Mathematician and genius Alan Turing burnt bright and brilliant and briefly yet, for all that he was, he was never appreciated in his lifetime beyond the confines of his peers.
The conspiracies and circumstance set in place to ensure he remained obscure appear formidable.
Firstly, he operated in great secrecy in the (now) legendary Bletchley Park, helping to decipher the Nazi Enigma code.
There was an unbreakable bond of silence among Bletchley veterans that kept their work secret long after it needed to be so. War time leader Winston Churchill called his codebreakers "the geese that laid the golden eggs and never cackled".
So effective was this secrecy that Bletchley's (and Turing's) remarkable advances only began to emerge in the '80s and 90s. By that time, the notion that the US was the pioneer of the computer age was firmly entrenched and Turing long dead.
Secondly, he was gay at a time when to be so was illegal and, in society's eyes, shameful.
An inquest ruled he committed suicide at the age of just 41 after swallowing a bottle of cyanide - although the verdict has been called into question.
It was 1952 and he had been convicted for committing a homosexual act and, in doing so, lost his security clearance and access to his computers.
David Rooney, curator on the Science Museum's new Code Breaker exhibition, said "Turing, who had undoubted eccentricities, was regarded with affection by colleagues. His treatment at the end of his life is a source of national shame.
"The exhibition is an opportunity to present the remarkable work of a man whose influence reaches into perhaps the most widespread pastime of the 21st century, the use of the personal computing device, yet whose name is probably unfamiliar."
If the secrecy was a constant guard against recognition, there was a third obstacle: the field in which he chose to excel - maths and computational science is fiendishly complex.
Indeed, if there is a weakness in the excellent and moving exhibition marking the centenary of his birth, it is in the nature of the exhibits.
While they are authentically dented, scraped, dusty and aged, their metal carapaces, occasional flick-switches and lack of recognisable function promote the idea they are the pointless products of abstract mind games.
In fact, these were the machines that took mechanical calculating devices - the sort that Victorian Charles Babbage would recognise - and pushed them on to the utilitarianism of the computer.
Key to that journey was the philosophical and conceptual framework of the computing device - Turing wrote the rulebook. He outlined what a computer was, how it would function, what it would do.
One of his legacies is a hypothetical device called a Turing machine - a device that simulates the cold logic of a computer algorithm.
But the exhibition demonstrates that Turing was far from such a machine himself.
On show are personal letters that soften the hard reproach of his familiar dark-eyed portrait to reveal a very human soul.
He lost a friend to TB when they were very young and his letters to the boys' mother are sensitive, supportive and insightful.
Rooney said: "We are able to show a more complete portrait of the man who, far from being the lone genius of popular belief, can be seen as a character with many endearing qualities."
Such was the extraordinary and devastating impact of Christopher Morcom's death, that it incubated in Turing the thought - or maybe the wish - that the mind could survive the body, a philosophical question that took him to psychic and paranormal investigation and on to the first stirrings of artificial intelligence.
Who knows where he would have ended up had he lived to yoke the extraordinary power of modern computers to his unfettered imagination and precise humanity?
In 2009 Prime Minister Gordon Brown apologised on behalf of the nation for the "appalling way" Alan Turing was treated simply for being gay.
Fittingly, pressure for an apology arose from an online petition to No.10 - an army of binary digits rallying to redeem their first champion, perhaps?
■ Code Breaker: Alan Turing's Life And Legacy, FREE, Science Museum, until June 2013, sciencemuseum.org.uk.
Science Museum conservator Bryony Finn inspects the Pilot ACE computer - formerly the fastest computer in the world in the 1950s and fundamentally designed by Alan Turing
Saturday, 7 July 2012
Upwardly mobile at The O2
Here's the easy option: The O2 could have built a vast Stannah stairlift that took all-comers to the peak of its iconic roof. In a steady drone, rising to the heavens, the elderly, frail and obese could have ascended, strapped in but comfortable, conveyed and cowed.
There could be flask breaks and oxygen stops and chuntering counterweights descending to keep the balance, like a Welsh mountainside funicular.
That would be a way to go. Boring, yes, but inclusive and beige and all those things that modern life likes but you don't want in an attraction that takes you 52m into the sky onto a roof.
(Something magical about rooftops, isn't there? Dick Van Dyke and all that.)
No, here, in Up At The O2, (too many prepositions for a title) you want a taste of adventure, if only a tingle on the tongue from a pipette shot of adrenalin.
And if you want to see the vast panorama of east London - Canary Wharf, the Orbit, the Royal Docks, the Thames Barrier - well, remember what Debbie Allen said in Fame: "You want views? Well, views cost and right here is where you start paying - in sweat."
No faint-hearts. No-one weak of limb or soft of resolve. No lily-livered, muffin topped, state-coddled idlers welcome.
While the attraction doesn't exactly take you to the extreme, it does nudge you to the outer perimeter of the bit before the edge of your comfort zone.
I'm not suggesting roller-coaster thrill or a pilot-has-fainted thunderclap but it does leave you a little puffed and, maybe, disconcerted. For example, if you drop stuff over the side, it's gone - so that's like The Poseidon Adventure isn't it?
In fact, there's something very Disneyland about the experience from the outset. Waiting is not a pleasure, more an endurance leavened by a sense of impending adventure. Inform, entertain, get the paperwork done.
So we have Rupert briefing us on screen. A rather excitable Englishman, he calls on our heritage of derring-do, our sense of pride and patriotism to get us to the top, with all those pesky health and safety lessons tucked in between for good measure.
We know our purpose, our birthright our destiny - and where the toilets are, just in case.
An hour and a half for a complete trip, we were told. Seemed excessive.
But then there were the checks, the straps, the harnesses, the nervy banter between newly-bonded brothers and the lessons in clamping on to the wire so you don't tumble down, Jack and Jill style.
Part of it was probably prescribed by the HSE, but it did add to the drama - as though we really were steeplejacks, or mountaineers, or Chinese engineers in some Channel Five documentary.
Either way, the ascent was overseen by a Sherpa Tensing - ours was Adam, generous with his time and eager to please - and our excursion jellied the legs for the unfit (me) and curdled the lunch of the lesser folk (so not me).
If heights are not your thing, you wouldn't be here but if steep slopes that appear to lead to an eternal void stir the butterflies, or a route march on a trampoline ungirds your loins, then you'll be glad of the umbilical link to the sturdy wires.
At the top, the viewing platform and plenty of time for panoramic shots, for picking out buildings and cooing at cityscapes.
Pity the panorama is downbeat - too much industrial plant and not enough sky piercing drama - but for those of us who live and work round here, at ground-level mostly, there is enough to excite.
The empty cable car slung to and fro dejectedly, the planes rose from City Airport, the sun hit the Thames and the playful Shard hid behind the skirts of One Canada Square, a perspective that flatters the latter.
Then it was down the other side, marching sideways like crabs and both ruing and grateful for the benevolent weather (for the rain would have made the descent slippery and heart-pumping).
In our gear - jumpsuits, harnesses, climbing shoes - we were swashbuckling outsiders in an attraction busy with diners and gawpers and somnambulists.
But if there were any doubt that we were back down to earth then - well, we exited through the gift shop. Did Edmund Hillary? Did Chris Bonington? Did James Bond after his skiddy descent down the iconic parabola.
Oh, forget it. The moment's gone.
FACTFILE
■ Climbs take place every 30 minutes and run noon to 8pm weekdays in the summer and 10am to 6pm at weekends.
■ Tickets cost £22 for adults and children (over 10) and all the gear is provided. Stringent health guidelines apply.
■ Pre-booking is recommended, online at o2.co.uk/upattheo2
There could be flask breaks and oxygen stops and chuntering counterweights descending to keep the balance, like a Welsh mountainside funicular.
That would be a way to go. Boring, yes, but inclusive and beige and all those things that modern life likes but you don't want in an attraction that takes you 52m into the sky onto a roof.
(Something magical about rooftops, isn't there? Dick Van Dyke and all that.)
No, here, in Up At The O2, (too many prepositions for a title) you want a taste of adventure, if only a tingle on the tongue from a pipette shot of adrenalin.
And if you want to see the vast panorama of east London - Canary Wharf, the Orbit, the Royal Docks, the Thames Barrier - well, remember what Debbie Allen said in Fame: "You want views? Well, views cost and right here is where you start paying - in sweat."
No faint-hearts. No-one weak of limb or soft of resolve. No lily-livered, muffin topped, state-coddled idlers welcome.
While the attraction doesn't exactly take you to the extreme, it does nudge you to the outer perimeter of the bit before the edge of your comfort zone.
I'm not suggesting roller-coaster thrill or a pilot-has-fainted thunderclap but it does leave you a little puffed and, maybe, disconcerted. For example, if you drop stuff over the side, it's gone - so that's like The Poseidon Adventure isn't it?
In fact, there's something very Disneyland about the experience from the outset. Waiting is not a pleasure, more an endurance leavened by a sense of impending adventure. Inform, entertain, get the paperwork done.
So we have Rupert briefing us on screen. A rather excitable Englishman, he calls on our heritage of derring-do, our sense of pride and patriotism to get us to the top, with all those pesky health and safety lessons tucked in between for good measure.
We know our purpose, our birthright our destiny - and where the toilets are, just in case.
An hour and a half for a complete trip, we were told. Seemed excessive.
But then there were the checks, the straps, the harnesses, the nervy banter between newly-bonded brothers and the lessons in clamping on to the wire so you don't tumble down, Jack and Jill style.
Part of it was probably prescribed by the HSE, but it did add to the drama - as though we really were steeplejacks, or mountaineers, or Chinese engineers in some Channel Five documentary.
Either way, the ascent was overseen by a Sherpa Tensing - ours was Adam, generous with his time and eager to please - and our excursion jellied the legs for the unfit (me) and curdled the lunch of the lesser folk (so not me).
If heights are not your thing, you wouldn't be here but if steep slopes that appear to lead to an eternal void stir the butterflies, or a route march on a trampoline ungirds your loins, then you'll be glad of the umbilical link to the sturdy wires.
At the top, the viewing platform and plenty of time for panoramic shots, for picking out buildings and cooing at cityscapes.
Pity the panorama is downbeat - too much industrial plant and not enough sky piercing drama - but for those of us who live and work round here, at ground-level mostly, there is enough to excite.
The empty cable car slung to and fro dejectedly, the planes rose from City Airport, the sun hit the Thames and the playful Shard hid behind the skirts of One Canada Square, a perspective that flatters the latter.
Then it was down the other side, marching sideways like crabs and both ruing and grateful for the benevolent weather (for the rain would have made the descent slippery and heart-pumping).
In our gear - jumpsuits, harnesses, climbing shoes - we were swashbuckling outsiders in an attraction busy with diners and gawpers and somnambulists.
But if there were any doubt that we were back down to earth then - well, we exited through the gift shop. Did Edmund Hillary? Did Chris Bonington? Did James Bond after his skiddy descent down the iconic parabola.
Oh, forget it. The moment's gone.
FACTFILE
■ Climbs take place every 30 minutes and run noon to 8pm weekdays in the summer and 10am to 6pm at weekends.
■ Tickets cost £22 for adults and children (over 10) and all the gear is provided. Stringent health guidelines apply.
■ Pre-booking is recommended, online at o2.co.uk/upattheo2
Book review: Tubes, by Andrew Blum
BOOK
Tubes, by Andrew Blum
Penguin
★★★✩✩
IN A NUTSHELL
There is no cloud - there are just lots and lots of wires leading to lots and lots of data centres. Andrew Blum follows his emails down the pipes.
REVIEW
There should be a word for it - there probably is - but I'm going to plump for a phrase instead - total immersive reading.
The book is Tubes: Behind The Scenes At The Internet and author Andrew Blum is in Britain.
He started his journey looking for the physical aspects of the net - the exchanges, the cables, data warehouses - in his homeland of America and now he's over here to examine the European connections.
And he talks about this place, this hub, "the Heathrow of the internet" that is a crossroads - maybe a spaghetti junction - of the internet that is like a worldwide pinch point for the entire structure. Seemingly, it all goes through this exchange centre, he says.
The company is Telehouse and it is sited in the Docklands. I look up from the book to check my station. We're at East India DLR. So is the author. He's off to Telehouse, this Mecca, this icon. I see it, right next the Tower Hamlets Town Hall.
So that's what that is. Who would have guessed? Did you?
In the book, Blum satisfactorily kills off the notion that there's a cloud. I'm e-mailing this story - and there's a physical link to the receiver.
There has to be although we tend to characterise the net in more nebulous terms. Blum shows us behind the curtain where there's lots and lots of yellow cable.
Revelatory stuff if a bit dry. Catnip for network nerds.
Tubes, by Andrew Blum
Penguin
★★★✩✩
IN A NUTSHELL
There is no cloud - there are just lots and lots of wires leading to lots and lots of data centres. Andrew Blum follows his emails down the pipes.
REVIEW
There should be a word for it - there probably is - but I'm going to plump for a phrase instead - total immersive reading.
The book is Tubes: Behind The Scenes At The Internet and author Andrew Blum is in Britain.
He started his journey looking for the physical aspects of the net - the exchanges, the cables, data warehouses - in his homeland of America and now he's over here to examine the European connections.
And he talks about this place, this hub, "the Heathrow of the internet" that is a crossroads - maybe a spaghetti junction - of the internet that is like a worldwide pinch point for the entire structure. Seemingly, it all goes through this exchange centre, he says.
The company is Telehouse and it is sited in the Docklands. I look up from the book to check my station. We're at East India DLR. So is the author. He's off to Telehouse, this Mecca, this icon. I see it, right next the Tower Hamlets Town Hall.
So that's what that is. Who would have guessed? Did you?
In the book, Blum satisfactorily kills off the notion that there's a cloud. I'm e-mailing this story - and there's a physical link to the receiver.
There has to be although we tend to characterise the net in more nebulous terms. Blum shows us behind the curtain where there's lots and lots of yellow cable.
Revelatory stuff if a bit dry. Catnip for network nerds.
Saturday, 23 June 2012
Battle for heart and sole of Labour party
As the unions wrangle to get back their party from the Blairites - threatening to oust the Progress group from within its ranks - it is clear that the left-right tussle continues, two decades after New Labour came to prominence.
Last night, a revelation cast new light on the rightward bias of that revolutionary triumvirate of Blair, Campbell and Mandelson.
Former director of strategy and Blairite torch-bearer Alistair Campbell, launching the fourth instalment of his delicious diaries at the Mile End Group, revealed his bias is inherent and visceral.
He affirmed that his right leg was shorter than his left, requiring insoles to keep him walking in a straight line. If his audience at Queen Mary University Of London doubted his word - perish the thought - he removed his shoes and aired the devices.
Unassisted by artifice, it was clear that Campbell naturally veers to the right. The battle for the heart and sole of the Labour Party was won.
Last night, a revelation cast new light on the rightward bias of that revolutionary triumvirate of Blair, Campbell and Mandelson.
Former director of strategy and Blairite torch-bearer Alistair Campbell, launching the fourth instalment of his delicious diaries at the Mile End Group, revealed his bias is inherent and visceral.
He affirmed that his right leg was shorter than his left, requiring insoles to keep him walking in a straight line. If his audience at Queen Mary University Of London doubted his word - perish the thought - he removed his shoes and aired the devices.
Unassisted by artifice, it was clear that Campbell naturally veers to the right. The battle for the heart and sole of the Labour Party was won.
Stage review: The History Boys, Greenwich Theatre
STAGE
The History Boys
Greenwich Theatre
★★★✩✩
IN A NUTSHELL
Alan Bennett's gloriously robust examination of the purposes of education gets a welcome revival.
REVIEW
I had a thought on leaving this buzzy production of Alan Bennett's classroom classic. I overheard the same thought from a genteel and mature lady who was airing her views forcefully to her son who seemed embarrassed by his generation and its crass liberties.
The History Boys is about education - education for life versus education for exams - but it is most particularly, pointedly and repeatedly about sexual predation by older men of younger boys.
Alan Bennett rather likes, one suspects, scattering the tea cups and overturning plates of battenberg that are the motifs and shackles of his status as a national treasure.
Fun stuff, but, ultimately, it all becomes overbearing and weary.
Especially when overtly heterosexual Dakin is prepared to venture over the border just to say thanks to a closet teacher where an apple or a nice card would seem commensurate with the scale of the exchange.
The film of The History Boys sidesteps quantities of this obtrusive lust (save the grope that is instrumental to the plot) and does a better job of creating convincing character and argument.
The other thing - and I fear that I may irretrievably cast myself as the soul mate of the outraged blue rinse - is that Bennett rather too often uses swear words as punchlines.
Now I have no problem with swear words as punchlines but here it is as if Bennett looks in his box of tricks and spots a nice, plump four-letter doozy and thinks "that'll please the stalls".
He is such a mellifluous and compelling writer and his arguments prowl the stage with such an air of delicious danger that it seems a shame he doesn't believe we demand more.
Why win a grin with a witty riposte when a C-bomb does the damage.
This is no way to disparage this serviceable revival of the play which sees a bunch of northern prospects put through their paces to land a place at Oxbridge.
They become caught in a tug-of-war between cynic Irwin and romantic Hector and that, and the precocity of the lads, is where the fun is to be had.
Marcus Taylor as the head steals most of the laughs but there are commendable displays all round from the talented and committed ensemble.
Until June 24. Go to greenwichtheatre.co.uk.
The History Boys
Greenwich Theatre
★★★✩✩
IN A NUTSHELL
Alan Bennett's gloriously robust examination of the purposes of education gets a welcome revival.
REVIEW
I had a thought on leaving this buzzy production of Alan Bennett's classroom classic. I overheard the same thought from a genteel and mature lady who was airing her views forcefully to her son who seemed embarrassed by his generation and its crass liberties.
The History Boys is about education - education for life versus education for exams - but it is most particularly, pointedly and repeatedly about sexual predation by older men of younger boys.
Alan Bennett rather likes, one suspects, scattering the tea cups and overturning plates of battenberg that are the motifs and shackles of his status as a national treasure.
Fun stuff, but, ultimately, it all becomes overbearing and weary.
Especially when overtly heterosexual Dakin is prepared to venture over the border just to say thanks to a closet teacher where an apple or a nice card would seem commensurate with the scale of the exchange.
The film of The History Boys sidesteps quantities of this obtrusive lust (save the grope that is instrumental to the plot) and does a better job of creating convincing character and argument.
The other thing - and I fear that I may irretrievably cast myself as the soul mate of the outraged blue rinse - is that Bennett rather too often uses swear words as punchlines.
Now I have no problem with swear words as punchlines but here it is as if Bennett looks in his box of tricks and spots a nice, plump four-letter doozy and thinks "that'll please the stalls".
He is such a mellifluous and compelling writer and his arguments prowl the stage with such an air of delicious danger that it seems a shame he doesn't believe we demand more.
Why win a grin with a witty riposte when a C-bomb does the damage.
This is no way to disparage this serviceable revival of the play which sees a bunch of northern prospects put through their paces to land a place at Oxbridge.
They become caught in a tug-of-war between cynic Irwin and romantic Hector and that, and the precocity of the lads, is where the fun is to be had.
Marcus Taylor as the head steals most of the laughs but there are commendable displays all round from the talented and committed ensemble.
Until June 24. Go to greenwichtheatre.co.uk.
Too near the knuckle for comfort
Among the cacophony of nuisances that peck at my brain and fell me, kicking and (silently) screaming from the land of suspended disbelief this was a new one on me. A new form of torture.
I have ranted, not necessarily originally but with sincere vehemence, about the ubiquitous mobile phone lighting up auditoriums like Christmas trees.
I have despaired at the inability of people to let babysitters, secretaries, West Ham, do their jobs without intervention from self-absorbed so-and-so's who consider the phone to be solely an instrument of posy self-aggrandisement.
I have gnashed my teeth and rent my garments over the driving, selfish desire of people to attend performances on a highlight-only, need-to-know basis - that is, darting in and out of the foyer to take and make calls while they presume the action on stage or screen is flagging.
I have said many times and in many ways that hell is other people and there are lots of other people in theatres. And they all thinking that hiding a phone in the lap eliminates the glow from the screen (it doesn't, people, it just doesn't) or that boiled sweets are best unwrapped s-l-ow-l-y or that we all want to know that they know how it's going to end.
But this one, during a performance of The History Boys at Greenwich Theatre, entered a new realm of temple-thwacking, granny-kicking madness.
To the left of me, an obsessive (always the worst). His obsession was cracking his knuckles. Relentlessly. Seriously. And he had, like most of us, 10 digits so it was a Forth Bridge of a job - crack, pop, crack, pop. He harvested the joint relief from one round before promptly starting on the next.
He was young so my only revenge is the sure knowledge of his early on-set arthritis. A mixed blessing, of course, because, while he will be deprived of the ability to play Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No.2 at the Albert Hall (tee hee), I will be similarly deprived of the ability to ruin his performance with a bubble-wrap and yoga marathon in the front row.
But knuckle-cracking, like yawning, appears to be contagious. To the right of me, a Facebook-lugging loon began work on his own clattering paws. Less fruitful than the gibbon to my left, he took to extraordinary feats of contortion to earn his "pop".
Fingers yanked back till they were paled and bloodless. Or bent till they were twisted like a foetus. He strained. I strained. We both hung on for the sweet joy of release.
In the end, the whole performance was like a Castanet Convention in Madrid. Imagine the noise the skeletons made while skewering Jason and the Argonauts. Or the timpani of butchers in Smithfield as they collapse a pig by hand. It was that. A whole performance delivered in Morse by tricky-fingered haters.
giles.broadbent@wharf.co.uk
I have ranted, not necessarily originally but with sincere vehemence, about the ubiquitous mobile phone lighting up auditoriums like Christmas trees.
I have despaired at the inability of people to let babysitters, secretaries, West Ham, do their jobs without intervention from self-absorbed so-and-so's who consider the phone to be solely an instrument of posy self-aggrandisement.
I have gnashed my teeth and rent my garments over the driving, selfish desire of people to attend performances on a highlight-only, need-to-know basis - that is, darting in and out of the foyer to take and make calls while they presume the action on stage or screen is flagging.
I have said many times and in many ways that hell is other people and there are lots of other people in theatres. And they all thinking that hiding a phone in the lap eliminates the glow from the screen (it doesn't, people, it just doesn't) or that boiled sweets are best unwrapped s-l-ow-l-y or that we all want to know that they know how it's going to end.
But this one, during a performance of The History Boys at Greenwich Theatre, entered a new realm of temple-thwacking, granny-kicking madness.
To the left of me, an obsessive (always the worst). His obsession was cracking his knuckles. Relentlessly. Seriously. And he had, like most of us, 10 digits so it was a Forth Bridge of a job - crack, pop, crack, pop. He harvested the joint relief from one round before promptly starting on the next.
He was young so my only revenge is the sure knowledge of his early on-set arthritis. A mixed blessing, of course, because, while he will be deprived of the ability to play Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No.2 at the Albert Hall (tee hee), I will be similarly deprived of the ability to ruin his performance with a bubble-wrap and yoga marathon in the front row.
But knuckle-cracking, like yawning, appears to be contagious. To the right of me, a Facebook-lugging loon began work on his own clattering paws. Less fruitful than the gibbon to my left, he took to extraordinary feats of contortion to earn his "pop".
Fingers yanked back till they were paled and bloodless. Or bent till they were twisted like a foetus. He strained. I strained. We both hung on for the sweet joy of release.
In the end, the whole performance was like a Castanet Convention in Madrid. Imagine the noise the skeletons made while skewering Jason and the Argonauts. Or the timpani of butchers in Smithfield as they collapse a pig by hand. It was that. A whole performance delivered in Morse by tricky-fingered haters.
giles.broadbent@wharf.co.uk
Sunday, 17 June 2012
Food review: Le Relais de Venise L'Entrecote
FRENCH
Le Relais de Venise L'Entrecote
Mackenzie Walk
★★★★✩
IN A NUTSHELL
Should be a perfect marriage: cut-above steak and chips delivered in style - and quickly - in a French brasserie setting.
REVIEW
So if Gordon Ramsay were here, in my nightmare, bellowing about my failing rest- aurant, he would be saying that 53 items on the menu is not variety, it's lack of confidence, and how could I possibly produce deep impaled garlic butter snails with a lettuce foam and wild mushroom and venison stroganoff with a thyme brush tickle out of the same kitchen with the same clapped-out crew?
And I would be all like, "I'm just burnt out, chef" and "we're just haemorrhaging money. We can't afford to cook fresh."
And he'd yank me out of the walk-in where I'm hiding and shout: "You can't afford not to."
Le Relais de Venise L'Entrecote has the confidence and brio of Paris so it's not like that. It's the opposite of that.
It does one thing, it does it well, it does it all the time and if you don't like the thing it does then (a) you had your taste buds numbed by too many Zoom ice lollies or (b) you should take up finger painting or whatever because there's not enough joy in your life.
(Note how I'm filling for time. None of that "my companion plumped for A while I sampled the natty little B" schtick. Let's face it, we had steak and chips. That's kinda the point.)
Here's the big idea, which has worked well in the City, worked well in New York and has now come to Canary Wharf.
One set menu, one price (£21), no reservations, all done and dusted in under an hour. But not fast food - steady food, consistent food, loved food.
It goes like this: a green salad with walnuts dressed with mustard vinaigrette followed by steak frites with a secret recipe sauce - served half now, half later so the frites stay crispy and the steaks stay hot.
Yes, there are bits and pieces around the edges - wine, or dessert and coffee - but essentially it's a take-it-or-leave-it deal. Vegetarians are catered for but nominally because "entrecote" is a premium cut of beef, dummy, so veggies only need Babelfish and a brain cell to get the message.
It's all about the steaks - British, grass-fed, mature, aged for four weeks before cooking - and nestling, between demi-courses, on candle-heated silver trays. And - wow - if red velvet cupcakes evolved into happy ruminants, their meat would taste like this.
Brisk doesn't mean unwelcoming. Take the setting - the French brasserie interiors with wood panels, banquette seating and jaunty paintings.
Best of all, the uniformed waitresses, giving a Downton Abbey feel - it's an incongruous through-the-looking-glass antidote to zombie Wharf.
So who comes here? We're guessing you wouldn't take a new client - you'd want reservations and clean cutlery between courses to impress.
But when Bob's down from the Bolton office and you have some leeway on the expenses and Bob doesn't get into town that often then Bob's in for a rare treat.
I envy Bob.
Le Relais de Venise L'Entrecote, 18-20 Mackenzie Walk, 020 3475 3331, relaisdevenise.com
© First published in The Wharf on June 11, 2012
Le Relais de Venise L'Entrecote
Mackenzie Walk
★★★★✩
IN A NUTSHELL
Should be a perfect marriage: cut-above steak and chips delivered in style - and quickly - in a French brasserie setting.
REVIEW
So if Gordon Ramsay were here, in my nightmare, bellowing about my failing rest- aurant, he would be saying that 53 items on the menu is not variety, it's lack of confidence, and how could I possibly produce deep impaled garlic butter snails with a lettuce foam and wild mushroom and venison stroganoff with a thyme brush tickle out of the same kitchen with the same clapped-out crew?
And I would be all like, "I'm just burnt out, chef" and "we're just haemorrhaging money. We can't afford to cook fresh."
And he'd yank me out of the walk-in where I'm hiding and shout: "You can't afford not to."
Le Relais de Venise L'Entrecote has the confidence and brio of Paris so it's not like that. It's the opposite of that.
It does one thing, it does it well, it does it all the time and if you don't like the thing it does then (a) you had your taste buds numbed by too many Zoom ice lollies or (b) you should take up finger painting or whatever because there's not enough joy in your life.
(Note how I'm filling for time. None of that "my companion plumped for A while I sampled the natty little B" schtick. Let's face it, we had steak and chips. That's kinda the point.)
Here's the big idea, which has worked well in the City, worked well in New York and has now come to Canary Wharf.
One set menu, one price (£21), no reservations, all done and dusted in under an hour. But not fast food - steady food, consistent food, loved food.
It goes like this: a green salad with walnuts dressed with mustard vinaigrette followed by steak frites with a secret recipe sauce - served half now, half later so the frites stay crispy and the steaks stay hot.
Yes, there are bits and pieces around the edges - wine, or dessert and coffee - but essentially it's a take-it-or-leave-it deal. Vegetarians are catered for but nominally because "entrecote" is a premium cut of beef, dummy, so veggies only need Babelfish and a brain cell to get the message.
It's all about the steaks - British, grass-fed, mature, aged for four weeks before cooking - and nestling, between demi-courses, on candle-heated silver trays. And - wow - if red velvet cupcakes evolved into happy ruminants, their meat would taste like this.
Brisk doesn't mean unwelcoming. Take the setting - the French brasserie interiors with wood panels, banquette seating and jaunty paintings.
Best of all, the uniformed waitresses, giving a Downton Abbey feel - it's an incongruous through-the-looking-glass antidote to zombie Wharf.
So who comes here? We're guessing you wouldn't take a new client - you'd want reservations and clean cutlery between courses to impress.
But when Bob's down from the Bolton office and you have some leeway on the expenses and Bob doesn't get into town that often then Bob's in for a rare treat.
I envy Bob.
Le Relais de Venise L'Entrecote, 18-20 Mackenzie Walk, 020 3475 3331, relaisdevenise.com
© First published in The Wharf on June 11, 2012
The king of solo dining
I misread a headline today and came up with an idea and a business plan. The idea was OK, the business would be catastrophic but in case anyone pulls it off, you read it here first.
The headline read "The King Of Soho Dining" but, perhaps with Freud on my shoulder, I read, The King Of Solo Dining.
Now there's an idea, I thought (only mildly miffed because, by dint of the article, it was already out there, earning column inches).
Solo dining. More particularly specialist establishments for same. What would such places look like? Who would they attract?
The crude entrepreneur untutored in the ways of the cheerily non-gregarious would perhaps configure the place like a networking event. Or operate a "dining partner by happenstance" policy.
He would see singles events. He would run happy hours and operate a gaudy menu of cocktails. He would run the place like a double-glazing convention in Sutton Coldfield.
The wise entrepreneur (me, inevitably, in this scenario) would make tables for one not tables for two-with-one-missing. Crescent shaped tables with no empty docking points.
He would place distance between these crescents and ensure they were replete with all the necessary condiments (no leaning over to your neighbour for the salt). But he would pack in the numbers to avoid the sense of cavernous desolation. There would be the soul and individualism and a sense of exclusivity.
The wise entrepreneur would ensure the menu was exquisite (why bother otherwise) but comfortable (no forking a slice into a companions mouth with a "try this") and inexpensive (our "meh" threshold is low).
The tables would be fitted with wi-fi and the walls lined with books and pictures of obsessive, irascible high-achievers, like Isaac Newton. The service discreet. Tablecloths and silverware. Dim but not candlelit. Bustling but no waiting.
The idea, as stated at the outset, would be a disaster. Better off at home, of course. We crave solitude. We're a terrible target market for anything other than elasticated outerwear. It's self-evident.
The headline read "The King Of Soho Dining" but, perhaps with Freud on my shoulder, I read, The King Of Solo Dining.
Now there's an idea, I thought (only mildly miffed because, by dint of the article, it was already out there, earning column inches).
Solo dining. More particularly specialist establishments for same. What would such places look like? Who would they attract?
The crude entrepreneur untutored in the ways of the cheerily non-gregarious would perhaps configure the place like a networking event. Or operate a "dining partner by happenstance" policy.
He would see singles events. He would run happy hours and operate a gaudy menu of cocktails. He would run the place like a double-glazing convention in Sutton Coldfield.
The wise entrepreneur (me, inevitably, in this scenario) would make tables for one not tables for two-with-one-missing. Crescent shaped tables with no empty docking points.
He would place distance between these crescents and ensure they were replete with all the necessary condiments (no leaning over to your neighbour for the salt). But he would pack in the numbers to avoid the sense of cavernous desolation. There would be the soul and individualism and a sense of exclusivity.
The wise entrepreneur would ensure the menu was exquisite (why bother otherwise) but comfortable (no forking a slice into a companions mouth with a "try this") and inexpensive (our "meh" threshold is low).
The tables would be fitted with wi-fi and the walls lined with books and pictures of obsessive, irascible high-achievers, like Isaac Newton. The service discreet. Tablecloths and silverware. Dim but not candlelit. Bustling but no waiting.
The idea, as stated at the outset, would be a disaster. Better off at home, of course. We crave solitude. We're a terrible target market for anything other than elasticated outerwear. It's self-evident.
Thursday, 7 June 2012
Interview: Danny DeVito
Danny DeVito does not occupy much cubic footage. But the star has a fidgety energy that belies his frame and a New Joisey accent that parts crowds like a chainsaw.
Currently, DeVito is adding Willie Clark from Neil Simon's The Sunshine Boys to his roster of irascible, embittered blowhards, a list which includes Matilda's Mr Wormwood and Louie in Taxi.
He's a ball of fury on screen but a genial, good-humoured presence during our meeting. Which one's Danny?
He says: "In terms of being bombastic and crazy - I love that kind of thing. I see something that I feel needs to be taken care of and I say it.
"I'm not trying to win friends and influence people. If something's on my mind - I can be wrong, I'm not saying I'm invincible - but if someone's doing something to somebody that I don't think is right you gotta speak up. You could keep quiet but that's not my MO."
One of the things he speaks up about is the environment. ("I'm a green leftie, I drive a Leaf, I am totally behind what we have to do to clean up the mess we're making.")
So if you had turn Danny DeVito into a cartoon character he would surely have to be Dr Seuss's feisty The Lorax.
Which is handy because that's the animated movie DeVito is promoting at the MCM Expo in Excel where we're speaking. It's out in July.
He said: "They brought a drawing then it was like 'imagine your voice coming out of that it would be like a trip'. I am wild in this movie.
"The Lorax is a ball of fury. If you take a tree, plant a tree. Don't change the environment to the point where you're worried about mudslides. It's the simple things."
A lot of his humour, I suggest, comes from a very dark place. He says: "I like the banana peel, I love the slapstick - Jerry Lewis, Dean Martin, Three Stooges.
"There is a thing about comedy that lends itself to..." He does a whoosh-splash mime with his hand... "so I just take that and apply it to things like War Of The Roses, the absurdity of two people fighting over objects and it turns into a funny story where I get to kill the people.
"I like that. I enjoy the fact I was mean to Matilda."
Ahh, Matilda. The Roald Dahl favourite. And now playing to rave reviews in the West End. He loves that movie. So does he fancy a night out at the Cambridge?
He says: "This is a classic story about how you fight to get the movie made, the studio beats you down and makes you feel like wasting money and then all of a sudden the movie comes out halfway decent, every single kid in the world owns the movie and they make a lot of money.
"But I have no desire to go and see the play. I don't feel like I want to go there and look at somebody else doing it. I would pick it apart and be like - 'what? You did that?'"
AND THEN THERE WERE THREE
It's early days, but Danny DeVito is excited about the prospect of reuniting with his "twin" Arnold Schwarzenegger for a sequel to the 1988 comedy.
He joked: "Once you have the dinner, its a done deal. I went out with Arnold, there were a couple of agents there and the studio because once the studio wants it they'll string up your first born to make it happen.
"Then we tried to figure out what it would be. Somebody had an idea that maybe we should do triplets and who better to play a part than Eddie Murphy? We don't have a story but that's the idea. I'm looking forward to it."
Currently, DeVito is adding Willie Clark from Neil Simon's The Sunshine Boys to his roster of irascible, embittered blowhards, a list which includes Matilda's Mr Wormwood and Louie in Taxi.
He's a ball of fury on screen but a genial, good-humoured presence during our meeting. Which one's Danny?
He says: "In terms of being bombastic and crazy - I love that kind of thing. I see something that I feel needs to be taken care of and I say it.
"I'm not trying to win friends and influence people. If something's on my mind - I can be wrong, I'm not saying I'm invincible - but if someone's doing something to somebody that I don't think is right you gotta speak up. You could keep quiet but that's not my MO."
One of the things he speaks up about is the environment. ("I'm a green leftie, I drive a Leaf, I am totally behind what we have to do to clean up the mess we're making.")
So if you had turn Danny DeVito into a cartoon character he would surely have to be Dr Seuss's feisty The Lorax.
Which is handy because that's the animated movie DeVito is promoting at the MCM Expo in Excel where we're speaking. It's out in July.
He said: "They brought a drawing then it was like 'imagine your voice coming out of that it would be like a trip'. I am wild in this movie.
"The Lorax is a ball of fury. If you take a tree, plant a tree. Don't change the environment to the point where you're worried about mudslides. It's the simple things."
A lot of his humour, I suggest, comes from a very dark place. He says: "I like the banana peel, I love the slapstick - Jerry Lewis, Dean Martin, Three Stooges.
"There is a thing about comedy that lends itself to..." He does a whoosh-splash mime with his hand... "so I just take that and apply it to things like War Of The Roses, the absurdity of two people fighting over objects and it turns into a funny story where I get to kill the people.
"I like that. I enjoy the fact I was mean to Matilda."
Ahh, Matilda. The Roald Dahl favourite. And now playing to rave reviews in the West End. He loves that movie. So does he fancy a night out at the Cambridge?
He says: "This is a classic story about how you fight to get the movie made, the studio beats you down and makes you feel like wasting money and then all of a sudden the movie comes out halfway decent, every single kid in the world owns the movie and they make a lot of money.
"But I have no desire to go and see the play. I don't feel like I want to go there and look at somebody else doing it. I would pick it apart and be like - 'what? You did that?'"
AND THEN THERE WERE THREE
It's early days, but Danny DeVito is excited about the prospect of reuniting with his "twin" Arnold Schwarzenegger for a sequel to the 1988 comedy.
He joked: "Once you have the dinner, its a done deal. I went out with Arnold, there were a couple of agents there and the studio because once the studio wants it they'll string up your first born to make it happen.
"Then we tried to figure out what it would be. Somebody had an idea that maybe we should do triplets and who better to play a part than Eddie Murphy? We don't have a story but that's the idea. I'm looking forward to it."
Docks will become pageant hub
The waterways around Canary Wharf and east London will become a breath-taking floating spectacle next week.
From Wapping to London Bridge, a mile-long Avenue Of Sail will see 105 large vessels line the banks.
And West India Dock will become a hub for hundreds of motor craft that will be taking part in the £10.5million privately-funded Thames Diamond Jubilee Pageant on Sunday, June 3.
Pageant master Adrian Evans said: "London will never have seen its like."
The pageant itself, which begins at Battersea bridge, will come down river as far as Wapping but the vessels will head off into waters around Canary Wharf and Greenwich.
However, anyone hoping to view the dispersal beyond the Royal Docks is likely to be disappointed. The Thames Barrier will be closed for the day to stabilise the tide.
Mr Evans, pictured, said: "Things really start happening [next Thursday]. That's when the Avenue of Sail starts to build. This will be made up of 105 vessels too large to pass under London Bridge.
"We put down moorings on the mile from London Bridge on both sides of the river to Wapping so you'll get this fabulous vista tall masted vessel from London Bridge right through on to Wapping and there are all kinds - tall ships, Thames sailing barges, a Royal Navy minehunter, a whaler, a schooners, some steam tugs, a classic ocean racing yacht, there is even a Chinese junk.
"The Avenue of Sail also includes St Katherine's Dock - we're putting a dozen vessels in there."
Water taxis will buzz to and fro taking invited guests and crew to their vessels in a scene reminiscent of the heyday of the 18th century lightermen. In all, there will be 20,000 people in 1,000 vessels afloat during the pageant.
Mr Evans said: "On Thursday and Friday several hundred motorised vessels will be gathering in West India Dock which will be turned into a marshalling yard for boats.
They'll be coming from all over the country - historic vessels, barges, narrow boats, service vessels and so on.
"Whilst they're in West India Dock they'll be given the once-over by the Port of London Authority and the Marine and Coastguard Agency to make sure they pass safety checks and are appropriately ship-shaped and ready for the pageant.
"On Saturday morning they all leave to make their way to their mustering positions."
One of the showpiece vessels normally berthed in South Quay is notably absent. The Spirit Of Chartwell is undergoing a transformation to a royal barge fit for a Queen.
Mr Evans said: "She will look majestic dressed in the most exquisite detailed adornments which have taken months of work by some of our most talented craftsman including hand-sewn banner and superb prow sculpt, made by City and Guilds."
Mayor of London Boris Johnson said: "This is the biggest such flotilla for 300 years, a kind of Dunkirk except more successful and more cheerful."
Go to thamesdiamondjubileepageant.org for details of times and vantage points.
© First published in The Wharf, May 24, 2012
From Wapping to London Bridge, a mile-long Avenue Of Sail will see 105 large vessels line the banks.
And West India Dock will become a hub for hundreds of motor craft that will be taking part in the £10.5million privately-funded Thames Diamond Jubilee Pageant on Sunday, June 3.
Pageant master Adrian Evans said: "London will never have seen its like."
The pageant itself, which begins at Battersea bridge, will come down river as far as Wapping but the vessels will head off into waters around Canary Wharf and Greenwich.
However, anyone hoping to view the dispersal beyond the Royal Docks is likely to be disappointed. The Thames Barrier will be closed for the day to stabilise the tide.
Mr Evans, pictured, said: "Things really start happening [next Thursday]. That's when the Avenue of Sail starts to build. This will be made up of 105 vessels too large to pass under London Bridge.
"We put down moorings on the mile from London Bridge on both sides of the river to Wapping so you'll get this fabulous vista tall masted vessel from London Bridge right through on to Wapping and there are all kinds - tall ships, Thames sailing barges, a Royal Navy minehunter, a whaler, a schooners, some steam tugs, a classic ocean racing yacht, there is even a Chinese junk.
"The Avenue of Sail also includes St Katherine's Dock - we're putting a dozen vessels in there."
Water taxis will buzz to and fro taking invited guests and crew to their vessels in a scene reminiscent of the heyday of the 18th century lightermen. In all, there will be 20,000 people in 1,000 vessels afloat during the pageant.
Mr Evans said: "On Thursday and Friday several hundred motorised vessels will be gathering in West India Dock which will be turned into a marshalling yard for boats.
They'll be coming from all over the country - historic vessels, barges, narrow boats, service vessels and so on.
"Whilst they're in West India Dock they'll be given the once-over by the Port of London Authority and the Marine and Coastguard Agency to make sure they pass safety checks and are appropriately ship-shaped and ready for the pageant.
"On Saturday morning they all leave to make their way to their mustering positions."
One of the showpiece vessels normally berthed in South Quay is notably absent. The Spirit Of Chartwell is undergoing a transformation to a royal barge fit for a Queen.
Mr Evans said: "She will look majestic dressed in the most exquisite detailed adornments which have taken months of work by some of our most talented craftsman including hand-sewn banner and superb prow sculpt, made by City and Guilds."
Mayor of London Boris Johnson said: "This is the biggest such flotilla for 300 years, a kind of Dunkirk except more successful and more cheerful."
Go to thamesdiamondjubileepageant.org for details of times and vantage points.
© First published in The Wharf, May 24, 2012
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