Travel

I am from Philadelphia, and when I meet someone who isn’t from Philadelphia they always say “Oh! You are from Philadelphia. You must love cheese steaks,” because this is the only thing people know about Philadelphia.

Cheese steaks are embedded into the national imagination as “Philly food,” or “Philly phood” (mad men dreaming up ad campaigns for local Philadelphia business or sports teams love to replace “f” with “ph” whenever possible). Philadelphians bear this and other burdens patiently, but at a certain point, even the most sanguine lose their cool. How many times have I weathered cheese steak-related questions with the same bottled response, which is: the secret to a great cheese steak is the bread, and the secret to the bread is the water, and the water has to be Philadelphia water because otherwise it doesn’t taste quite right.

Is it an accident that LouLou's opened near the residence of Bertie Wooster? I don't think so!

I am certain I saw ol’ Bertie and his ‘brilliant’ Mayfair pals yukking it up downstairs at one of Loulou’s fab bars - London’s hot (no not just hot, SCALDING) new club, 5 Hertford Street, which opened this spring In London.  

Fictional or not, Bertie Wooster, Jeeves and their creator, P.J. Wodehouse would all agree that Robin Birley’s new club is the new ‘trump card’ among all the new private clubs that are creating London’s energy, sex appeal and god only knows what else among its beautiful young things.  

How did we get in you ask?  Our friend British Historian, Andrew Roberts, who collects private clubs as any BYT might, made the arrangements. Thank you Andrew.  Thank you Robin!

For one thing, as I said, it has Robin Birley, son of Sir Mark Birley and Lady Annabel Goldsmith (as in ANNABEL’S) who clearly knows how to create a place in which simply everyone wants to be seen (more on this later). 

An excerpt from  "Hungry for Paris"

Some ten years ago, I went to dinner one night with no expectations. A London newspaper had asked me to write about Lapérouse, an old warhorse of a restaurant overlooking the Seine on the Left Bank—it was doing historic Paris restaurants, and this one’s been around forever. I politely suggested that there might be better candidates, because as far as I knew, this place was still a slumbering tourist table flogging its past: it has several charming tiny private dining rooms with badly scratched mirrors—as the legend goes, these cuts were made by ladies testing the veracity of newly offered diamonds (real diamonds cut glass).

The editor was unyielding, so off I went. The stale-smelling dining room was mostly empty on a winter night, and though the young mâitre d’hôtel was unexpectedly charming and gracious, I was more interested by my friend Anne’s gossipy accounts of a recent visit to Los Angeles than I was by the menu.

I grew up on a farm in south Georgia. I had no appreciation for the fact that we grew our own crops; I never once had a meal from a can. Everything we ate came straight from the farm to the table. We even had a pond and stocked fresh trout and other fish.

Who knew that would become the hip and trendy way to eat?

I remember being a little bit embarrassed that I grew up on a farm. My Mom subscribed to magazines such as Vanity Fair and Town and County. I loved the photos, especially the 'society' photos of all the pretty women dressed in colorful frocks in high heeled shoes.

I could relate because my Mom got the Sears catalog and I dreamt of the day that I was old enough to order those high heeled Espadrilles in all sorts of colors. I remember seeing a piece in Town and Country of Jackie-O on a yacht in Monaco, wearing those shoes.