The Devil's Kids Fly Coach

Anna Wintour, of course.

But we'll get to that.

First, our Heathrow adventure.

I admit it: I'm an angle-shooter sometimes when it comes to air travel. Look, traveling--even when comfortably ensconced in a forward cabin--can be a drag. So I've become a, shall we say, well-informed and savvy member of the flying public. Maybe too well-informed. I've learned many of the tips and tricks to making the trip as easy and pleasurable as possible. And I had two doozies in mind for this trip. First: use Virgin's double-super-secret premium security line. Second: lounge access.

So there Suzie and I were at Heathrow Terminal 3, yesterday morning. The flight was absolutely chockablock, and since Suzie and I had booked our tickets separately, our seat assignments couldn't have been further apart.

But we'll get to that.

Following check-in, I steered Suzie to Virgin's little-known premium security screening area, an oasis of calm tucked away from the main screening area, far from the traveling hordes. As coach travelers with no Virgin status, we had no basis for using the premium line, other than my feigned ignorance as a BMI Gold status holder. But we successfully sped through the premium security line nonetheless, avoiding the 45+ minute wait at the main security line.

My BMI Gold status may not have entitled me to use the premium security line, but it did give me a HUGE perk with Virgin: use of the Virgin Clubhouse, the swankiest airport lounge there is. But with a HUGE caveat.

But we'll get to that.

Okay, we can get to that: basically, my BMI Gold status gets me in, but I cannot bring a guest. Of course, I'm traveling with Suzie, and we're newly engaged, so no way I'm going in without her, right? Wrong. My angle-shooting luck came to an abrupt halt--the lounge reception desk would not allow an exception to the "no guest" policy. Despite my proffered willingness to forgo lounge nirvana, Suzie told me to go ahead, and she patiently sat at the entrance while I went in to (a) try to get us seats together and (b) gorge on food. Hey, she wasn't hungry anyway.

Short story long: after tucking into gravad lax, stilton and various other comestibles, I spoke with the Virgin VIP agent in the club about moving our seats together. I innocently let her know that I was newly engaged (thus the need for seats together), and that I had to leave Suzie outside since my status didn't let me bring in a guest. Well, as soon as the agent heard this, she immediately strode out the door and whisked Suzie in. WHICH HAS RUINED HEATHROW FOREVER. Why? Because the lounge is freakin' amazing, and Suzie loved it and will want to use it from now on whenever we're in London. And I don't think I can pull that off again...I'm an angle-shooter, sure, but not that good an angle-shooter.

Oh, and the seat assignments? The angelic agent called ahead to the gate and somehow they arranged to get two single passengers to move so we could fly together.

And the angelic agent? We thanked her profusely and next saw her later at the gate, escorting a VIP entourage that I was certain was Anna Wintour, her boorish husband and their two kids. (I know!...and I don't even read Cosmo!) Suzie, however, didn't think it was Anna Wintour. But after we arrived at JFK, while we were waiting patiently at baggage claim--right next to the Prada-ish Devil herself--Suzie changed her tune.

So how do I know that Anna Wintour's kids ride in coach? Because they were seated three rows ahead of us, and she only came back once to check on them.

Whisky, Whisky Everywhere, and Many a Dram to Drink

On Friday we ran a few errands, including a visit to Berry Bros & Rudd (a shop that is fast becoming--I hope--a mandatory stop whenever we're in London). Suzie, patient as ever, settled in by the fireplace in this cozy 300+ year-old shop. Me? I headed straight for the whisky room.

Customer service is a rare thing these days. It is, however, alive and kicking in London. At Berry Brothers in particular, what I love is that the shopkeepers take the time to give personalized attention--inquiring as to what whisky styles, flavors and distilleries you favor, and then make suggestions tailored to your taste, preferences and budget. And you don't buy blind: sample tastes are readily offered, even of the spendier drams.

Sure, Berry Brothers does not always have the absolute lowest prices on all their offerings, but they are very competitive, especially when it comes to the more unique and extremely rare bottlings from current and shuttered distilleries. One of the best reasons to patronize them, in fact, is that in addition to their broad and deep selection of distillery-bottled whiskies, Berry Brothers offers "Berrys' Own Selection" whiskies, which are bottlings produced exclusively by Berry Brothers from prime casks they've acquired direct from the distilleries. These are not only exceptional, but also in many cases aren't even available from the distillery's own stocks. And at a great price.

In fact, I was hoping to buy a bottle of the 3rd Limited Release of Berrys' Own "Blue Hanger" vatted malt (a blend of single malts), which I regretted not purchasing during my last visit in May, and which I had heard was sold out. I hoped against hope that Berry Brothers still had a small stock remaining, but as it turns out, I was told that the 3rd Limited Release Blue Hanger was forever gone. They now offered a new version of Blue Hanger--it was delicious, but different, and alas, not what I wanted. I was a bit deflated. However, serendipity--not to mention good fortune--intervened, since at that very moment, a gentleman who happened to be walking by heard the disappointment in my voice. A few minutes later, while finalizing my ultimate selection with the shopkeeper, that same gentleman (who turned out to be the head of Berrys' whisky department) approached me and said, with a wink, "I hope this will help ease your disappointment." With that, he handed me their last remaining sample bottle (although already open, half full!) of the long-gone prior version of the Blue Hanger. On the house. Needless to say, I was incredibly grateful, and this generosity cemented my goodwill as a Berry Brothers customer.

Both times I've visited Berry Brothers, I've bought single malts that are not available in the US at any price, including, during my visit last May, an extremely limited Berrys' Own bottling of a fantastic 25-year-old Islay from the long-silent Port Ellen distillery. (In fact, I only bought that bottle six months ago, shortly after it was released, and it is already completely sold out.) This time, I chose a rare 18-year-old Longrow from the Springbank Distillery. Needless to say, I am a Berrys' customer for life, and look forward to many more visits in the future.

My Goose was Cooked

But the turkey wasn't. Okay, so I got the bird in the oven a little late. And I had a little trouble figuring out what the oven temperature was in Fahrenheit when using a British gas cooker that only has "gas marks" on it. And the consensus among three reputable culinary reference texts was that we probably pulled the turkey at the early end of the allotted roasting time. But it was getting a little late, and the natives--not to mention Pippin, Louise's adorable guide dog (that's him desperately trying to reach the stove)--were getting a little restless.

I'll spare you the gory details (and mercifully omit the photographic proof), but let's just say that carving a definitely-the-wrong-side-of-done turkey is a little difficult, a lot gross and very...shall we say...juicy. The meat did not exactly fall off the bone. But we persevered and tossed the whole lot back in the oven for a little quality time with the BTUs, and after a fashion we had ourselves a grand old Thanksgiving...even if we did so at about the same time that most of you on the Eastern Seaboard--five hours behind Greenwich Mean Time--were just getting 'round to your third helping of pumpkin pie.

Below is a portrait of the fruits of our labor and the end result of a LOT of waiting. From left to right, we've got: Suzie's homemade, tuckus-kickin' cranberry sauce; roasted root vegetables; 100% U.S.-made, store-bought, just-add-water stuffing and a few slabs of white meat slathered in my lump-free, patented turkey gravy.

If Sarah Palin Heard About this...

...She'd want to hold a press conference in the kitchen. (Too inside?)

Blessed bird safely home, I pulled giblet and bath duty on our little darling. Suzie set to preparing homemade cranberry sauce, as well as roasting parsnips, carrots and sweet potatoes. I prepared stuffing and got the main dish ready for her roasting-pan debut.

We put the kabosh on pumpkin pie (much to my chagrin), but the fact of the matter is that the only place I could find pumpkin was at Selfridges in the West End, and a tiny tin of Libby's suitable for barely one tartlet was poshly priced at £3...too spendy for even a devoted fan of the pie such as me. (Suzie on the other hand was fine knowing that pumpkin would not be on the menu.) Anyway, the photo below was midway through Hurricane Mittens' turkey preparation, and the dirty dishes were beginning to pile up!

Mission: Impossible?: A Thanksgiving Turkey in Hendon?

Improbable, maybe. But with a kosher butcher up the road, 47 quid (!) gets you just shy of one stone's-worth (~12 lbs) certified heckschered gobbler. Thank goodness Thanksgiving only comes but once a year!

Acquisition of over-priced, clergy-approved barnyard fowl accomplished!

Come On You Spurs!

I happen to be a fan of Tottenham Hotspur F.C., a Premiership football club in North London, famous for their loyal fans and Wrigley Field-like stadium, White Hart Lane. It turns out that our visit was timed perfectly for me to attend a home game today against the Blackburn Rovers--but only if (a) I could scrounge a ticket and (b) find a way to cart my tuckus out to the Lane. Well, thanks to the generosity of Suzie's neighbors up the road, success on both fronts! The weather this morning was typical London: cold with intermittent showers. But during both halves of the match, the weather cleared and the sun peeked out.


Since I knew I'd be outside in the cold, I took the opportunity to get myself kitted-up in the Spur's giftshop. I found myself a proper Tottenham scarf and knit cap, both of which I wore with pride whilst chanting along with the other Spurs faithful. At halftime, I fortified myself with a Cornish pasty (lamb mincemeat, potatoes, carrots and other mysterious and unknowable delicious bits) and a hot chocolate. Despite the brief but torrential rainshower at the half, the Spurs held on to win it one-nil. C.O.Y.S.!

I Love Pie!

We're spending Thanksgiving week in London with Suzie's dad--Suzie flew out midweek and I arrived this morning. After a quick kip to get over the jet lag, I awoke to the delicious smell of baking pie. I love pie! (It's delicious, y'know.) Suzie had also been busy preparing sea bass filets, mashed potatoes and veggies. Then we tucked into the aforementioned apple pie (with fresh apples from her dad's back garden) and topped with perfect meringue. It was, needless to say, sensational.

Best. Day. Ever.

She said yes. Right here, in the portico of Olana, in Hudson, New York.