New York here we come...

With Le Grand Tasting done and dusted, there are just a couple of weeks countdown until the Christmas holidays. And New York! Working at one of the most prestigious wine events in the world had its stressful moments for sure, but proved to be an incredible experience where we all had our dedication challenged, and for the most part, succeeded. Newsroom training had turned out to be imperative for me, having worked at both ITN and the BBC under tough, macho editors where a mistake may cost you your job, not least your pride. My obsession with treble-checking meant there was no way the vintage Krug that looked pretty much the same as another year entirely, could in no way be poured mistakenly for the master classes we were running. It was funny seeing journalists on the panel and as guests at the tasting, having in the past been one myself (in the arts world), and therefore being looked after at events rather than on the other side; one of the team catering to their whims. I lived to tell the tale and found the French wine world represented here - mostly men - to be quite charming.

Locked out. And winter is here.

Spent two hours assisting the locksmith in trying to pick the seemingly impossible lock to my apartment with my French neighbour's expensive nailfile, a borrowed wire coathanger and an x-ray, in my hastily assembled 'burglar' kit. The locksmith meanwhile had a roll of the x-ray paper too, so not as bonkers as it sounds, along with an array of threatening looking metal implements, not to mention a very loud drill.

When I had left in the morning, my key had literally crumbled in the lock - broken in half. The joy. Guess what worked though? Yup, the coathanger through a hole to hook onto the inside bolt handle trick. Super low-tech and (whispers) my idea. The locksmith couldn't decide whether to be happy for me or not when it worked, since his pride had taken a bashing. 120 whole minutes though. With my kids high on chocolate jumping around in the lobby.

My friend whose husband is manager of a chic Paris hotel warned me that when I understood wine, I'd only be able to drink the 'good stuff' thereon. I scoffed at the idea of ever being that fussy about anything other than men. But here I am. As a celebratory toast to my return indoors, the Pinot Noir is screaming 'drink me!'  But it just ain't up to scratch.  I put the kettle on for an English Breakfast tea.

My fave London bits this Autumn 11

Strangely I feel in a much better position to pick out my truly favourite London spots now that I travel more than I did when the city was my only home. 

Not only does living elsewhere give you a more objective take on the city's best bits, it also means that once back in the loving arms of Britain’s capital, you hone in on those destinations that are really special.  So, in no particular order, I humbly present my non-official guide to London hotspots in the hope that you might just fall in love with them.  Oh and on that note, I'd love to hear about your recommendations too!

Pollen St Social from English chef du jour, Jason Atherton, is hard to find even though at the very heart of West One.  Nestled in spitting distance from Conde Nast's Vogue House and bulging with fabulously expensive Brit art, you get to wave at cute chefs through the glass whilst they perform their culinary theatre.  The food is beautifully presented - check out the edible flowers in the broad bean and pea salad.  It's fashion dahling.  Almost too pretty to actually eat.  Fear not, carnivores.  There's also a cote de boeuf weighing in at 1kg for sharing. http://www.pollenstreetsocial.com/

Frame in Shoreditch is where to head when you're energised and ready to shake up your exercise routine and fashion-style.  Check out the rock ballet class (yes, really) or tone that butt to Beyoncé's booty workout.  Make sure to sport your best fluorescent workout gear.  Sweaty Betty or Stella McCartney for Adidas have hip selections.  Or you might fancy a yoga/spinning fusion - merge the Zen with the sweat.  It worked for Bikram, right? http://www.moveyourframe.com/

Ella's Bakehouse is where to head post-workout since you'll need a treat after all the exertion.  Like the best cities, London is all about the yin and the yang.  We Londoners worship excess on every level - it's in our DNA.  So, let us eat red velvet cake here, and my, what gorgeous baking this is from model turned chef, Lorraine Pascal.  She's the new, pretty Jamie Oliver, doncha know.  Inspired?  You may like to check out her new book, Homecooking Made Easy. http://ellasbakehouse.co.uk/

The hottest new resto/club opening this Autumn is Dorsia in Kensington, which was named after the impossible to book fictional restaurant in Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho.  http://www.thedorsia.co.uk/   Dining reservations open this week so fingers on the buttons.   And hairdo for the night out?   À la New York, blow dry bars are popping up all over London.  Check out Top Shop's and pick from the menu.  http://www.hershesons.com/contact   Or, if you're a girl - or even guy - super short on time, and, with enough hair, rock a neat ponytail.  Definitely the catwalk look du jour - high or low, it's the style that gets you max fashionista points and is beautifully simple, even working on dirty hair for that morning-after styling.

Back to Top Shop and like The Wolseley (one of my all time fave restaurants), this fashion store is firmly embedded in London culture and transcends trends if you will.  Visit the Oxford Street mecca on a Monday morning when you'll almost have the place to yourself.  If you must shop on a Friday/Saturday, head for the small but perfectly formed Knightsbridge branch, which offers a high-end edit of the store's new ranges.    http://www.topshop.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/TopCategoriesDisplay?storeId=12556&catalogId=33057

Have a lovely evening and catch up soon. I'm off to paint my nails Gucci jewel purple for my Dorsia Friday night out. Perhaps I'll see you there.

A perfect wine moment.

I am just back from dinner with the couple who run my place, and a perfect wine moment here in Preignac; a 1937 Chateau Gillette Sauternes. Parfait. Sharp reminder after a healthy measure of their 2009 Chateau des Eyrins Margaux, that work starts early tomorrow. But there is always time to mention that my fellow harvesters today thought I was ten years younger than I am. The Bordeaux light is clearly incredible with Autumn just beginning. Not an awful day at all. Sleep well.

It can only get better. There is no worse.

My vision of a semi-swanky Bordeaux mini break was shattered BAM when I saw the place where the harvesters - that was me - sleep. Ouch. It made motorway motels look like The Four Seasons. Truly awful. From this description on I promise not to exaggerate. I have had many moments this week thinking hell is wine making. If it wasn't for the most fantastic guy I work with - my cellar boss - I may well have hung myself with the rope that's used to wench objects up to the VAT walkway on high. Health and safety n'existe pas in this biz here. If I fancied clambering onto 25 foot high slippery vats for the pumping over process (yup, real term), I was more than welcome. I have so much to tell you, I barely know where to start but suffice to say, dirty back-breaking manual labour ain't my thing. Don't get me wrong though. I have too much respect for those who get stuck into this side of the business.

Fast forward to where you find me writing. A heavenly resto in Sauternes. Eating what is basically a fancy French version of scrambled eggs and mushrooms but picture in the Michelin style of... I feel as though I've found religion here in this gorgeous village. Incidentally, I'm having a glass of the sweet wine of the same name as I write. It was ordered as an aperetif but since I'm tout seule was still half full when the eggs arrived. Technically a textbook terrible pairing. Eggs are notoriously tricky. But this is my new recommendation. Eggs with Sauternes after a horrid experience. It should, I hope, make you feel a whole lot better. I do. In spades. Helped by checking into a stunning hotel on credit card after driving around the region for hours with no room at any inn. Some kind of wine seminar apparently means every hotel, chambre d'hote, free cupboard within a 30K radius of Bordeaux was full. Apart from my new spiritual home here. It seems the Japanese couple due to take the master room at the chateau, took a diversion, so I got a 30% reduction. I almost told the dapper Monsieur in charge that at that point, after driving in the cellar van for two hours without sat nav, he could have quite literally named his prix. No joke.

And please let's not return to the no doubt necessary explanation of pumping over as I'll probably kill you. The process haunts me at night. And the grapes. Don't even get me started. Thinking about the process, I'm shocked I'm actually enjoying this glass of Sauternes now. The improvised chambre d'hote I slept in the previous night (improvised in that it was in fact just a random old house - friends of a hotelier who was full), had no lock on my door and an over friendly older guy who I wish I'd known was in fact very kind and not liable to creep into my room at night, as I may not have barricaded myself in with a chest of drawers, large chair and stand up fan.

Anyway, here I am getting distracted in the resto by my new iPhone wine notes app which techie husband thought may be useful. And the reality is that if desert here is as good as my eggs, I should throw all caution to the wind and indulge, putting on the kilos I've lost with 3 days of harvest. Did I mention that I spent an afternoon harvesting? Hand picking the grapes. Which also reminds me that tomorrow I'm assisting with the allegedly tricky Sauternes harvest. Lucky I've almost finished this glass. Or the fear would absolutely put me off.

Oops. I think I've just made the same error I make with Italian food where you are full with the pasta starter and forget the main course will still arrive. They appear to have treated the eggs as my entrée. A legume delight filled plate is arriving. The first time any French chef bar Alain Ducasse seems to actually like vegetarians; courgette terrine, ratatouille and raisin risotto (strangely it works beautifully). I was about to get the waiter's attention and discuss a red wine food pairing before a) greed got the better of me and b) I checked myself that a 6am work start and/or the vision of being over the limit in charge of a van in the wine region  was best avoided. Park the chocolate fondant please. It may make me want another glass of Sauternes. Plus I don't need the calories. Back to skinny Paris scene vendredi.

Anticipation. And then. Pain.

Writing on the TGV to Bordeaux after very little sleep, I realise I am more nervous than expected about the trip. The Chateau I'm off to is owned by a husband and wife team who look kind on their website. The place looks stunning online, real picture book stuff and when I learn that the couple are friends of my course leader, I am relieved. You're usually safe with personal recommendations, no? I'm armed with a giant suitcase (vineyard work clothes combined with outfits for dinner) and a Mulberry handbag stuffed with wine notes. I decide a three hour plus train journey is best used revising vinification process so I'm better prepared for what lies ahead but keep being distracted by the Japanese fashion crowd to my right who are intent on peeling eggs, applying eye liner and loud gossiping the whole journey.

Fast forward to the reality of immersion in a Bordellais harvest and I am gasping for a cigarette (I don't smoke). Or a tequila slammer. Anything to numb the pain. I pray to the God of Massage for help with aching limbs, back, head, it all simply hurts. Brain pain too due to crash and burn information overload but boy, is it all fascinating. Utterly different from concepts outlined in the books. Never again will I criticise a bad glass of wine. Not being fully aware of the blood, sweat and tears - literally in my case (not quite the blood) that go into the 25 foot high vats, and after, each sip.

Cordon Bleu Sommelier Course begins...

My first week of sommelier diploma is now done and dusted. The more I learn about wine, the more I realise just how much there is to learn. Our teacher is fantastic. He was a highly respected sommelier at Le Crillon and has a wealth of experience, plus, importantly, he has that rare ability to impart information in an engaging, coherent way, peppered with entertaining anecdotes where appropriate. I am so lucky.

We have just had the somewhat dramatic news broken to us that we will be off to assist with harvesting the grapes next week. It all sounded desperately exciting until we learned of not just the hard labour involved, but also the animal friends we will no doubt be becoming very close with during our back-breaking grape picking activity in France. Think spiders and field mice - I'm assuming most of the snakes will have gone to ground by then!

I'm off to Bordeaux. For a fortnight. I've been instructed that my wardrobe should consist of gardening clothes for mucking right in with every aspect of wine production, not Dolce & Gabanna for any Grand Cru tastings.

Fellow students are of all ages from all around the world. P - my initial fave - has already produced her own wine in the Sonoma Valley, California. Back to the sartorial side and Friday saw a number of us gals close to tears when we had our initial try on sesh for our course suits. Stop reading if you're easily offended but one of my course members took one look at me in my navy blue 100% polyester get up and said I looked like Claire Balding's wrestling partner. I just needed DM boots. The trousers were so high waisted - far from a retro fashiony cut - that my chest rested on the waistband. The synthetic seam was cut so high between our legs we feared infection. And don't get me started on the jacket. Thank the Lord that our teacher's intelligence even stretched to fashion. I looked at him in his stylish suit, he looked at my clownish garb and the Cordon B Director made a snap decision that we could never be taken seriously in the wine world looking like that. We're off to Zara Monday morning first thing.

My new spiritual home.

Poolside at Locanda al Colle, Tuscany

While I may be late in the day to wax lyrical on Tuscany, I simply can't help myself from a veggie loving culinary perspective. I ate what was undeniably one of the most delish meals of my life last night at a hidden mountain-top resto, Osteria il Vignaccio in Santa Lucia. Its view was almost too postcard cliché to be believed. Riccardo, my gorgeous new Italian friend, runs Locanda Al Colle that I'd really rather keep a secret for fear too many indulge in my atmospheric love affair with what is surely one of the most beautiful, small hotels ever. Riccardo's ex-fashion and boy, does it show in every detail from the Jasmin Diptique burning candles in the lounge lobby to just the right shade of olive for the deckchair wood. I really must persuade Riccardo to create a member's card for me so I can always get a room. Since we raved about the slice of Tuscan heaven to Laurent who runs uber chic Tablet Hotels, Locanda is fast being added to the stylish site.

I've been lucky enough to eat at some terribly smart places in my time but this food - one of Riccardo's many spot-on recommendations - was heart-breakingly good in its taste and simplicity, where every flavour took turns introducing itself to your taste buds. This was especially true of the Panzanella (translated as old bread salad but please don't let that put you off). Without fail, in restaurant reviews there's a caveat and appreciating the laws of traditional story-telling, one needs the flaw. I couldn't find one here. Each course was as perfect as it should be - no bells or whistles. Simple suckling pig for my HB; my carnivorous nemesis who felt obligated to chow down on the speciality dish, which he declared made my vegetarianism a straight-up travesty of justice.

Team Locanda al Colle - (l to r: Andrea, Riccardo, SCap, Andrea)

HB and I split a half-bottle of smooth yet lively Italian red; Morellino di Scansano. And yes, apologies to all my UK friends who assume the above is akin to worshipping at the alter of sobriety. In HB's defence, he was driving back the hotel, negotiating hair-pin mountain bends in a Fiat 500 with less poke than a moped. We've all had the fear of the Italian Polizia instilled in us from the movies, even the news, right? And that leaves me to come up with my excuse. It has something to do with obligatory Limoncello shots post-dining.

Sommelier by 2012

With the tv job in limbo land due to French channel funding still up in the air for relevant documentaries, I revert to plan A. My wine studies start in September - full on, right through to Spring 2012. Imagine what a nightmare dinner party guest I'll be. A vegetarian wine snob. I should start a new religion. Or charity. Perhaps there'd be tax breaks in France... The sympathy vote for not tucking into steak tartare on a bi-weekly basis like every good Parisien does.

Backbends and Butts. Pah. Bring on the mime...

Went with a friend to Crazy Horse in Paris last night. It was surprisingly stylish though after so much of the same, I was pleasantly surprised when the mime artist came on. And the constant backbends must hurt girls, no?! Two glasses of champagne and a sneaky fruit-based cocktail, along with a litre of Badoit at Pershing Hall afterwards and I smugly assumed I'd be up with the larks ready for my spin class. Boo. Is this what being almost 30 plus 10 feels like? I'm nervous. Greige may work well when embracing the fashion colour-block theme, but not when it's your face.

Shallow. Moi?

I write this on the flight to Cannes (Nice) which I made quite literally by the skin of my teeth! With hindsight, I'd have taken a moto-taxi but as it was I was stuck on the aeroport bus for almost two hours as there was an accident on the ring-road. Eeeek. Anyway, I called the husband on route and asked him to check online if I could buy a later flight, with any airline, and of course, with the festival, all flights were sold out. The elderly Jewish Isreali guy who clearly did the Tel Aviv/Paris commute weekly, (we didn't talk politics. Luckily. What with my bigger concerns... Superficial, moi?!) next to me tried to help with calculations and was convinced I would make it. Just. So I got off at the first terminal (not mine), and legged it in my high heels across to the opposite terminal. Made it by 3 minutes. Only to find out we were delayed! Cue chilled glass of Chenin Blanc. Weird wine offering for France. Delicious. Though even Beaujolais would have tasted good after my stressy journey. Ironically, I'd had a killer massage the night before with OMG - the hottest masseur you can begin to imagine. A bit uncomfortable when he tucked the towel right down low into my knickers and started rubbing the very base (almost arse) of my back. Was confused as to whether was ok to enjoy it or not. Anyway, I digress but basically the pendulum of stress release swang back the other way earlier. But then I reminded myself there are horrendous problems in the world and even beginning to feel a touch sorry for myself about the possibility of missing Cannes made me a shallow twat.

After three meets over the course of the past year...

I have a real Paris job. Apologies if my blogs are rather sporadic but my new position is one where it will absolutely be worth me putting the time in so there go... lunches, shopping, meandering thoughts and in comes focus. Yup, I'm ready. And spring has sprung in Paris which means I even dared to introduce my neon Chanel pedi to the 7eme arondissement.

OMG II

Going to NY for Christmas. How much can I not wait.

German pilates with leather shorts.

I've just had my first German pilates class. The teacher said she'd speak a mix of German and English and then proceeded to take the whole hour in German. Tough. I'm halfway to cracking French pump and yoga sessions in my swank Paris gym but this is a whole alien concept. Suffice to say I got through it. Just. Meanwhile, The Noise has been doing his usual I don't ever, ever like to Sleep routine with the parents on babysit duty in Paris. Ouch. Perhaps I didn't give step-ma and pa enough warning as to just how bad it is. Then again, they may have changed their about doing the childcare if the truth was out there. I made all the appropriate empathetic noises on the phone and offered to pay for the sitter to entertain him should they say the word. Never ones to admit defeat, they refused. Note to self; decent thank you pressie absolutely required. Oh and I'm wearing leather shorts tonight. In a German sorta lederhosen way.

The Surprise Party. And now, the Berlinale...

I have just thrown a surprise party in London for my husband's '30th plus 10'. An expression I'm keen to endorse since I'll be there at a non-specified date too. Incredibly, I pulled it off too after months of stressful planning. You try getting a bunch of friends that includes journalists and publicists to keep something quiet. I know. Impressive, right. Some dear friends even flew in from Morocco for the night which was my double-bluff since E was shocked enough when they were waiting in the hotel bar for our fictional dinner date. So now, 48 hours on and I'm sitting at the bar of the newly opened Soho House Berlin for the film festival. Tired but happy.

Better late than never?

Ok, I know it's been a while since we spoke but if you want the truth, it's not for want of trying. My techie uselessness is to blame; the fact that everytime I tried to sit down and write, late at night, Bordeaux stem in hand (y'know how Paris is!) I couldn't remember my login details and the French explanations for access were alluding me. See. Dull, dull, dull. And there were you thinking I'd run off with my gorgeous French teacher. He is gorgeous. Uber Parisien and Oooh, all of 70. Yes, I know Anna Nicole didn't mind but she had different reasons.

Listen, let's talk more when I'm in London for s'thing exciting next week - more later - and then onto Berlin for the film festival. Yay. Oh and v belated Happy New Year.