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Chez Bruce
On a recent Sunday, as the sun cast a gentle glow over the lazy autumn day, a group of us walked to Chez Bruce, the Michelin-starred restaurant on Bellevue Road by London’s lush Wandsworth Common. Now that we’re domiciled in the Sarf London ‘hood, it was time to check out this south-western stalwart of the cuisine scene, established in 1995 by the restaurant’s namesake, Bruce Poole, and Nigel Platts- Martin.
Monsieur had been a little bemused by a call and e-mail to check that we were still on track for our reservation, presumably to assure restaurant management that we weren’t going to do a runner, leaving a coveted, yet empty table on their hands. They needn’t have worried; we’d been eager to visit Chez Bruce since moving into the general area at the end of the summer (and before). Besides, I’d already printed a sample menu and drooled lovinglyover the delectable descriptions of Chez Bruce creations. Once I’ve done the drooling, there’s no turning back.
The initial impression of the dining room is that of self-assurance: clean lines, a calming neutral shade on the walls and the careful placement of contemporary tableaux about the place (some quite diverse, but enough space between them to create more of a gallery feel than a clash of the artworks), all creating a quietly confident ambience. The floors and furniture are no-nonsense dark wood, the tables all shrouded in crisp white linens, the glassware sparkling in its simplicity, the overall look completely unpretentious, yet elegant and somehow moneyed at the same time. It takes quite a knack to pull off this genre of presentation – a bit like the no-make-up-make-up-look.
The menu arrived, positively bulging with seasonal produce, from butternut squash to game – it was fit for the season. Our waitress proffered first a round of spiced cheese crackers, then the bread basket. I chose a cube of focaccia that was so fresh it was like eating a little cloud of Italian bread.
The yellow circle of butter sat on a streaky slab of granite – creating a subtly artistic table statement with geometry and contrasting textures on the otherwise blank canvas. Shortly after carafes of red and white wine hit the table, our starters arrived. Monsieur’s came just before mine: a bright little red casserole dish of venison dotted with home-made spaetzle and my favourite-ever fungus – the girolle.
I have quite a thing for mushrooms, so my starter of choice was the wild mushroom and parmesan custard with fennel salad and truffled polenta chips.
The mushrooms hid in the savoury custard at the bottom of the dish, whilst dice of braised fennel and courgette sat atop the eggy mix. The custard was rich, so rich that it demanded the coolness of the vegetable ‘salad’ to balance it out. The earthy mushroom, pungent parmesan and soft aniseed of fennel complemented each other in both flavour and texture: strong to fresh, soft to crisp. The polenta chips were also a delight – creamy within their delicate, crisp, golden exterior. I thanked the angels for only sending me four, thus saving my already ample hips from further curvature. As for the quantity of the dish, it was well-gauged; I couldn’t have eaten another bite, but a mouthful less would have left me begging for more.
The game on the menu almost lured me in, but in the end it wass the skate that caught me. Light, with a zig-zag of deep orange butternut squash purée, fresh mussels echoing the amber hue, and sage leaves so crispy that they were a treat in their own right.
It was time for dessert. Confusion set in. Should I indulge in the warming poached pear or satisfy my inner cheeselover with a plate of England’s finest? I deferred to the wisdom of our waitress, Fran.
“The hot chocolate pudding’s a signature dish here,” she told me and, with her knowing look and nod of encouragement, three out of four of our party were persuaded in this gooey direction. It was really quite exquisite, with a refreshing scoop of praline parfait melting into marbled magnificence about the warm chocolate base, but once more I was impressed by how well the chefs had judged quantity. With such intense sweetness, no matter how well counterbalanced by its creamy partner, the chocolate pudding could easily have pushed one over the gastronomic edge, had it been even one dessertspoonful larger.
As it was, we could all still move after our Sunday afternoon feast at Chez Bruce, happily walking the long way home, with detours in the interest of regional familiarisation. The food had happily exceeded our (high) expectations, yet hadn’t swamped our digestive system to the point of regret. The staff were psychic – predicting exactly when we might need them and disappearing when we didn’t. At one point in conversation, I swear I didn’t see our wine glasses being filled, yet miraculously they had been. This was a disconcerting show of extraordinary stewardship for the woman who prides herself on her observational skills, prompting me to wonder if the Chez Bruce staff uniform might include invisibility cloaks. It’s not easy to deliver top service without making a patron feel smothered and at Chez Bruce they do it so effortlessly that they should could open a school for aspiring members of the hospitality fraternity, teaching this very art.
So, in summary – Chez Bruce has it all: a Michelin star, beautifully-appointed dining room, leafy outlook, fine food in elegant quantities and highly-practised staff. With such a delicious neighbour, we’re sure to be back for more.
Chez Bruce, 2 Bellevue Road, London, SW17 7EG
Telephone: 020 8672 0114
Website: http://www.chezbruce.co.uk/
Art and Hospitality at Le Meridien, Piccadilly
On a UK Monopoly Board, Piccadilly is the sixth most expensive property at a whopping £280.00 and bears the colour yellow. To build a Monopoly hotel on the site will set you back £1,200.00. In reality, Piccadilly is a busy, multi-lane thoroughfare in London’s West End, running from Hyde Park Corner past Green Park to Piccadilly Circus. It’s home to the Hard Rock Café, The Ritz and the Royal Academy. Piccadilly is where Russian spy, Alexander Litvenenko visited a branch of Itsu just after he was poisoned by polonium, a deadly radioactive substance, in a modern-day Cold War power struggle. It’s where to browse through book stacks at the amply-stocked bookstores of Hatchard’s and Waterstone’s, ogle gourmet delights at Fortnum and Mason and Caviar House or refuel at The Wolseley, where weekend brunch tables are a hot ticket. With such esteemed neighbours, both historic and present, it’s no surprise that Piccadilly is where the French hotel chain, Le Méridien, decided to install their landmark London hotel – a stone’s throw from Eros and the Circus’s famed flashing signs. It has now resided at the Regency property of number 21 Piccadilly for a sound twenty-six years, since 1986, in a purpose-built building that first housed The Piccadilly Hotel in 1908 and Masonic temples in its basement.
I’m ashamed to admit that Le Méridien on Piccadilly is a place I must have passed thousands of times yet never once entered and I cannot fathom why. This has recently been rectified; not only have I now entered Le Méridien Piccadilly, I’ve also luxuriated in its underground swimming pool and snored soundly in one of its gigantic beds, oblivious to the busy West End traffic artery located mere feet from my head.
My recent stay at Le Méridien has also educated me in their all-pervading approach to art. The arrival art is what a guest encounters first. As part of Le Méridien’s re-branding at the hand of the Starwood Hotels and Resorts group since they took ownership of the chain in 2005, art has been incorporated into all areas of the guest experience, starting the moment you walk through the door. Before I’d even reached the check-in desk I’d already noted a display of limited edition umbrellas by designer Duro Olowu, with snazzy geometric prints that any connoisseur would be happy to shelter beneath in a London rainstorm.
Even the lowly key card has been welcomed into the LM artistic experience. My card, a work of art in its own right, sported part of a Yan Lei Colour Wheel, its design being part of the LM Unlock Art incentive: not only does the key card open your door it forms part of a collection by a contemporary artist. The current featured artist at LM Piccadilly is Langfang-born Yan Lei, a member of the LM100, the collective comprising 100 influencers who contribute to the LM experience, through their expertise across a wide selection of the arts, from art and design to cuisine and perfumery. Some of the previous Unlock Art card collections, by fellow LM100 members, Hisham Bharoocha and Sam Samore, hang in frames by the lifts, but form and function are only two facets to the LM key cards; they also provide free access to Tate Britain and Tate Modern exhibitions – all you have to do is tell the concierge which Tate exhibitions you’d like to attend so he can arrange access for you, then just flash your key card when you get there, unlocking a local cultural experience for free.
Yan Lei’s Colour Wheel paintings hang in the Piccadilly lobby, the bespoke carpets underfoot are awash with lines, thoughtfully reflecting the inspiration for the company’s name – the meridian lines which criss-cross the globe, and in the ground floor internet den the shelves are set with contemporary ceramics, smart and stark against a dark background. There’s a video installation, created especially for Le Méridien, playing on a loop behind the Guest Relations desk and, on your way to the Longitude Bar, you’ll pass an elegant series of black and white portraits of the people responsible for the overall artistic experience that a guest will enjoy at Le Méridien – the LM100. As for that subtle aroma wafting through the lobby? That’s the signature Le Méridien scented candle, LM01, created by more members of the LM100 clan, Fabrice Penot and Edouard Roschi. It’s a unique blend of frankincense, iris absolute and musk with cedar notes, gently adding to the sensory welcome so carefully constructed with a guest’s first impressions in mind.
The final and possibly most important part of Le Méridien’s atmosphere is the human component. In my time at the hotel I truly appreciated the comportment of the staff. From greeting to leaving, there was always a smile, a courteous hand, nothing too much trouble. Lift doors were held open without asking, a troublesome door catch dealt with immediately by not one but three kind and patient staff, an unusual breakfast order delivered on-time, without issue, a forgotten toothbrush taken care of, taxi doors opened and closed, a myriad small kindnesses. Whomever I spoke with on the staff seemed to genuinely care that I had a positive experience of Le Méridien Piccadilly. That’s what I call the Art of Hospitality, and in the travel environment it’s absolutely priceless.
High Tea with G&T at Le Meridien Piccadilly
High Tea is a quintessentially English tradition, introduced by Anna, the seventh Duchess of Bedford, to maintain one’s aristocratic blood sugar levels between an early luncheon and dinner served late into the evening. The tradition caught on rapidly, developed with the Earl of Sandwich’s then-revolutionary idea to place fillings between slices of bread, and is now firmly entrenched in the country’s culinary identity. Travel anywhere in England and you’re sure to find somewhere at which to take a high tea. Slight regional variations cast welcome individuality across teas throughout the land, from Land’s End to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, although I’m fairly certain that the afternoon tea currently en vogue at Le Méridien Piccadilly is peerless for its particular take on the conventional.
The food component of Le Méridien’s high tea follows the usual format with a mixture of savoury and sweet:
- A selection of finger sandwiches, filled with cucumber and cream cheese, honey roast ham and mustard, Scottish smoked salmon, egg and cress
- Warm homemade scones with strawberry jam and Cornish clotted cream
- A selection of pastries
- Some wicked petits fours (in our case to include macarons and a custard tart)
So far, so straightforward. Straightforward, that is, until we get to the tea. Forget chamomile, lapsang souchong and Earl Grey. At Le Méridien you’ll find your teapot filled with a gin-based infusion, giving a whole new meaning to G&T(ea). If that isn’t unusual enough, the gin flavour is then enhanced by the addition of fragrant ingredients, so, on the afternoon tea menu you might see:
- A choice of herbal or fruit infused gin and tonic syrup
- Monkey 47 Gin infused with lavender
- Bulldog Gin with fresh lychee fruit
- Cucumber infused Hendrick’s Gin
- Vanilla and chilli infused Sloane’s
- Sweet Basil infused Gin Mare stirred with rosemary
- Japanese green tea infused with Beefeater 24
The infusion is served in a clear glass tonic reduction teapot, with a small glass jug of tonic water with which to adjust the G n Tea to the desired strength. Naturally, to try all six of the suggested brews might leave one somewhat wobbly on one’s pins, so we restricted our intake to just a couple. The lavender-flavoured Monkey 47 Gin surprised me with the strength of its aroma – so much so that I didn’t feel the need to drink it, but I did have a few sips of the cucumber-infused Hendrick’s gin. This was a curiously warm yet cooling combination. On another occasion I’d be tempted to swig the lot. Alas, the day was not yet over by a long shot so it was time to exercise restraint. Next stop? The pool in Le Méridien’s basement for a preprandial dip.
The G&T Afternoon Tea at Le Méridien Piccadilly is served in The Terrace Grill and Bar from 12pm to 6pm. Cost: £32.00 per person.
If gin isn’t your tipple, fret not! There are other afternoon teas on offer:
The Terrace Afternoon Tea – served with finger sandwiches, scones, pastries and your choice from the extensive selection of teas and coffees. £25.00 per person.
The Light Afternoon Tea – served with finger sandwiches and scones and your choice of tea or coffee. £18.00 per person.
The Champagne Afternoon Tea – served with a flute of champagne, finger sandwiches, scones and pastries, tea or coffee. £35.00 per person.
My Favourite City – at MetroMarks
My New Best Friend on the other side of The Pond is Adam Zettler of MetroMarks. He’s recently launched a regular feature called My Favourite City on the MetroMarks website, where you can find all sorts of insider info about an ever-growing number of cities around the world. They kicked off My Favourite City with a post about Toronto, Zettler’s hometown, and this week they’ve given me some space to rave about Venice, Italy. If you click on the link below, you’ll find out my top three must dos in Venice, my favourite restaurant for both memorable views AND food, as well as other reasons why I find this city so special. Most importantly, perhaps, are my tips on how to enjoy Venice without falling into the typical tourist traps.
Click here to read My Favourite City – Venice.
Click here to find MetroMarks on Facebook.
Follow MetroMarks on Twitter: @MetroMarks
To sign off, here are a few photos of Venice from earlier this year:
Casanova and his latest squeeze, spotted near Frari
A trio of palazzi
View of St Mark’s Square from the bell tower at San Giorgio Maggiore
This Little Piggy Went to Market – in La Rochelle
Doing the daily shop, French-style.
These aubergines are shinier than a militia man’s boots.
The lobster tank was looking a bit empty. I suspect there’d been a rush on lobster for cooling summer seafood platters.
This little piggy went to market, to hang out next to his brothers who are now a pair of delicious dried sausages. Oink oink.
Black-legged chickens with their heads ON, but running about no more.
Counting the chèvres…
Believe it or not, these rolls are called ‘hams’ of duck breast, and are stuffed with foie gras.
A trio of tapenades and other wicked treats to nibble with one’s apéro.
Legs of ham. With hoof or without?
Mimolette cheese (in case you were wondering). ‘Extra old’ says the label. You bet.
Extra old or prehistoric?
And to finish: Charentais melons in the Charente-Maritime.
Les Fleurs du Thym restaurant, Les Sables d’Olonne
It’s hot, the heat has fried any sort of decision-making mechanism that Monsieur and I might once have possessed, and we’re hungry. The afternoon has been spent squeezed onto a beach with hundreds and thousands of French holidaymakers at Les Sables d’Olonne in the Bay of Biscay and we’d prefer not to spend the evening looking out at the scene of the crime, so we walk around to the port-side of the town, noses to the ground, sniffing out an eatery worthy of our time and money.
After much deliberation, we settle on a restaurant called Les Fleurs du Thym. It’s at once chic and modern, with a nostalgic air. We take a table, just before the throngs in the know arrive to fill the place.
‘He who eats well, sleeps well.’
I take the €26.00 menu, while Monsieur dives into the more pricey, €36.90 menu. Ouch. This had better be good. Our starters arrive. Mine is a seafood platter, with everything fresh from nearby waters. The oysters are served with a white wine vinegar and shallot dressing, which I spoon liberally across them before gulping down the still-breathing molluscs and proceeding to twiddle a little needle inside sea-snail shells to extract the slippery flesh. The langoustines are good, if messy, and the small tartine of smoked salmon tasty. Only the deep-fried calamari rings taste like something you could probably do better at home. They’re soggy, lifeless, non-descript.
I ask Monsieur about his Minestrone, which intrigued with its exotic inclusion of langoustines and foie gras.
“Taste it,” he commands, “dishwater is better.” I hope this isn’t said from experience and think he’s overreacting until a spoonful of soup slips down my throat. The liquid is embarrassingly dull, the vegetables screaming out for decent stock in which to soak. I don’t know how he manages to finish it, so bland it is – and on the more expensive menu!
We move onto our main courses, which appear swiftly. Mine is skate, delicate and soluble on the palate, with a lovely tang of buerre blanc swimming with baby capers. Roast fennel finishes the picture. On such a warm evening, this is an ideal dish – not too heavy.
Pity poor Monsieur across from me, though. He’s ordered the riz de veau. Offal of various shapes and forms hits his side of the table, most of it far from his taste. For the more expensive menu, I’m shocked: minestrone and offal are certainly cheap dishes to make, so the restaurant must be making a killing on the profit. I’ve ordered a seafood platter and delicious fish, yet my meal is a whole €10.00 cheaper. Surely, the management has mixed up the prices?
The dessert course is now under pressure to perform. My fingers cross and remain quite paralysed until a pair of beautiful sweet plates are set before us. Once more, my fortune holds and before me is a pile of goodness – a steaming Breton crêpe, crowned with a stewed whole pear, all sticky and soaking with a subtle, walnut butter sauce.
For once, my husband draws a lucky card: his thus-far frustrated palate will now be soothed by a perfect round of raspberry tart, fresh strawberries, berry-flavoured macarons, a berry-filled brandy snap basket and (wait, there’s more) a small preserving jar oozing with mint-flavoured chantilly, topped with a raspberry.
The moral of this dining story? The more expensive set menu doesn’t necessarily provide better value. Yes, we’d return to Les Fleurs du Thym, should we ever find ourselves in Les Sables d’Olonne again, but next time we’d stick to the cheaper menu. On this occasion we’d experienced that rare thing in restaurants, where paying less most definitely delivered more. Lesson learnt.
Les Sables d’Olonne
Monsieur and I recently found ourselves in the searing hot Vendée region of France. On arrival it was forty degrees in the shade and the land was baking. The beach beckoned, so off we set for the coast for a swim. As it was still holiday season, we knew it would be busy, but the scene that greeted us at Les Sables d’Olonne reminded me of a real-life Ken Done painting; there was barely a square of sand free upon which to park our bottoms.
Even from a distance, the beach could be seen to crawl with hot, pink, sweaty bodies.
A short walk away was the lively little port, filled with fishing boats and gin palaces, afternoon excursion boats heading out to sea, yachts and hungry folk scratching their heads as they tried to decide which of the myriad eateries should get their business.
Here’s a romantic little boat we spied setting off for an evening sail:
Across the harbour, it would seem that the Entente Cordiale is alive and well at this frozen storage facility for the maritime co-op:
Back on our side of the water a local waits patiently for his dinner to take the bait:
Les Sables is really quite a pretty town, with an armour-clad winged victory atop its war memorial, looking suitably businesslike, yet stylish.
In spite of the armadillo-style fleece, I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be a sheep that this wolf is ogling. Dinner time?
It was for us, and now we were the ones scratching our heads as we trotted back and forth along the port-side promenade, trying to decide where to eat.
In summary: Les Sables d’Olonne is a lovely little seaside town, but don’t go there on a hot, sunny weekend, unless sardining yourself on the sand is your idea of fun. The water isn’t particularly clear, either (read into that what you will). Food-wise, you’ll be spoilt for choice, especially on the port-side, but be warned: you’ll need to be patient to find a good deal in high season – walk around and look at ALL the menus before making your choice. If you go on a weekday, however, the fish market by the port sells all sorts of seafood, sauces and even wine, all of which would make a great addition to any picnic, and at reasonable prices.
Still Life of Seafood, Venice, Italy
Isn’t this a delicious display of seafood? Ready to lick the screen? I am.
A Taste of Tavolara
It’s hard to imagine an island of 5 square kilometers becoming a kingdom on the whim of a royal visitor, yet that’s exactly what happened to tiny Tavolara, off the east coast of Sardinia. When King Charles Albert of Sardinia visited Tavolara in 1836, he bestowed independent royal status upon it and decreed that resident shepherd Giuseppe Bertolioni should be king. The King wanted to show his thanks for the sheep that Bertolioni had presented to him in honour of his arrival on the island, thereby creating what was for many years (1836 – 1962) the smallest kingdom in the world.
There isn’t that much information available about Tavolara, should you want to visit, hence this post, which I hope will help any would-be visitors to the island. Monsieur and I visited Tavolara in May of this year, and it was a welcome distraction, yet we’d probably have enjoyed it more had we known more about what is, or rather isn’t there.
The main reason for visiting Tavolara, population a whopping 55, is probably to satisfy the curiosity of why such a place might have a king. The second reason might be to eat at the island’s one restaurant, Da Tonino (they’ll send a boat to pick you up) and a third might be to pay respects to the deceased island royals in the tiny cemetery. It’s also possible that if you work for NATO you may visit the large chunk of the island serving as a NATO base and absolutely off-limits to the likes of us.
There are no cars, bicycles or vehicles on Tavolara (not that we saw, anyway), making us feel a bit silly, having asked if it were possible to take our car across on the ferry. (Admittedly, that was before we saw the ferry.) One walks, as we later found that it’s perfectly easy to circumnavigate the portion of island accessible to non-NATO visitors. Do note that if you decide to visit Tavolara, be sure to bring a picnic with you as there is no shop and when we visited, the restaurant was closed until 1pm, by which time we were ready to head back to Sardinia proper.
Our ’ferry’ was in fact more of a shuttle boat, cram-packed with raucous local kids on a school trip. It was early morning and we’d been led to believe by hotel staff that getting coffee and a couple of breakfast pastries would be possible once we arrived at the island. It wasn’t possible as there is naught but the restaurant, which wouldn’t open for some hours yet. Fortunately, we had water in our packs, but I think you can imagine how hunger might have impacted our view of the island somewhat as my dear husband and I don’t travel too well on empty stomachs, food lovers that we are.
By the time the twenty minute boat ride was over, we’d had enough of smurf-swapping and excited screeching (although talking to the kids in basic Italian made me feel as fluent as Dante Alighieri because they understood everything I said), making away from the children as swiftly as our feet would carry us on the sandy paths. Now we understood why the ticket seller had mentioned the school trip, suggesting we might prefer to wait for a later boat. They were loud, as school groups so often are, but quite well-behaved nonetheless. However, later on, as I rinsed my hands in the ladies’ washroom at the back of the (closed) restaurant, one particularly precocious madam pointed at my slightly peeling shoulder, shook her head and tut-tutted. “Shame,” she said. It felt like being scolded by a grandmother in a ten year-old’s body.
Monsieur and I walked the length of the island’s main highway – a sand-swept walkway busy with determined lines of rather large ants. At various points along the way were information boards about the flora and fauna of the island, which was certainly unspoilt. The northern beaches just off the path were too rocky to lure us in for a dip; once we’d visited the cemetery with its rickety wooden gate and had spotted the yellow-teethed goats that share (and eat) the island, we’d pretty much covered all the options open to us. Heading down to the more sheltered southern beach of sand, we dozed for an hour or so until the next boat could take us back to civilisation and, naturalmente, FOOD. If you’re a botanist or biologist, Tavolara will possibly hold more interest for you; for us, we regretted not knowing to pack a picnic, ‘cos once you’re on the island, you’re on the island and you can’t leave until the next boat, on an inconveniently erratic timetable, arrives. Another time, we’d probably go when the restaurant is open, wiling away our time in the consumption of local dishes and gazing at the unimpeded views of the Sardinian coastline, followed by a lazy siesta on the beach. Alternatively, find out when the Tavolara film festival is on (usually July) to hob nob with Italy’s gliterrati of the cinema whilst watching Italian films and creative shorts capturing the beauty of Tavolara.
In summary, and to experience the best of this peaceful place, don’t do as we did and go unprepared; either visit at a time when the restaurant is open or take a picnic. Load up with reading matter or snorkelling gear or something else to entertain you if you’re easily bored and then Tavolara will become a haven of tranquillity to be savoured.
I’m in an Ape (ah-pay) State of Mind
Check out the cutest little car in the world: the limited edition Ape (pronounced ah-pay) Calessino, manufactured by the Vespa kings – Piaggio. I’m doing a good job of breaking the tenth commandment this week…
It’s a far cry from the little Ape workhorses to be found chugging along Italy’s country roads or delivering a surfeit of produce to the local market via the narrowest of alleys.
Being Italian, they know how to sell these trusty little beasts of the car world – dressing them up for chic seaside photo shoots.
True Ape-lovers can be quite creative with their decoration:
Sal Machiani, a Tuscan Ape, made his name as an actor in Cars 2:
And now you can even build your own Ape. With LEGO!
This isn’t the only picture I’ve seen of a bride and groom making their getaway in one of these trusty little three-wheelers:
Berwick Street Market’s Pizza Pilgrims cook pizza in theirs:
And they’re not the only ones with such entreprenurial uses for their small vans:
There are so many Ape fans in the world that this selection of ape images only scratches the surface.
Alas, I have nowhere to park my dream Ape Calessino, even if Santa Claus managed to stuff one into my stocking this year and, truth be told, I don’t have stockings quite big enough for that sort of filler. Never mind. Thankfully, I’m content to daydream about my little Ape and what we might get up to together. With such a tiny engine and miniscule speed potential, breaking the sound barrier or filling up my licence with points wouldn’t be our kind of adventure, however filling up the back with a (small) friend, a (small) dog and plenty of everything for a relaxing afternoon in one of London’s parks, just might work. And, just like a cute puppy, a darling Ape like the Calessino is bound to be an ice-breaker, wherever we end up.
