hill, a giant lion-shaped mound seated next to the magnificent Table Mountain – where we were swiftly introduced to the outstanding cuisine the Cape has to offer. The region has a wonderfully vivid heritage, including Dutch settlers, Asian traders, French Huguenots and, of course, native African cultures. Ancestral traces of Malay spices can be tasted in the infused curried dishes, whilst European influences assert themselves in rich seasoned flavours, and local specialities proudly fight for dominance in specialities straight from the African plains. It’s no wonder South Africa is known as the Rainbow nation: even its food is distinctive and deliciously diverse, a melting pot of global flavours. In keeping with such a legacy, Signal restaurant delivered exquisite springbok steak, tuna tataki, and kingklip fish – all sourced locally and cooked to precision with an inventive twist.

But the outstanding freshness of Cape seafood was nowhere better on show than at Baia and Harbour House, two restaurants overlooking the plush V&A Waterfront. Where Baia served up incredible langoustines, and sashimi that melted like butter, Harbour House offered a seafood platter fit for a mermaid, including mussels, shrimp, lobster and scallops. These were all catches of the day: light and almost sweet to taste. The impeccable service, especially at Harbour House, made these two restaurants world-class – in fact, they could easily give top London restaurants a run for their money. For the best oysters in town, make straight for Pigalle, a retro restaurant complete with live entertainment every night. Cracked open just before being served, they were so fresh they were practically still alive (trust me, don’t let that put you off). A squirt of lemon and a dash of Tabasco and they were ready to eat. With iconic movie stills smouldering down from the walls, this was a sleek joint, and whilst the live jazz band injected a buzzing atmosphere (their impressive repertoire ranged from 60s classics to modern-day hits), the friendly waiters kept us laughing all the way through to dessert. After all, there’s a reason why Pigalle is one of the top restaurants in town: this wasn’t just dinner, it was a great night, the whole shebang. 

And if you just can’t get enough seafood, head to Haiku for truly great sushi and sashimi. Chic and sumptuous, this Asian fusion restaurant in the heart of the city served up all the oriental classics besides sushi: there was Chinese dim sum, fragrant Malaysian hot pot curries, and Japanese tempura, all cooked with great authenticity and care. This was by no means Asian food catered for westernised appetites: it was the real deal, and combined with the crisp freshness of the Cape’s seafood, it worked a treat.

So whether it’s Asian, South African, or a more European flavour your tastebuds are after, Cape Town is guaranteed to deliver. This may be a country once divided by apartheid, but with food the different ethnic backgrounds have peacefully combined forces, each distinctive cuisine lending balance and strength to the other. After all, it’s meal times that traditionally bring people together, no matter what culture, and it was great to see such global connection in Cape Town’s restaurants. There may be a lot in this country’s past that it wishes to heal, but the Cape’s cuisine should be proud in the knowledge that it demonstrates worldly and world-class harmony. Dining in Cape Town proves the Rainbow nation is as colourfully bright as ever. Just make sure you’re prepared to eat seafood. 

The Cape Winelands

We’re in the very heart of the Cape winelands and although it’s softly raining, there’s no mistaking the almost dreamlike scenery – the vivid, fertile green of the vineyards postcard perfect in every way. Ahead a sweeping tree-lined avenue gracefully recedes, the beautiful gables of a Cape Dutch house beckoning in the distance. This is the epitome of pastoral tranquility – especially as springbok and zebra peacefully graze beside the road, totally oblivious as we begin the long drive up to the estate. Welcome to Saxenburg Wine Farm - a renowned vineyard in its native South Africa and around the globe for its world-class vintages, elegance, and fascinating history. Even this entrance lives up to its name with fierce pride: it’s thoughtful, precise, almost regal. You can practically savour its wine already.

Sitting atop the hills above the Kuils River near Stellenbosch, Saxenburg is prime winegrowing land. With the Atlantic Ocean to one side, and the Indian Ocean to the other, the vineyards are perfectly positioned: the cool breezes from the two seas and the deep rich soil combining to produce the finest grapes. And let’s face it, the stunning view across to Table Mountain doesn’t hurt, either. Everything here is well thought through: somehow even the car park is pretty. We’re here for a private wine-tasting session (thanks to my wonderful friend) and we are certainly not disappointed. The service is beyond hospitable, the wine is outstanding, and we are even given a personally inscribed copy of the estate’s book. The little touches. Under the inspired guidance of its owners, the Buhrer family, and the talented winegrower Nico van der Merwe, Saxenburg has flourished of late – often walking away with all the medals at prestigious South African wine competitions. In particular, the Saxenburg Shiraz Select (SSS) is a truly great vintage– an award-winning wine celebrated for its unrivalled quality. We bought a bottle of the Reserve Collection Shiraz Select 2003 and were blown over by its rich complexity - spiced yet subtle. No, the bottle did not last long, and yes we ordered a few cases to ship back home. After all, you can never have too much of a good thing.

And if wine tasting isn’t your thing (if such a thing were possible) then book a table at the estate’s restaurant, The Guinea Fowl - a great place to enjoy a delicious meal as an accompaniment to the farm’s wine. With dramatic views across False Bay to Table Mountain, it was no surprise the Guinea Fowl is extremely popular as a wedding venue. When we arrived the decorations were exquisite, with dreamlike floral arrangements, fairy lights, and white muslin lining the tables. And besides careful attention to detail, it boasts a great menu bursting with traditional African dishes, including Mozambican curry and South African bobotie (think moussaka, but better). Whether you want to go big or go small, this little restaurant is guaranteed to put on a good show.

There’s a wonderfully intimate feel to Saxenburg that makes it unique. Its refined taste is totally unlike some of the other wine estates we visited in Stellenbosch which were too commercial, too touristy. This is a place that treasures the traditions of winegrowing – harvesting only the very best grapes, crafting only the very best wines, and marketing it all with stellar attention to detail. There’s an Old French proverb that says, “in water one sees one’s own face, but in wine one beholds the heart of another”. Wisely quoted to us at the tasting, it perfectly sums up Saxenburg’s devotion to its vineyards – the love, pride and joy they get from making outstanding wines, and relishing the fruits of their labour to boot. These are wines of distinction: wines to savour, enjoy and, above all, cherish. Just as well we’ll have a few extra bottles at home. 

http://www.saxenburg.co.za/