Hangovers I have known
Photo by Robert Norbury/Millenium
It is now Wednesday, which means I am on Day Three of the hangover from lunch in London on Sunday. On the whole, things are much better than they have been. The nausea is largely gone, as is most of the trembling. The first day, though, was horrendous – as bad as anything I can remember in a life that has had a few belters in its time. The worst one ever was in 2005 in Umbria, when my friend D— came up from Rome with a couple of bottles of grappa which, he assured me, was the good stuff, and not the liquid made from battery acid, fermented twigs and rats' carcasses that gets fobbed off on tourists. To this day, I still feel slightly queasy when I hear the word 'grappa'; even typing it in full makes the stomach lurch. I can certainly never drink it again.
As in that case, the excessive drinking last Sunday was the result of meeting up with a friend I hadn't seen in years. It was my old flatmate and partner in crime Razors, with whom I shared the original Hovel in Marylebone. I do not use the term 'partner in crime' entirely facetiously, but I am not going to say any more because that's all the self-incrimination I'm going to be doing for now.
Razors, which is not his real name, escaped the clutches of Blighty and moved to Los Angeles, where he has been making lots of money doing something related to films. Occasionally I have asked him to explain to me what it actually is, but my heart is never in it when listening to the answer, and my mind wanders over to the important bit, which is that he earns a lot more money than me – a fact that he, too, is happy to return to.
A few years ago family business called him back to the land of his birth, and he offered to buy me lunch at Rules, the venerable and incredibly expensive restaurant in Covent Garden. That was a washout: the night before, I treated myself to a kebab from what had up until then been my favourite gyro place on the Western Road: honestly, they were so good you could actually eat them sober. However, on this occasion, there had been some kind of breakdown in their health and safety regime, and I spent the next day and a half in agony in the bathroom; I was in no fit state to go to the chemist's for some Dioralyte, let alone get on a train to London to eat roast pheasant and spotted dick.
So this time I was careful. For a couple of days beforehand, I ate nothing but dry bread and tinned soups, sterilised all my glasses before drinking from them and even took care not to go out in the wet in case I slipped and broke something. Rules was off the menu, though: some bean-counter has decided that you can't sit down for more than two hours at lunch, and two hours is no time at all for a decent meal when you have a lot to catch up on. So in the end he decided on Hawksmoor on Air Street, which we heard does a good Sunday roast, and that was what Razors was craving, because apparently in Los Angeles the only thing they eat is sushi.
Quick food review: the roast beef was divine, with a nice smokey flavour, the roasties were acceptable, the gravy wasn't as good as mine but then no one's gravy is, and the Yorkshire Puddings… well, let's just say they need to go back to the drawing board with them. But the barman who made our pre-dinner Martinis knew what he was doing, so much so that we had two each, and this may be said to be where our problems began.
By the way, when I said above that we had a lot to catch up on, that's not really the correct phrase. We do not really give a monkey's about what the other person has been up to. We just want to have a laugh, and Razors has a somewhat robust sense of humour that does not always go down terribly well in well-heeled circles in LA. A mutual friend of ours who happens to be female asked me, after our last meeting, how his children were doing (he has two sets, from two marriages). I replied that the question had simply not arisen, on the grounds that a) I didn't care and b) he had not flown several thousand miles across desert, mountain and sea to talk about child-rearing.
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'The thing is,' he explained, generalising terribly but with perhaps with a grain of truth, 'when women have a conversation, it's about information; when men have a conversation, it's about entertainment.' Well, it was jolly entertaining, and my eldest child, who, along with their siblings, got to see a lot of him on alternate weekends, joined us for a bit, and that was delightful.
The evening then got a bit ragged: we went to several pubs in Soho, I think, having large and expensive Islay malts in each one; maybe these, along with the bottle of Malbec each that we had at lunch, and the brandies after it, contributed to my lack of well-being for the next three days. I finally got back to Brighton after midnight. Then I thought it would be a good idea to have a nightcap. It was not a good idea. Since then, I have signed the pledge: not a drop of liquor will pass my lips again. Well, maybe a little one. But not just now.
[See also: Thought Experiment 11: The Harmless Torturer]
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New Statesman
3 days ago
- New Statesman
Hangovers I have known
Photo by Robert Norbury/Millenium It is now Wednesday, which means I am on Day Three of the hangover from lunch in London on Sunday. On the whole, things are much better than they have been. The nausea is largely gone, as is most of the trembling. The first day, though, was horrendous – as bad as anything I can remember in a life that has had a few belters in its time. The worst one ever was in 2005 in Umbria, when my friend D— came up from Rome with a couple of bottles of grappa which, he assured me, was the good stuff, and not the liquid made from battery acid, fermented twigs and rats' carcasses that gets fobbed off on tourists. To this day, I still feel slightly queasy when I hear the word 'grappa'; even typing it in full makes the stomach lurch. I can certainly never drink it again. As in that case, the excessive drinking last Sunday was the result of meeting up with a friend I hadn't seen in years. It was my old flatmate and partner in crime Razors, with whom I shared the original Hovel in Marylebone. I do not use the term 'partner in crime' entirely facetiously, but I am not going to say any more because that's all the self-incrimination I'm going to be doing for now. Razors, which is not his real name, escaped the clutches of Blighty and moved to Los Angeles, where he has been making lots of money doing something related to films. Occasionally I have asked him to explain to me what it actually is, but my heart is never in it when listening to the answer, and my mind wanders over to the important bit, which is that he earns a lot more money than me – a fact that he, too, is happy to return to. A few years ago family business called him back to the land of his birth, and he offered to buy me lunch at Rules, the venerable and incredibly expensive restaurant in Covent Garden. That was a washout: the night before, I treated myself to a kebab from what had up until then been my favourite gyro place on the Western Road: honestly, they were so good you could actually eat them sober. However, on this occasion, there had been some kind of breakdown in their health and safety regime, and I spent the next day and a half in agony in the bathroom; I was in no fit state to go to the chemist's for some Dioralyte, let alone get on a train to London to eat roast pheasant and spotted dick. So this time I was careful. For a couple of days beforehand, I ate nothing but dry bread and tinned soups, sterilised all my glasses before drinking from them and even took care not to go out in the wet in case I slipped and broke something. Rules was off the menu, though: some bean-counter has decided that you can't sit down for more than two hours at lunch, and two hours is no time at all for a decent meal when you have a lot to catch up on. So in the end he decided on Hawksmoor on Air Street, which we heard does a good Sunday roast, and that was what Razors was craving, because apparently in Los Angeles the only thing they eat is sushi. Quick food review: the roast beef was divine, with a nice smokey flavour, the roasties were acceptable, the gravy wasn't as good as mine but then no one's gravy is, and the Yorkshire Puddings… well, let's just say they need to go back to the drawing board with them. But the barman who made our pre-dinner Martinis knew what he was doing, so much so that we had two each, and this may be said to be where our problems began. By the way, when I said above that we had a lot to catch up on, that's not really the correct phrase. We do not really give a monkey's about what the other person has been up to. We just want to have a laugh, and Razors has a somewhat robust sense of humour that does not always go down terribly well in well-heeled circles in LA. A mutual friend of ours who happens to be female asked me, after our last meeting, how his children were doing (he has two sets, from two marriages). I replied that the question had simply not arisen, on the grounds that a) I didn't care and b) he had not flown several thousand miles across desert, mountain and sea to talk about child-rearing. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe 'The thing is,' he explained, generalising terribly but with perhaps with a grain of truth, 'when women have a conversation, it's about information; when men have a conversation, it's about entertainment.' Well, it was jolly entertaining, and my eldest child, who, along with their siblings, got to see a lot of him on alternate weekends, joined us for a bit, and that was delightful. The evening then got a bit ragged: we went to several pubs in Soho, I think, having large and expensive Islay malts in each one; maybe these, along with the bottle of Malbec each that we had at lunch, and the brandies after it, contributed to my lack of well-being for the next three days. I finally got back to Brighton after midnight. Then I thought it would be a good idea to have a nightcap. It was not a good idea. Since then, I have signed the pledge: not a drop of liquor will pass my lips again. Well, maybe a little one. But not just now. [See also: Thought Experiment 11: The Harmless Torturer] Related
Evening Standard
5 days ago
- Evening Standard
Where to find the best steak in London, from Hawksmoor to Flat Iron and more
It's a measure of the all-conquering success of this British steak and cocktail chain that New Yorkers welcomed the Manhattan outpost with rave reviews, which must be the food equivalent of taking coals to Newcastle, then burning the place down. It is a further measure of Hawksmoor's success that the Big Apple outpost feels as American as the UK restaurants feel British, for each branch has remained reassuringly individual. This Spitalfields original, just up from Nicholas Hawksmoor's Christ Church, is where it all began in 2006, and though the formula remains largely unchanged, it rarely feels formulaic. British beef from regenerative farms is grilled just long enough for the outside to turn crusty while the inside stays pink and served alongside side orders that would make a meal in themselves: fatty bone marrow, thick-cut maple bacon and creamy sauces for dunking beef-dripping French fries. Starters and puddings — scallops with white port and garlic, sticky toffee sundae — are every bit as good and, though prices are steep, huge portions makes three courses unlikely. There are other branches across the capital, this is simply our pick of the bunch. The new-ish one in Canary Wharf, which floats and has a spectacular bar, is definitely one to try, though, and lately the one in Covent Garden has been on blistering form too.
Time Out
13-06-2025
- Time Out
One of NYC's best bars is coming to Hawksmoor Chicago for one night only
You don't get named number five on North America's 50 Best Bars list without taking some risks. Sip & Guzzle, a two-level cocktail haven in New York City's West Village expertly stirs buzzy NYC nightlife with Japanese cocktail culture. And, now, for one night, and one night only, that acclaimed drinks team have partnered up with Hawksmoor Chicago, a Windy City favorite well-known for its midwestern hospitality and steak-and-seafood spread. What began in east London in 2006 has evolved into a culinary juggernaut with restaurants in New York and Chicago, earning Hawksmoor placement on the World's Best Steak Restaurant list as well as James Beard Foundation mentions and Tales of the Cocktail accolades. So you can expect to be in very good hands with this pop-up match-up, which takes over the Chicago venue tonight, June 13 from 6 p.m. to 10 p.m. (final entry is at 9:30 p.m. Attendees can expect two different bar vibes, all in one epic night: Guzzle will bring crushable cocktails and highballs, while Sip will deliver refined, Japanese-style creations. Plus, the Hawksmoor bar team will also be serving up select cocktails from their own menu. Those boozy tipples will be available for purchase a la carte, on Hawksmoor's second-floor bar while supplies last. While walk-in imbibers are welcome, reservations are recommended— RSVP via Evite is encouraged but does not guarantee a reservation. The Sip & Guzzle Chicago takeover is a natural fit, given the Windy City cred of the team behind the NYC bar: owners Shingo Gokan's and Steve Schneider's combined resume includes not only NYC favorites like Angel's Share and Employees Only but also Chicago powerhouse Alinea, where chef Mike Bagale—who's in charge of the high-meets-low bar fare, including that $150 Wagyu sandwich—once served as the executive chef.
