A Gentleman in Moscow

The book is inadequately summed up in the blurb. Inadequate, because no manner of words can really sum up the book other than, perhaps, the word: joyous.

So, the blurb: 

On 21 June 1922, Count Alexander Rostov – recipient of the Order of St Andrew, member of the Jockey Club, Master of the Hunt – is escorted out of the Kremlin, across Red Square and through the elegant revolving doors of the Hotel Metropol.

Deemed an unrepentant aristocrat by Bolshevik tribunal, the Count has been sentenced to house arrest indefinitely. But instead of his usual suite, he must now live in an attic room while Russia undergoes decades of tumultuous upheaval.

Can a life without luxury be the richest of all? 

The final rhetorical question suggests the non ‘spoiler’ answer: yes and triple yes.

The Count is imprisoned in the hotel and out of boredom and talent finds employment as the  maitre d' hotel and,  over the years, finds a lover, a series of rich friendships, and two young girls who give meaning to his life. 

I’ve picked out three short passages that exemplify the unaffected humour and, because food is a central part of my own life, his poetic depiction of food. 

The context of the first passage is a surprise party for Sofia, a girl he now sees as a daughter. The celebrants are crowded in his tiny attic room.

From the manner in which Vasily asked the question, it was clear that he wished to take the Count aside. But as the Count’s study was but a hundred foot square, they could only step about three feet away from the others in which to secure their privacy—an action that was immediately rendered inconsequential when the other four members of the party moved a similar distance in a similar direction. I sighed with pleasure at the rhythm and the simple but careful choice of words.

On an earlier occasion, before he finds employment at the hotel, the Count is in the restaurant, observing a desperately shy young man trying to impress a diffident young woman. Scanning the menu, the young man’s panic is evident but, by sheer good fortune, ‘in a stroke of genius,’ he orders the Latvian Stew, and the Count is ecstatic.

‘While this traditional dish of pork, onions, and apricots was reasonably priced, it was also reasonably exotic; and it somehow harkened back to that world of grandmothers and holidays and sentimental melodies that (the two) had been about to discuss when so rudely interrupted.’ (by the supercilious waiter.) 

But there is another hurdle: the wine list, and the Count is both outraged and appalled when he hears the waiter recommend the Rioja. 

‘The Rioja? Now there was a wine that would clash with the stew as Achilles clashed with Hector. It would slay the dish with a blow to the head and drag it behind its chariot . . . besides, it clearly cost three times more what the young man could afford.’

Here, the Count is forced to intervene.

 “If I may,” the Count interjected. “For a serving of Latvian stew, you will find no better choice than a bottle of Mukuzani . . . The Georgians practically grow their grapes in the hope that one day they will accompany such a stew.”

The Count orders Latvian Stew and a bottle of the Mukuzani too. ‘And just as he’d suspected, it was the perfect dish for the season. The onions thoroughly caramelized, the pork slowly braised, and the apricots stewed, the three ingredients came together in a sweet and smoky medley that simultaneously suggested the comfort of a snowed in tavern and the jangle of a gypsy tambourine.’ 

At this point I was forced to google Latvian stew and to my surprise a whole sub thread was devoted to the mystery of Latvian stew. I’m determined it will be served at our next dinner party. Mukuzani wine too- more readily available.

The final example of fine food writing focuses on Emile the Chef spending an inordinate amount of time tracking down the ingredients for the finest Bouillabaisse—a herculean task in Bolshevik Russia. At last he succeeds, and the three friends congregate in the kitchen for a midnight feast.

Aware that Emile the Chef is watching their responses, the Count raises his spoon and closes his eyes

How to describe it?

One first tastes the broth—that simmered distillation of fish bones, fennel, and tomatoes, with their hearty suggestion of Provence. One then savours the tender flakes of haddock and the briny resilience of the mussels, which have been purchased on the docks from the fishermen. One marvels at the boldness of the oranges arriving from Spain and the absinthe poured in the taverns. And all those various impressions are somehow collected, composed, and brightened by the saffron—that essence of summer sun which, having been harvested in the hills of Greece and packed by mule to Athens, has been sailed across the Mediterranean in a felucca. In other words, with the first spoonful one finds oneself transported to the port of Marseilles —where streets teem with sailors, thieves, and madonnas, with sunlight and summer, with language and life.

The Count opened his eyes. 

“Magnifique”, he said. 

I was reasonably content with tinned Bouillabaisse before this.

So, buy or borrow the book and enjoy its wisdom and humour, and the satisfaction of a perfect conclusion.

Moments in Time

The memory sometimes plays cruel tricks, bringing back moments you'd rather forget, in this particular case greeted now with a rueful grimace. It was nearing the end of term and I was stocktaking in the History Cupboard—a deeply boring task. Lost in the moment I began singing to myself: ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt.’ Moving books from shelf to shelf, I became more and more carried away, moving to the music, Just me and thirty Medieval History text books: 

I’m too sexy for my shirt. 

Too Sexy for my shirt 

So sexy it hurts 

And I’m too sexy for Milan

Too Sexy for Milan

 New York and Japan

I'd been possessed by a dust-devil, who'd been waiting his moment. My soft but sexy growl ended abruptly when I heard the giggling, swivelled, and saw four of my students peeping from behind the door. 

The memory brings with it amusement and embarrassment equally mixed. On this occasion it also reminded me of adverts, one in particular, which I'll come to later.

It may be a sign of age – policemen appearing younger etc—but in my opinion TV adverts once enjoyed a golden age, their jingles and story lines indelibly etched. With streaming and the fast forward button, I suspect that time has gone for ever and with it, perhaps the creativity and fun of adverts past. 

Below are just a few of those, decades later haunt the mind as fresh as they ever were.

The original pester power advert that was eventually modified from mum to  chum.

The advert was a classic and they retained both tune and slogan right up until the 1980's. Not bad for product made up from glucose syrup, sugar, hydrogenated vegetable fat, molasses, salt, soya lecithin and flavourings

And Double Diamond, the Devil's drink, but with a tune I still can't get out of my head

 

And bringing it full circle to my opening Too Sexy moment another spider in the corner waiting to pounce: The Shake and Vac advert

One beautiful Saturday morning, the dust-devil struck again. Clad in pyjamas and a brown towelled dressing gown, I started hoovering the lounge. The jingle erupted from somewhere deep in my head. It erupted without warning and took me along with it. In moments, I was cavorting around the lounge waving the vacuum cleaner, doing the shake and vac. What a man chooses to do within the privacy of his own house is nobody else’s business. A nice theory. Unfortunately, two friends, having knocked at the door and not been heard were now peering in through the window. I like to think they didn’t hear anything, but merely saw me dancing with my vacuum cleaner.   

And to clear the unfortunate image from your mind, my favourite TV advert from all time starring the genius of Leonard Rossiter. That's something else you rarely see in adverts now: wit and a story line that you look forward to—often more than the program you're actually watching. 

Enjoy —especially the one with the four Japanese business men.

A Whited Sepulchre

This is a C14th threshing barn with wattle walls to allow a good breeze during the threshing. I speak with some feeling about this, partly from experience. We have, unknowingly, been enjoying a ‘wattle’ wall for some time now. Okay, not the beautiful craftsmanship shown here. Such beautiful workmanship is normally covered up with ‘daub’ – a mixture of mud, straw and animal excrement, and they make most durable walls. 

As I said, we didn’t have the workmanship. Instead, we had a piece of decaying board covered with stippled paint—something that came to light recently. 

At first, we thought it just needed painting and budgeted accordingly. It was only when I poked a finger through it, I realised something was up. A builder confirmed it.  He put his fist through. All these years we’d been living with a large section of the front covered only by a painted board. The builder was appalled. He replaced the rotten boards, covered them with a holding mesh and metal edges, then rendered the whole as though applying marzipan and icing to a cake. We had our 'daub' at last.

The first render drying

The rendering done, drying in readiness for painting. 

I love before and after pictures, less keen perhaps on the cost or the ruined front lawn. Still, our whited sepulchre has been redeemed.

 

 

 

 

The Lordship of the Three Castles

The Lordship of the Three Castles, Skenfrith, Grosmont, and White Castle, were part of the Marcher defences against the Welsh— a people the Normans would eventually subdue. Specifically, the castles were built to defend the Monnow valley, a key route to Hereford. Now they make for a nice walk, but if you dig beneath the stones, there are stories to be told.

Grosmont is now little more than a romantic ruin, as the pictures below indicate.

Even so, you can see at a glance the fertile lands it dominated and controlled. 

White Castle, penetrated further into Wales and faced with increasing threats was heavily fortified in readiness. No attack came, not surprising when you see the strength of the walls and surrounding moat, which perhaps illustrates the truism 'if you want peace, prepare for war.'

White Castle, Grosmont and Skenfrith eventually fell into the hands of one of the most significant power-brokers of the C13th, one now who is largely unheard of.

Hubert de Burgh is a character who could carry off a TV series, a major film, or prize-winning novel. With characters like King John and pirates like Eustace the Monk, what could go wrong? Great dramas and award winning books have been written about Cardinal Wolsey and his successor Thomas Cromwell, but who on God’s earth has heard of Hubert de Burgh?

Born, probably in Norfolk, he emerged from obscurity to become King John’s fixer in chief and remained loyal to the king through thick and thin. There was only one known instance when his loyalty wavered. In 1203, Duke Arthur of Brittany, a dangerous rival* to the English throne was captured and held in one of Hubert’s castles. John’s reaction was swift. He ordered the young duke to be castrated and blinded; this, for Hubert, was an order too far. From there the story becomes a little confused. Hubert told the king the deed had been done, and outrage, based largely on rumours followed. At that point Hubert confessed to the king he hadn’t been able to go through with it, and yet, nevertheless,  Arthur disappears from history and is never seen again. 

Hubert’s brief loss of nerve, or perhaps a flicker of scruple was forgiven, and he rose to become the most powerful man in England and continued to be so after John died. Hubert became regent and guardian of the nine-year-old heir – the future Henry III.

Looking back, Hubert de Burgh provided a masterclass in political manipulation, especially when it came to exploiting  marriage. Apart from using his own children and others as marriage pawns, he was quite the gamer himself.  

In 1209 he married the widowed Beatrice de Warrenne and thus began his steady acquisition of land and estates. In 1217 he married Isabella of Gloucester, King John’s former wife and acquired even more land. Conveniently or otherwise, Isabella died a few weeks after the marriage. 

Four years later, in 1221, he married the Scottish king’s daughter, Margaret,  making him brother in law of the young Henry III who’d married her sister, Joan, in the same year. In the process, he made powerful enemies. He was accused of siphoning royal revenues and surrounding the young king with middle-aged advisors, all of whom had served under King John and were loyal to Hubert de Burgh.

Like other over powerful royal advisers, Hubert met his nemesis in the thwarted ambitions of others allied to the king, who may have been flighty, resentful or  petty; to my mind, all three.   And yet despite several near misses where his life hung by a thread, Hubert survived albeit diminished. 

Unlike the later Cardinal Wolsey and Thomas Cromwell, Hubert enjoyed a prosperous old age, no doubt looking back on years of states-craft, warfare, and skullduggery. His fall deserves its own story but this, just one of the many castles and estates he held, bears mute testimony to a key but little known figure in English history. 

 

*said to be King Richard’s preferred choice as his successor