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Andiron, Las Vegas (NV), USA

7/8/2017

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Words by Paul Oswell

In between telling me how great he is at Kung Fu, my portly, middle-aged cab driver who I totally don't believe is telling me how all none of the buildings we’re driving past existed a few years ago.

We’re driving out to Summerlin, about a 25 minute drive from the Las Vegas proper, and as the massage parlours and wedding chapels give way to strip malls, it’s beginning to feel more and more like suburbia.

After a week being bounced around in the joy-compulsory hustle of the mega-casinos and the neon-lit, ersatz hedonism of The Strip, it’s no bad thing, let me tell you. Oh, give me a home where the families just back from Timmy’s high school soccer game roam, just for an evening, PLEASE.

That said, we don’t need to go full Olive Garden just because we’re leaving the thick of things. The outer reaches of Las Vegas can still deliver interesting dining experiences and best of all, you don’t have to be elbow-wrestling with dozens of other people in an overhyped outpost of some famous chef’s brand, either.

On paper, Andiron is basically a steakhouse in a small retail/business park. If that doesn’t set your pulse racing, then fair enough, but look beyond that prosaic description, peep the kind of awards it’s bringing home (Eater’s Las Vegas Restaurant of the year AND chef of the year in 2015) and then check your preconceptions with your kung fu taxi driver, people.

Under the semi-domed ceilings, the largish dining room nods at you with understated class, whites and subtle greens providing a comforting sensory retreat after the jarring crassness of pretty much all the casino restaurants. A semi-transparent bar proves a natural break between the drinking and dining areas, and there’s space enough between the tables to not have to watch what you say too much.

My friend and I lined up some seafood starters and a fish/steak mains combo to get at least some taste of life beyond the beef list, leaving our server to suggest a wine that would thread the eye of that tricky culinary needle, which they did with aplomb (a nice, light red that somehow held its own despite the diverse claims on its flavour).

First out, the tuna poke and grilled octopus. I think the best way to classify them is by the amount of time they physically existed on the table as food, which would be “very little”, not due to small portions but to obvious irresistibility. Octopus especially is easy to do very badly, but the delicacy on display here was noteworthy.

For mains, my friend went with the perky, all-round crowd pleaser of the steak world, the classic, wholesome homecoming cut, the New York Strip. I, pescatarian philistine that I obviously am, went with the Grilled Branzino, simply because I had never heard of it before and I like adventure. Turns out it’s a delicious European Sea Bass with mild white flesh, but in good hands here, it elevates itself from that tepid description.

The NY Strip is no slouch either, and is reassuringly tender, with lovely melted fats and unapologetic juiciness. We throw in a side of Jalapeno Bacon Churros because why not and I kind of want to come back and just sit and eat two orders of those. And by ‘kind of’, I mean ‘ definitely’.

Dessert is a blur of their deconstructed Snickers (a delight) and some top notch tawny port and as we finish up, it’s good to know that the people that actually live in Vegas have places like this to eat at, where they don’t have to pay over the odds to cram into a noisy adult crèche.

It’s even better to discover these places as a visitor, and as long as you don’t get too rowdy, I don’t think they mind you being here. Just act like a respectful local and they won’t get too aggro. And if they do, I have the number of this taxi driver who’s great at Kung Fu. 

ANDIRON WEBSITE

BACK TO EAT AND DRINK
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Pizza Rock, Las Vegas, NV.

24/7/2017

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Oh wow, remember Planet Hollywood? What an ill-conceived adventure in negative glamour THAT was. They opened over 100 of these monstrosities, now there are only NINE worldwide all in the usual tourist traps apart from Goa. YES, GOA. PLANET HOLLYWOOD GOA. I’m weirdly for it just because it’s so unlikely.

Anyway. Theme restaurants are a strange beast. Such a fine line between homage and the kind of wanton plundering that results in a tired menu that still somehow charges $35 for a burger to nonplussed spoiled children.

So it’s with some reservation that I approach Pizza Rock, though to be fair, when I mentioned I was going, even locals were giving it the nod of approval, which took the edge off my nerves somewhat.  I mean, I wasn’t NERVOUS. Worst comes to worst: I have some bad pizza and walk away. It’s not a night in Mosul or having to perform an emergency tracheotomy on a toddler or something.

First up, the branch I went to was in the throbbing heart of Fremont (old Vegas for those not up to speed) and I was damn pleased about it, having grown tired of The Strip after about 4.3 hours. Anyway, it was a busy Saturday lunchtime, and as such I had to snake past the lines at the obviously popular counter up front selling take away pies and slices. A good sign already.

As the name suggests, and as it will soon become clear if you’re not paying attention, it’s a music-themed restaurant. That music being rock music, to be completely crystal. “Ugh, I’m leaving for somewhere authentic,” I hear you say. BUT WAIT. What if I told you that the menu is designed by Tony Gemignani, a 12-time world pizza champion and essentially the Pele of pizza? What’s that? You’ll at least sit down and get a taste just out of curiosity? Well, alright then. Good choice.

I sit in a booth to the side of a largish, open plan-ish dining room, and Nirvana is playing and the first thing you notice (perhaps) is that there aren’t a million ridiculous rock artefacts crammed onto the walls and the décor is understated, if you ignore the huge truck with a yellow flame motif in the middle of things and since I’m not facing it, that’s very easy to do.

The staff are on their game from the whistle, even though there are tens of tourists needing things. One such tourist deigns it OK to wander over to my table and ask, apropos of nothing, “Hey buddy, where’s the best seafood buffet in town?” and I don’t know and feel sad I can’t help him but pleased I don’t say something sarcastic about Google.

The menu is a delight in two ways. First of all, it’s designed like a gatefold sleeve LP (ask your dad) which to me is a reassuringly visceral reminder of my vinyl-loving teenage years, when you weren’t a hipster just because you had a record player, you were just a normal person.

Secondly, when you open it up, it’s like a mini-encyclopaedia of pizza. There’s every kind: New York, Neopolitan, Roman, Californian, Chicagoan, Sicilian…you’re not going to be disappointed with the choice, is what I’m saying. DETROIT! I didn’t even know Detroit HAD a style of pizza!

I really wanted to try the limited edition (only 23 made daily) Sausage and Stout pizza but it was for two people and even my gluttony doesn’t stretch to eating that for lunch and dinner for the next two days. I went with a classic Italian Diavola, and was talked into some Calabrese-style (for which read: spicy) calamari and a chop salad, which was a BEHEMOTH that I actually did end up eating for two more days.

As much as I was ready to tolerate this place as another lazy nod at a theme, the trappings are the least interesting thing about Pizza Rock. The freshness, specificity and innovation behind the ingredients is as impressive as any artisanal joint in your town’s hippest neighbourhood, and this holds for their cocktail and beer programme, too.

What can I say? For those about to Rock, I salute you. If only I could work out why that guy thought I would know about seafood buffets. Oh, well. GREAT PLACE WOULD ROCK AGAIN.  

Pizza Rock currently have five locations and you can find out more at the  
PIZZA ROCK WEBSITE
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Inaugural flight: London - New Orleans on British Airways

28/3/2017

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I got a seat on the inaugural flight from London to New Orleans and I was very excited

Context: It’s the first direct flight from a European country to New Orleans since the 1980s. I’ve been coming to New Orleans since 2001. I have previously flown every which way in terms of routes, changing at Dallas, or Atlanta, or Chicago, or Miami, or Charlotte, or New York, or small, unmarked airfields somewhere in Arkansas and they are ALL annoying.

You have to clear customs at your first stop in the United States, so you’re sweating about making your connection as you wait in the unending immigration queue, then you have to collect your bags and lug them to the next check in and then go through security again in a different terminal and then swim to a neighbouring island and learn the ways of the natives and it’s never not stressful.

In short, just the abstract idea of a direct flight has been a wonderful source of serotonin repletion ever since it was announced.

The plane they're using on the route – at least the one I was on – is a Dreamliner 787. Modern, comfortable and a model that doesn’t seem to catch fire half as much as it seemed to when it came out. The seats and entertainment systems are great, even in Economy (where I sat), and instead of window shutters, they have a button that increases and decreases the tint, just like a rapper’s car probably has.

I also love that on these planes, you can start watching TV and movies straight away, and then right up until you’re at the destination gate. I remember the days when you had to wait until about 20 minutes after reaching cruising height for everyone to watch the same Mr Bean episode on terrible screens, so an instantly-available, on-demand box set of even The Big Bang Theory seems like the stuff of a madman’s dreams (in the same way that show’s endless re-commissioning does).

It was a routine service. The only concession I could see to the route was the choice of a ‘Creole’ chicken dish for lunch. As far as giving you a sense of place goes, I’m not sure that just hefting okra into a regular chicken lunch is the greatest trick ever pulled, but bravo for trying.

As we started to descend, the party really started. What I mean by that is that they announced that it was the inaugural flight (I’m sure many people didn’t even know) and BA had never flown here in their 98-year history and people clapped politely (it has since been suggested that this is a filthy lie and that BA had a Gatwick service in the 80s). This instantly gave me an idea of the demographics, Brit-Americans-wise, though.

I’ve been on a few inaugural flights, and the bit I like the most is the reception at the destination airport, where they line up the fire trucks and spray fire hoses, like a watery guard of honour that is initially very concerning to many people but when they explain what’s going on, everybody loves it because we are all toddlers at heart.

Reader, I craned my neck as we taxied to the stand, bracing myself for a welcoming jet. That jet never came. How dare they deprive the three or four people who were probably looking out for it their moment of cheap pleasure?! That said, I hope there wasn’t a real fire that was keeping the trucks otherwise engaged.

Now then, the border security at New Orleans is a place I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing before as I’m usually standing, sweaty-faced, at immigration in Chicago or Des Moines. It had more desks than I thought, and it went faster than some big international airports (I was maybe half way down the line and it took me around 20-25 minutes to clear).

The best bit by far was the enthusiasm of the border security guards. The chap that I got was beaming as I showed him my i-Visa (the one they issue  to visiting media).

“THIS IS MY FIRST ONE OF THESE!” he beamed. “Man, I am tempted to take a photo!” (I mean, there are literally dozens of cameras pointed at us in the booth, but whatever)

He’d only ever processed business visas before, and this slightly different visa was obviously like some kind of rare administrative Pokemon.

“Big day for you guys, huh?” I smiled. I felt like a proud dad as he stamped it. Immigration does not usually work like this.

The bags came out and as we strolled through customs, the faint strains of clichéd brass band tunes confirmed my greatest hopes – that New Orleans Airport had organised a reception for us!

Joy be unconfined, that’s exactly what they HAD done, airport employees doling out British Airways branded Mardi Gras beads to bemused Brits and annoyed locals who just wanted to get to their Uber. Tote bags with luggage tags and maps and a broken wooden model plane were thrust into our hands, the brass band looking only slightly dishevelled as they’d probably been waiting for at least an hour. I hope they were drunk.

And there it was. London to New Orleans in nine and half hours, a friendly welcome and a brass band that will now serenade all arrivals from the UK in perpetuity, their descendants taking up their clarinets and tubas as they pass away, my life at substandard American Airlines lounges that only have free olives and no sandwiches in Chicago and Dallas and Atlanta a thing of the past.

Laissez les bon temps voler! 

​Flights from £694 return - go to www.ba.com
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The Shandy Pockets guide to New York City

6/7/2016

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The Mizrahi of the human condition

18/5/2016

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Isaac Mizrahi: An Unruly History
Jewish Museum, New York City

The last time I really thought about the fashion world was in September 2001. When the planes hit on the morning of the 11th, the city was replete with fashion journalists, who had all converged in New York to cover New York Fashion Week. As events unfolded, fashion correspondents became the reporters on the ground, way out of their comfort zones, and what resulted were strikingly human reports, devoid of accepted newspeak.

I think that’s why I generally avoid reading about fashion. I presume it’s a world devoid of real humanity, interchangeable clothes horses paraded around exclusive paddocks, sporting nothing that the average person could or would ever wear. I realise it’s a vaguely ignorant viewpoint, but it’s one that kind of fuelled itself.

The Jewish Museum in New York City wasn’t the place I imagined I’d have humanity in fashion demonstrated to me, but exploring Isaac Mizrahi: An Unruly History, was like being sideswiped. 

Mizrahi’s back story helps: a pudgy Jewish kid with ridicule issues is fortunate enough to have the parents (with the generosity/resources) to escape his strict religious school to go to New York’s High School of Performing Arts and Parsons School of Design.

By 26, Mizrahi is showing his own designs, rocketing into the NY fashion scene, acting in Woody Allen movies and starring in charismatically candid documentaries about the fashion world (1995’s Unzipped) – self-effacing and insecure enough to garner sympathy from the accessibility, something you suspect not many high-end designers could pull off.

The exhibit begins with a huge wall of swatches, meticulously arranged and speaking to Mizrahi’s dedication and panoramic arsenal of influences. The first room is his broadside on fashion from early shows that would become his signature – a satirical, almost political mix of luxurious fabrics and ideas mixed with everyday, mundane items.

“Baby Bjorn Ball Gown” (1998) is a red satin dress accessorized with a baby carrier. This juxtaposition would stay with his through to works such as “Elevator Pad Gown” (2005) a floor-length skirt that assembled from (fake, but still) pieces of gray and blue movers quilts. There’s a snook being cocked at convention and the line between fake and authentic, because what are those things, anyway?

Some of the pieces might be obvious, one-line jokes, but I imagine that’s way more jokes than most designers ever tell. Added to his showpieces are otherworldly opera costumes and some incredibly engaging colour sketches. The clothing slowly hints at his evolution into his present day focus: making high-street looks for mass consumption. The t-shirts and leggings are already there in his couture repertoire; having dressed Naomi Campbell and Kate Moss, Mizrahi now looks to providing for the everywoman.

The show ends with a video montage of Mizrahi’s career, with the glamour and the catwalks and the knowingly moody shots of him playing piano to his dog and the talk shows and the shopping channel segments. What comes across in all of them is the unabashed joy, and a true love of women. Mizrahi is like the kid who got the keys to the kingdom when life could have been so different. It takes work and talent to stay there, but I assume it takes even more to consistently retain the humour and the humanity, and that’s what An Unruly History celebrates.  

Isaac Mizrahi: An Unruly History is at The Jewish Museum in New York City until August 7th. 
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Parks not wrecked

10/5/2016

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Yosemite National Park (Photo via CC. Credit: Heiko von Raußendorff)
The world groaned a collective sigh of disapproval when it was announced last year that our beloved National Geographic was going to be subsumed by the Fox-tainted grubbiness of Rupert Murdoch’s empire. Hearing such calumny was like being told that Sir David Attenborough was retraining as a mime artist – first of all it feels a bit weird and then it’s just super depressing.

It’s all TV nowadays, with even the head of programming at Nat Geo saying there’s “just no need” for those endlessly reassuring yellow-rimmed magazines that we all grew up with.

So. That sucks.

However, there are some glimmers of NG hope, and some of their publications are still as welcome as a sane guest on the Sean Hannity show.

The National Geographic Guide to the National Parks of the United States is one such delight. Now on its 8th edition, this million-copy-selling guide book hits the shelves just in time for the centenary year of the National Parks Service. Yes, that’s 100 years of helping us, the curious-but-not-always-sure-where-we’re-going public, see the natural glory of these jewels in America’s crown. Yes, I realise it’s a Republic. Whatever Republics wear on their heads, then.

Divided into eight geographic regions, the guide brings the colours, sites, wildlife and adventure of the parks to life. There’s spectacular photography, real in-depth detail about how you can go and explore them and a wealth of information for lovers of flora, fauna, and everything in between. Fluna? Whatever.

A team of park experts have brought their knowledge to bear, so that over breakfast, you can hike the Rocky Mountains, kayak across crater lakes and look out over volcanoes. Which isn’t a bad way to start the day, though it may make the laundry and grocery shopping feel extra mundane.

There’s just something so refreshing and optimistic about the National Parks, like even a Trump presidency couldn’t tarnish their outstanding beauty, let alone Murdoch’s craven mitts.

Bask in the glory of these pages, and plan your escape. Oh, and if you’re travelling with children, a handy National Geographic Kids Guide has come out at the same time to complement the grown-up book, and it’s an equally handsome publication.

An singular treat for both armchair and actual adventurers.

The National Geographic Guide to National Parks of the United States is published by National Geographic and priced at $28.00. National Geographic Kids National Parks Guide U.S.A. is also published by National Geographic and is priced $14.99.
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Your 2016 Travel Headlines

28/12/2015

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A king among men

21/5/2015

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BB King
I'm lucky enough to have had the honour of briefly meeting the late BB King. 

It was 2008 and I was on assignment in the US, covering the opening of the BB King Museum in Indianola, Mississippi. The museum is one of the few in the world to be dedicated to a single musician, and this only miles from where BB King was born into poverty, his parents being sharecroppers, picking cotton under that unforgiving Mississippi sun. 

The whole town turned out, and the great man was emotional throughout. He held a press conference, and I’ll always remember his words: “They say heaven is beautiful, and if it’s half as beautiful as this, then I’m ready to go today.” 

The conference finished and as the room disbanded, people milled around and I found myself standing next to the man himself. We made eye contact and I blurted out the only thing I could think of to say…”Mr King, how do you feel today?” 

He looked at me and I could feel the enormous weight of his achievements, of a life lead to the fullest fulfilment of musical potential, of someone who clawed their way from humble beginnings and succeeded, but didn’t lose that humility. I was there, exposed in the glare of his stature, a nobody, and him, a legend. 

But he looked at me with these kind eyes, two people just sharing a human moment as chaos whirled around us, and as he leaned in, he whispered to me and I’ll never forget what he said before his managers and publicists whisked him away. “Son,” he said quietly, “Which newspaper do you work for exactly?”

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Krewe de Who? 

21/2/2015

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Mardi Gras happened in New Orleans this week with a suitably reassuring level of predictability, weather that knocked last year's costume-rending Polar Vortex into a cocked hat and ample mountains of Chinese-made, coloured plastic beads for all, whether you showed your boobs or not (spoiler: no-one did). We ourselves did make the funny list of fake participants for your judging pleasure. See: THE TEN MARDI GRAS KREWES YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF. 
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New York, New Yuk

14/1/2015

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Thanks, @ManningKrull
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