Happy Thanksgiving!!

Happy Thanksgiving, dear reader!! As you can see, in my neverending (and, frankly, exhausting) quest to keep ahead of the curve, I've already had my Thanksgiving dinner: chestnut soup, sweet potato and cheesy biscuits, stuffed pork (little bit edgy, but I've already peaked on turkey this month) with all the trimmings, deeeeeeelicious French cheeses, pecan pie and persimmon pudding. And a couple of bottles of wine each. By the end of the evening, I felt thoroughly (my italics) American (no mean achievement) and went around telling everyone I was going to "bust their ass" and asking if they were "talking to me? You talking to me?." Marvellous. Actually, I should confess that it was my very first Thanksgiving dinner EVER, but I'm never one to look a four-course meal in the mouth, am I? Many thanks to Laura and Braden, the only friends I have with enough plates, knives and forks to contemplate organizing something like this (and without whom I'm sure I'd be a good 10kg lighter) and, of course, my fellow cooks/guests, for a top evening.
P.S. Rhino's TOP TV PICK OF THE WEEK: "Dirt" with Courtney Cox. LOVIN' it.

Rhino's Round-up

Here's a little round-up of the things I've learned in the past week. Remember, I'm doing all this so you don't have to. Selfless to a fault. ::sigh::

• Wii Sports is actually MUCH more fun than I realised. When people ask, I shall finally be able to say that I played a little tennis at the weekend - I feel this will be good for my image. I'm still rubbish at golf, though, so the keys to the executive washroom remain - tantalisingly - out of reach.

• "99 Francs" is a good example of how an annoying book can actually be made into a very entertaining movie. Thanks in no small part to the talent of Jean Dujardin (a little less deelish here than in other roles, it must be said). Advertising looks such FUN. Plus we're pretty sure we saw Guillaume Canet in the cinema. Yumm.

• Damon Albarn's "Monkey" is, quite simply, wonderful. I know you've probably read that elsewhere already, but it really is. I say that even though my short-sightedness meant I had to keep asking "Who is that woman in white floating from the ceiling?" and "Why does that man have a pig's head?" because I couldn't read the subtitles. Some stunning set-pieces, including an under-the-sea scene featuring a large starfish. No Guillaume Canet though.

• Pramil is my latest restaurant recommendation. I can still taste those raspberries with green tea ice-cream (I mean that in a good way). Bon appétit!!
  

La French Touch - The Next Generation

I don't know whether you've noticed, dear reader, but your Rhino75 has become something of a music buff of late. Yes, you see, now I mention it...All part of my never-ending (my italics) quest to keep my people ahead of the curve. It's true, it's all about you!! So, hot on the heels of Bearforce1, I bring you the latest artist to embody "la French touch" - Lil'Maaz, with his chart-topping choon "Mange du Kebab" (which can loosely be translated as "Have a kebab!"). Ostensibly a simple Turkish kebab-maker from Paris's 18th arrondissement, Lil'Maaz released this self-penned ditty after being "discovered" by executives from a nearby production company popping in for a lunchtime doner. Hmmm, right. It does feature some corking lyrics though. "Chez nous, il y a des odeurs d'orient qui resteront sur tous tes vêtements" ("We have all the smells of the East that'll stick to your clothes.") Lovely. Anyway, before we all get too complacent and start snickering about French music, according to the evening news on France's most-watched television channel, Lil'Maaz is currently back in the studio recording an English version. Altogether now "Shish .... kebab... shish ...kebab" - you have been warned. (Click on the pic to go to web site and watch the video which is actually quite amusing)

Spring Fever

Daniel Rose is a charming young man from Chicago who, in addition to knowing all the songs from "Guys and Dolls" (no mean talent in itself), also happens to own and run a restaurant in central Paris called Spring. Having met him a couple of times at parties and, indeed, listened to his theory of the perfect chocolate tart, when the ever-lovely Meg Le Blagueur and Petite Anglaise invited Micke and I to join them for dinner there, well, they didn't need to ask twice. Now, having someone you know cook for you always has a high potential for embarassment and awkwardness and this is multiplied by 10 when you're actually paying. What if he was having an off night? What if my most hated vegetable (endive) featured heavily in every course? Because there isn't a choice. Daniel goes to the market and does the shopping himself every day, taking his cue from whatever's in season, looks good and could feasibly provide two starters, a main course and a pudding. And trust me, he knows what he's doing. I'm no food critic, so I'll spare you any purple prose on the meal itself (though you can see the pics at the top of this post) but it was very, very good. The highlights, for me at least, were a selection of fresh, sweet peas and beans served in a chicken broth and given added richness by the addition of diced foie gras, and the duck -- cooked to perfection and the meatiest magret de canard I've had in nine years here. Simply delicious. Add to this a bottle of white, a bottle of red and a bottle of champers and you've got a very happy Rhino and chums. Of course, I'm being a bit of a tease here because Spring is actually closed from July 22 for the summer, but if you're looking for the perfect way to ease into what the French call la rentrée in September, I'd thoroughly recommend it.

Monet's Cooker

Now, where was I? Oh yes, so...with Ma Rhino in town this weekend, I decided to do something a little more cultural than 14 vodka and tonics at the Perle followed by gay karaoke and head OUTSIDE PARIS (my italics, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath) to visit Giverny, the village where the daddy of all Impressionists Claude Monet spent much of his life. Have you been? If not, here's a tip. DON'T GO IF IT'S POURING WITH RAIN. While it's not that bad travelling for the best part of an hour on a packed train then a packed coach to blunder around an artist's garden in a cagoule, I'm sure the whole thing is MUCH more enjoyable with a little sunshine. That said, the gardens were delightful, even through my misted, rain-streaked specs. But it was the house I liked best. I was particularly taken by Monet's cooker (or "stove") which was this huge Aga-like contraption. You could just imagine him getting up in the morning and standing there making some slightly blurred scrambled turkey eggs and Aga toast (made with that contraption shaped like a wire tennis racket aka "the best toast in the world"). With a breakfast like that inside you, who could fail to be creative?? I'm not sure what that tap is for on the right-hand side though. And Monet's bed looked a bit lumpy, but I'm sure these days that Ikea deliver, even to Giverny. I may move there, just for that cooker. The other highlight of the weekend was the Caribbean carnival at Bastille. Terrific fun, an explosion of music, dancing and colour. Just like Pride really, only with more women and better costumes and dancing. Miaow.

Cyril in My Kitchen

I'm positively brimming (my italics) with excitement, dear reader. Cyril Lignac, the French Jamie Oliver, is coming round to cook for me!! Ok ok, first of all I have to win this sandwich competition organised by the makers of luscious (worth a try) cream cheese Kiri, but surely that is merely a formality? Who, after all, could resist my triple-layer "Nutella, Marmite and banana" on polar bread special? It's been known to make a grown man (me) cry. It's certainly more original than anything Cyril himself has ever come up with. He "shot" to televisual fame by taking a group of unemployed people and teaching them how to cook (ooh reminds me of....oh yes, Jamie Oliver) and then set up his own restaurant called "15" (as did, who was it? Ah yes, Jamie Oliver). Ha, I hear you snort, I expect he'll be tackling school dinners next. Yes, that's right. Still, his recipes ARE different (more fiddly and restaurant-y than Jamie's, but not bad at all, particularly on the French classics). In the interests of fairness, I have an equal number of cookbooks by each, but my heart really belongs to Jamie. That said, however, he's not offering to come round and cook, is he? I wonder what I shall wear....?

Cooking by Numbers

Those of you who've been concerned about the contents of my fridge - and you are legion - will be relieved to hear I've finally found a solution. No longer do I have to worry about my rather haphazard style of food shopping - faced with the usual almost giddily eclectic selection of inredients, I now simply turn to the wonderful (my italics) Cooking by Numbers. Et voilà!! OK, it doesn't specify if those apricots are hunza or not, or if the chocolate should be Valrhona, and indeed there's no mention of champagne, but when you're lacking inspiration on a Wednesday night, it fits the bill perfectly. Try it and see... I particularly liked the description of Lemon Chicken - "Chicken partners up with its old friend lemon with crazy results" though it did come with the caveat "You are missing an essential ingredient: chicken". What a bummer! In other news, I'm off to London AGAIN this weekend, though for work this time, and will be having dinner here on Friday evening. I, of course, reveal that information in the hope that I'll be "papped" either entering or leaving the restaurant. Over to you!!

Crumbs

Behold, dear reader, the fruit of my loins weekend labours. Does that look a) deelish or b) deelish? (Take your time over that one). The occasion: Sandrine's birthday. The motivation: a rash promise on my part and a tea party on hers. The result: some rather medieval scenes chopping hazelnuts in the Rhino75 kitchen, a bit of a cake-tin crisis, and finally, this baby. Of course, it went down a storm, so much so, in fact, that a Navy SEAL was spotted taking some home. And the lovely Mrs. LOG suggested I open a salon de thé, or tearoom, on boulevard Beaumarchais (well, she's my friend, isn't she?). After tea, we hopped on the bus and sped across town to see this guy's one-man show "Imagine-toi" (Imagine Yourself). Now, when I first heard that we were going to see a clown/mime artist, I was naturally afraid. Spending my Sunday afternoon watching someone walk backwards in a wind (they always do that one, don't they?) with a red nose and checked trousers is not my idea of time well spent. How wrong can you be? It was absolutely fantastic. Funny, touching, and he even got one of our party up on stage to help him out. If you're in Paris and you get a chance to see this show, GO. By the end, I was starting to find the star of the show rather cute too - yes, Rhino75 was lusting after a sweaty clown again. In my defence, I was feeling a little feeble after a bit of a HUMDINGER of a party the night before, hosted by the lovely Kirsty. I'm still getting flashbacks of dancing to the BeeGees, Peter, Björn and John, talking Tina Arena, drinking vats of delicious Aussie wine and meeting some very fun people, including a direct descendant of William Wordsworth (classy, eh?). P.S. The Parisians among you should keep an eye out for the Freresbrothers. I went to see them on Friday night with Micke (they're friends of his) and they were great fun (and fantastic singers to boot).

Rhino75's Product of the Week

Yes, I know, a NEW FEATURE. Exciting, isn't it? My plan is to bring you every week an EXCLUSIVE (my italics) through-the-keyhole glimpse of the exotica filling the cupboards at Rhino75 Towers. Week One: Dr. Stuart's Apple & Ginger Tea. Now, as many of you know, Rhino75 is a huge fan of Sweden and the frozen north in general. Any culture that can come up with Tyrkisk Peber vodka AND Agnetha Fältskog has to be doing something right, right?. Well, Dr. Stuart's magical beverage is Sweden in a cup. In fact, I'm pretty sure that Dr. Stuart's first name is Sven and that he's tall and blond with a fluffy beard under his white coat. Apples, ginger, cinnamon, just the brew for a cold winter's night. To be sipped wearing an H&M sweater, surrounded by candles (careful!), with possibly a little Carola or Roxette playing in the background. Underbara! If all goes to plan and I receive a lifetime's supply of said product from the manufacturer, next week I shall be featuring Cristal champagne. If not, probably my other great dietary staple, miso cup-a-soup. I know which one I'm rooting for. Ok, ok, this is a cheat post because this week so far has been all work and no play. Twelve-hour days, sore eyes, I haven't even had time to work on my new TV treatment ("Sergeant Kitty: Police Cat" - she sniffs all the evidence, rolls on bits of it and then...licks her bum? I need to work on the crime-solving angle a little more). Luckily, there IS some R&R lined up for the weekend, otherwise I'd go bonkers. And I've now got a ticket to see my new faves in London next month. TGIF.

D.I.Y.

I'm hurt, dear reader. Really. I've got a big gash on my leg - from changing a lightbulb. Yes, I know, hard to believe isn't it? DON'T ASK ME WHY I chose to stand on a collapsible chair to do this relatively mundane task. Because, of course, that's just what it did, bringing me down with it. And pulling the doors off the sink unit in the process. Leaving me lying on the floor, surrounded by cat food, splintered wood and cupboard doors with one leg still trapped in the chair that was now firmly wedged between the two kitchen cupboards. I felt like I'd stepped into "Stalingrad" (though with slightly less snow and mud). For one - mad - moment, I thought I might have to try and amputate my trapped foot using my prized Japanese kitchen knife. Then I realised that if I wrenched the other door from its hinges, I would in fact be able to free the chair and thus save my foot. Phew. High drama indeed for a Sunday. I wouldn't be surprised if someone made a movie about it. And the day had gone so well up to that point. Dee-lish brunch + pancakes with Signor G. and then a wander round this fine, if small, exhibition at the Swedish Cultural Centre. The SCC is housed in a beautiful hôtel particulier a mere stone's throw from Rhino75 Towers and is - at the moment - home to this rather fine glass owl, too. If all goes to plan, I shall be spending a lot more time there (but more about that another time...) All in all, a fine afternoon for wandering round aimlessly in the Paris winter sunshine and sipping coffee on a terrace. Which is exactly what we did. Completely bonkers queue to look at the re-hung permanent collection at the Pompidou Centre today, BTW. Whatever.

From the sublime to...

From the sublime to..., originally uploaded by rhino75.

...the ridiculous. Distressingly, these are the contents of my fridge. I'm thinking of running a "Ready, Steady, Cook"-stylee competition to anyone who can come up with a proper meal using these ingredients. The prize will be that you don't have to come round for dinner. There's also a special bonus prize for the person who can tell me why I have quite so many lemons. (Click on the pic to see all the labels).

Babette's Feast

Well, John's really, but just as impressive. We've all had a look at MY culinary efforts on this blog and though some have been more successful than others (don't mention those microwave muffins, please), compared to the spread John laid on last night, I'm just a tin-opener. We kicked off with oysters, served with a chilli, coriander and basil pesto, followed by toasts topped with black pudding, tomato, and gorgonzola, served with a pureed pear sauce. Admit it, you're drooling already, aren'tcha? Next up, pan-fried foie gras with mango and ginger (my fave), followed by a small cup of spicy tomato soup, crème fraîche and basil pesto. THEN came a beetroot, goats cheese and green bean salad, dressed with lime zest and capers. This is where things started to get a little problematic as it was already midnight, we weren't even at the main course, and despite a palate cleanser of fruit sorbet, some people simply just couldn't eat any more. Casualties of war. Even *I* failed to do justice to the succulent main dish of veal marengo and mashed potato and truffles, as I was rapidly turning into Mr. Creosote. Another button mushroom, frankly, and it would have got very messy indeed. We never actually made it to the puddings (which looked fantastic by the way), although I did have to test one of the chocolate truffles handrolled by yours truly (see pic). Despite ending up looking like I was staging some kind of dirty protest, I'm pleased to report I didn't actually inflict too much damage on them. All of this for between 10 and 13 people, depending on arrivals and departures during the evening. I think he should go in for MasterChef. Truly marvellous and, in my book, an outstanding way to start 2007. Mind you, I came down to earth with a bump today as I had to spend all day in the office - yes, yes, **showbiz** oblige - while you were probably doing what I should have been i.e. sleeping off that hangover; Still, it was very quiet, Starbucks was open and I did manage to watch "One Fine Day" on tv. It may be a new year, but my heart still belongs to him. ::Sigh::

And so I'm back...

...not from outer space, though. From Castle Rhino, the windswept beaches of southern England, and a thoroughly British Christmas. Now when I say "thoroughly British Christmas," I know some of you instantly imagine some sort of Dickensian feast, all roaring fires, garlands of holly, mahogany sideboards groaning under the weight of candied fruits, chestnuts, crippled chimney sweeps, a huge goose, knee-deep snow and Rhino75 wearing a muff. Mmm, sounds rather nice, doesn't it? Particularly that last one. But of course what I actually mean is a "thoroughly MODERN British Christmas". You know, Top of the Pops, a Doctor Who special (with Catherine Tate??!) and a heartwarming film about how a golden retriever finally enabled a mother and father (the sexy Ben Miles) to communicate with their autistic child - altogether now, aaaaahhh. Plus, naturally, industrial quantities of (M&S apricot and cranberry) stuffing, mincemeat, and Quality Street. Basically, we watched pointless tv (Casualty - how unlucky can one hospital be for chrissake?), drank gallons of tea and ate rubbish for four days without a break. Apart from the traditional Christmas Eve at the Cuckoo, singing along to Wind of Change by the Scorpions (when will they get a new dj?) with sis and Su. Star pressies? A gorgeous knitted green hoodie that has hardly been off my back, Season 2 of Desperate Housewives, and a lovely edition of "The Wind in the Willows" (one of my favourite books, to be savoured while munching hot buttered toast and Battenberg Cake). And the usual socks and undies. Everything a boy needs to face a new year. Talking of which, resolutions or no resolutions? I'm still in two minds.

Who Ate All The Pies?

Forgive me, dear reader, I cannot tell a lie - 'twas I. Rather unexpectedly, it turned out to be a bit of a gourmet weekend round at Rhino75 Towers. Delicious, but it won't help me get into my Hedi Slimane Santa Suit, that's for sure. It all started with those rather rustic-looking pies on the left. I was having a bit of a medieval afternoon, getting all hot and bothered trying to roll out sticky pastry on the (well protected) stone floor of my bijou kitchen when MFM (my favourite Muse) rang, and we decided to make dinner together. Minutes later, I was down at the greengrocers, when my eye fell on a punnet of orange and yellow girolles mushrooms, singing out to me like a sort of fungal Circe. When MFM came round (with drummer/ Heidegger expert and Brook in tow), after a quick glass of champers, she took charge of the situation and whipped up a truly mouthwatering girolles risotto, while I threw some rocket in a bowl and the American boys played barmen and generally added a U.S. vibe. There was even a power cut in the middle, which we all agreed somehow seemed to help the whole thing along. And afterwards we watched a little porn on cable and compared handwriting. Marvellous. Girolles were on the menu again when Mr. and Mrs. LOG had a whole gang of us round for Sunday lunch - Mr. LOG's special chicken and girolles fricassee with new potatoes, asparagus, a yummy saint-nectaire cheese, and Rhino's pies, which went down very well, if I say so myself. And about a gallon and a half of red wine. Each. Post-prandial viewing was a little more "daytime" though - the first feature-length episode of "Dallas". That hair, those clothes. And that was just me. BTW, the lovely Miss FVE (end photo) has a new show - "L'Envers des Corps" - opening this week at the gallery where she works and spent most of Saturday afternoon dusting a golden skeleton in the name of art, so I urge the Parisians among you to go along. There. Now pass the Rennies, I've got indigestion.

Chicken Soup

After three heavy nights on the trot, there was just no way I could contemplate going out again Saturday. Particularly on top of the mother of all hangovers after an evening drinking and dancing with Petite Anglaise (planned) and Noodle (! - not planned) into the wee small hours and then (madly) walking home from Place de Clichy. After spending most of the day failing to buy a sofa (perfect model but too long a delivery time) or any food (couldn't face the thought of Monoprix) there was only one thing for it. Well, two things really - takeout pizza and champagne. Rhino75's own version of chicken soup. What better remedy for a jaded partygoer? Just to be on the safe side, we added in a bottle of (medicinal) red wine and my "Oliver" DVD in the background (obligatory camp touch). And settled down for an evening swapping stories about pizza delivery (I now know one young man who always "gets extra pepperoni" when he picks up the phone - and no jokes about cheezy crust, please), the comic genius of Ali G., classic British movies, soon-to-be-filmed French movies, musicals, food, the Brontë Sisters, George Eliot, first loves, last loves and which parties are coming up this week. Even Kitty joined us (rare). I woke up feeling like a new man. Actually, I woke up to this greasy pizza box, an overflowing ashtray and dirty wineglasses, but you know what I mean. Staying in - it's just what the doctor ordered.

Rhino's Celebrity Sandwich

Now before you start getting all excited, I must stress that this is a celebrity sandwich in the most literal sense, not another random proposition in the Marais. It is often my wont of a lunchtime, dear reader, to wander down to the Lafayette Maison "sandwicherie" in search of sustenance. In case you're interested, my faves are "Smølt" which is three kinds of Norwegian salmon on what French people call Polar Bread (go figure) and "Indies" which consists of the merest soupçon of tandoori chicken and lettuce, again - bizarrely - on the aforementioned Polar Bread (not very Indian, if you ask me, but whatEVER). But I digress. On Friday, no sooner had I settled down at the "breakfast bar" to tuck into my "Smølt" then I spotted the gentleman above. As a huge fan of French cop shows, I of course recognized him instantly as Didier Cauchy, aka Capt. Jean-Louis Scandella, from the "La Crim'" series. Actually, to be honest, I only recognized him as "that bloke from La Crim'" but still. Imagine my surprise (my italics) then when he came and sat down next to me (ham and cheese sandwich, looked very uninspiring). The whole celebrity encounter would have ended there had the woman opposite us not decided to lean over and say: "I know you... television?" For the merest fraction of a second, I thought she was talking to me, and was about to reply "Ah, yes, although I don't do that anymore, you know," when my neighbour piped up. "Ummm, yes, maybe La Crim'.'" Anyway, it turns out that he's also been appearing in the France 2 summer mini-series "The Secret of the Volcano" which was filmed on the island of La Réunion and where they all got bitten alive by mosquitos etc. Yeah right, like anyone watched that. There was no shutting him up. Despite lots of telly work, he claims that he still can't afford to buy an apartment in Paris, or at least not one that doesn't need a lot of work doing to it, but luckily, the woman turned out to be an estate agent, and, well, it was all very amicable and "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours." Yawwwwwwnnn. I soon lost interest in their real-estate conversation but have decided that Lafayette Maison is the new celebrity lunch hang-out and it can only be a matter of time before I'm swapping mock-sushi with Johnny Hallyday and Eddie Mitchell (it is a well-known fact that all major French celebrities are 102). The rest of the weekend? I cooked a rather nasty (and not in a Janet Jackson way) tomatoey supper for Sid 'n' Nancy, which we tried to forget by drinking wine, champagne and vodka, and I went to an excellent party on Saturday night/Sunday morning in a very hot and sticky apartment overlooking the Canal St. Martin. I'm still recovering. Onwards and upwards.

When is a museum not a museum?

Answer: When it serves FABULOUS food. Then it's a restroseum. This weekend, dear reader, Signor G. and I decided to take our lives in our hands two metros and a bus out to the Parisian suburb of Vitry-sur-Seine to check out the MAC/VAL, a new contemporary art museum that opened at the beginning of the year. After an epic trek, involving fights with dragons, pastry terrorists* and other magical creatures, we arrived, dust-spattered and parched, at our destination. Leaving our guide and bearers at reception, I crawled over to the desk and croaked (in my best French) :"Errm, do you have a restaurant?" Little did we suspect what a garden of earthly delights awaited us. A 12-month old Comté cheese that took the roof of your mouth, spicy Spanish chorizo, buffalo mozzarella, an oriental seaweed salad, a tasty purée of courgettes and rosemary, all served outside on a beautifully sunny afternoon atop primary-coloured tables. Faultless. And the best was yet to come. Signor G. chose a chocolate mousse that was quite possibly the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. Sex on a spoon. In fact, I managed to scoff quite a lot of it myself when he wasn't looking, as well as my own sticky choccy cake. Before we knew it, two and a half hours had flown past, and we still hadn't seen any art. After lunch, the collection could have proved disappointing, but NO, not a bit of it. From the spaghetti forest to the old children's elephant costume, the whole thing was gorgeous, accessible and - above all - FUN!! Fantabulous. For a taster of what's on offer, click on the pics. As if that wasn't enough epicurean activity for one day, in the evening I went with a group of friends to celebrate Cath's birthday here. My protestations that I wasn't "really hungry, I had a massive lunch" were exposed as a blatant lie as I polished off my curried salmon in banana leaves in record time, and STILL found room for green tea and coconut ice-cream. And to round off the evening, pink champagne in St. Germain-des-Pres. Needless to say - apart from some chocolate fingers chez les LOGs Sunday afternoon - I'm now back on my tried 'n' tested (my italics) NSTC** diet.
*Two young men, carrying two ominous-looking buckets and what looked like a jerrycan of petrol got on the bus. Signor G. and I exchanged nervous glances and even the driver tried to stop them boarding. Then I noticed that one of them was carrying a large fruit crumble - an unlikely terrorist accessory, I think you'll agree - and then that the buckets, in fact, contained butter and the "petrol" was peanut oil. Hence, pastry terrorists. Stay safe.
**No Solids Till Christmas

Rhino's Rentrée Culinaire

Oh yes, dear reader, if it's September that can mean only one thing - lock up your measuring spoons and harden your arteries because Rhino75 is back in the kitchen!! Ok, it's true that sometimes the results have been a little, shall we say mixed - I'm thinking in particular of my "microwave muffin" period (remember these? ewww). But c'mon, don't try and tell me this veritable vision of a quiche lorraine doesn't send your salivary glands into overdrive. Without wishing to court controversy, I'm pretty sure that if Moses were alive today, God would have appeared to him in the form of this quiche, rather than taking the burning bush option. Quite literally divine. Just a bit big, that's all. I've had nothing but quiche all week, morning, noon and night. And there's still some left. I swear it's reproducing itself in the fridge. Still, take my word for it, quiches are the new homemade pasta. Other Rhino75 trends for the fall include French girly singers - vintage Vanessa Paradis (I'm thinking the Lenny Kravitz-produced album), Charlotte Gainsbourg (like genius father like daughter), and the mother of 'em all (though not literally), France Gall. Rhubarb yoghurt. Star Academy - and thus, terrestrial tv (all the best shows are on terrestrial, I've missed it, although I am keeping cable too, for "Desperate Housewives", if nothing else). Drinking at home - of course, that one never goes out of fashion but for winter I'm moving out of my cocktail period and into wine. Headaches. But still the same old rubbish trainers. Remember where you read it first.

Grumpy

The last two days I haven't arrived home from work before 11 p.m. which means I don't a) eat properly and b) have a life. Instead I'm sitting here feeling sorry for myself, eating Activia rhubarb yoghurt (actually, that's a positive - yumm!) and watching old Ashton Kutcher movies on cable. With the cat alternately biting my arm and flying round the room. Annoyingly. Roll on the weekend.

Coffee with George

There's no escaping it. The older I get, dear reader, the more l have in common with George Clooney. And not just in the obvious ways. I mean sure we're both confirmed bachelors (ahem!), we both have more than a touch of grey hair (on his head, in his case, in my ears in mine). But it goes deeper than that - and I'm not referring to Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs or hanging out with Brad Pitt. I'm talking java. George, you see, has recently started appearing in ads for Nespresso coffee. JUST (my caps) - spookily - as I purchase a Nespresso coffee machine. I somehow KNOW he feels the same way I do about those exquisite brightly-coloured little capsules - it's like having the crown jewels in your kitchen. For the last couple of years I have valiantly struggled on with a rival system, but it somehow lacked the sheer glamour of Nespresso. Remember you can't buy the coffee in ordinary shops, you have to go to a Nespresso "boutique" and - interesting fact coming up - did you know that all the Nespresso coffee sold in the world is roasted and packaged in ONE plant, in Orbe, Switzerland? Move over Scientology and Kabbalah - to really be in with the in-crowd, you've gotta be in the Nespresso club - did I just see Kirstie Alley in the boutique? Was that Britney and Sean Preston? Of course, the darn things cost an arm and a leg. So here's hoping they read this fab plug and send me loads of freebies (I'm a Volluto and Decaffeinato Lungo kinda guy) :) And if George wants to deliver them in person, so much the better...