My mother, Shannon, and I scurried down Little Clarendon Street, Oxford at around 10:15 at night. We were starving and eager to sit down and talk. My mom had steered us down this road because there are a number of good restaurants to choose from: French, Italian, Tapas, Indian. I peered into each window and chose the least crowded of the bunch – the French one. If left to me, I will always choose the emptiest because I find that the din of busy restaurants these days overwhelms any chance of having a decent conversation. We hadn’t traveled all this way to explore new cuisine. We had come to see my mom.
My birthmother just graduated from The Continuing Education Department at Oxford University, with a focus on regional history. I couldn’t be more proud than to celebrate her continuing achievements, so Shannon and I flew to Oxford to watch her graduation ceremony that evening.
We pushed open the big red door of Café Rouge and walked through the bar into the dining room of the brasserie. The room was big with dark oak floors and tables, burgundy velvet banquettes, and antiqued mirrors which hung from every wall. We waited for a few minutes and then were shown to our table by a disinterested, lanky blonde waiter. He carelessly danced around, making faces at another lanky blonde waiter working the other side of the room. Menus were tossed onto our table, orders taken and we started to catch up.
Where a certain quality of light illumines the lush foliage and warms the honey coloured brick of this fascinating country house hotel. It dapples the grey and pinkish white hides of the does as they playfully flirt and then shyly turn away from the piercing eyes of the antlered deer. It ripples across the quietly moving waters of the trout stream and turns the shining leaves of the great towering trees to gold.
Before leaving on my recent trip to Ireland I was thinking that while there, I’d write about the butter. I even remarked that I thought I had a “butter piece” in me. Limited thinking, that’s what that was!
Spring is the perfect time for an off-season weekend in California's Sonoma Valley. Premium rates don't begin until just before the Memorial Day weekend.
If you want to experience authentic native Hawaiian food, as opposed to the fusion of Hawaiian, Portuguese, Chinese and Japanese that is common today, you must eat at Helena's Hawaiian Food. I've been going to Helena's since 1977 and while Helena is sadly gone and the location has changed, the food is exactly the same as it ever was. Absolutely delicious. But don't just take my word for it, Helena's was actually recognized with a James Beard award for outstanding American regional cuisine in 2000.