Foraging with Mark Hix

I’m in a tiny dolls house of a hotel with an ice pink façade, built on a slope by the roadside in Lyme Regis. Barely mid-afternoon, it’s already dark, and the wind is howling outside like an untamed beast, causing my window to crash against itself, as if out of sympathy for the giant waves in the distance, cascading up the harbour. Rain lashes relentlessly, the cool air from the drafty window filling my room with a ghostly chill. I feel like Emily St. Aubert in The Mysteries of Udolpho, scared to open my wardrobe for fear of what I might find.

Earlier that day I’d braved the wind-swept beach in search of sea creatures to cook. A group of us had taken the train from London, leaving behind bright blue skies for a tempestuous Jurassic Coast, shrouded in gray. We’d descended upon the “Pearl of Dorset” to forage with Bridport-born celebrity chef Mark Hix, who splits his time between London and Lyme Regis, home to his Hix Oyster & Fish House. Stepping off the train into the rain, we dump our bags at the Mariners hotel, don Wellington boots, and weave our way down to the beach.

The unrelenting wind makes it impossible to get near the sea, which would have gobbled us up without spitting us out, so we have to make do with what’s growing between the pebbles, which includes sea spinach, sea kale, sea cabbage, sea purslane, and my favourite, the spicy, celery-like rock samphire. Shakespeare referred to the dangerous practice of collecting rock samphire from cliffs in King Lear: "Half-way down, Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!" Munching on a sprig, I begin my ascent to Hix’s hilltop restaurant, prodded up the hill in my soporific state by fellow hack Ben Norum’s umbrella.

Safely ensconced in Hix’s hideaway, we refuel on Talisker-laced hot toddies, dispensed into copper cups by master mixologist Nick Strangeway. Hix launches into a pep talk about the joys of foraging, handing round mushrooms he’d picked before the rain hit, including the ominously titled “Trumpets of Death”. We then dine like kings on deliciously fresh seafood platters dotted with lobsters, oysters, razor clams, muscles and jumbo prawns, followed by a meaty fillet of Torbay silver mullet accessorised with cockles in their shells and a forest of foraged seashore vegetables. Dessert reaches a decadent crescendo with a Talisker-drenched walnut tart with Dorset clotted cream, which matches wonderfully with accompanying drams of Talisker 10-year-old and 18-year-old. Glinting gold in their glasses, both have a powerful nose of peat-smoke, pepper, citrus and toffee, lifted by salty, sea air notes.

The next morning, the landscape had transformed. I awoke to the sound of birds chirping, and a view of a calm coastline welcoming the rising sun, piercing through the clouds. The sky was blue, the sea unmoving. It felt like a different place. I sat on the window ledge taking in its beauty for a minute or two, transfixed by the tranquility. How much my horizon had changed in a day. At breakfast, I learnt that Beatrix Potter had stayed in the hotel aged 17, during a visit that served as the inspiration for The Tale of Little Pig Robinson, which, though her last published book, was one of the first to have been written. Having never heard of the book, I chanced upon a copy at an antiques fair a week later. Dipping into it, the pages were interspersed with illustrations of the Lyme Regis coastline, bobbing with boats.

Asia de Cuba

I’m in a large white atrium. To my right is a giant chess set, its black and white kings, queens and knights standing six feet tall and ready for battle. To my left, a trio of garden gnomes perch precariously on toadstools. It feels decidedly like I’ve gone down the rabbit hole, though the ludic, Alice in Wonderland interiors are the work of Wallpaper* favourite Philippe Starck, and the scene of my reverie the St Martins Lane Hotel in London’s Covent Garden. The hotel’s restaurant, Asia de Cuba, has equally intriguing interiors, boasting book-lined pillars packed with nihilistic tomes such as The Politics of Powerlessness, monochrome portraits of besuited gentlemen, wooden floors so clean you could eat off them, and quilted columns that cry out to be embraced. The split-level space has something of a classroom feel – all wooden tables and chairs, battered books and low-hung filament bulbs. It’s rather like dining in a library, only a noisy one populated by beautiful creatures that don’t look like they do much reading.

A polished playground for the super rich and almost famous, as the name implies, Asia de Cuba’s fusion food takes inspiration from Havana’s Chino-Latino cafés. Having been ushered to our seats, I notice that Joanna, our Portuguese waitress, has a lotus flower tattooed to each wrist. “They symbolise having no attachments – to people, possessions, experiences even. I got them done when I moved to England,” she explains, recommending that my dining companions and I share dishes in order to sample the full range flavours on offer.

In a nod to London Fashion Week, our meal begins with a quartet of “Front Row” cocktails designed specifically for health conscious fashionistas. Bypassing the Runway Diva and Green Tea-nee, a J.D. Salinger fan, the pineapple-soaked Catch Her in the Rye catches my eye and whets my appetite. Joanna suggests we order two to three starters and two mains. I’m no mathematician, but between four greedy gourmands those sums don’t add up, so we go against the grain, ordering four starters and three mains.

The ensuing crispy squid salad sends me back down the rabbit hole. In a moment of panic, I have to check the comparative size of my fellow diners to make sure I haven’t shrunk, so colossal and seemingly unscalable is this squid mountain flecked with purple and green leaves like a Pollock painting. Wonderfully textured and surprisingly fresh, it’s like venturing into an edible garden dotted with succulent squid, squidgy banana and crunchy cashews. Served with a piquant chilli and ponzu sauce, our crab croquettes are snappingly fresh with a pleasingly moist interior protected by a crunchy suit of armor.

Meanwhile, the pork dumplings are soft, gelatinous and comforting, embryonic even, like womb food, while the spicy beef dumplings are unapologetically hot and indecently pink inside. Continuing with the spicy theme, razor-thin slithers of Thai beef carpaccio are hot as Hades, dissolving on the tongue like a communion host. Mercifully, cooling comes in the form of lemon-flecked salad leaves, avocado chunks and coconut shavings. Atop the beef mountain lies a solitary crispy wonton, which is fittingly bequeathed to me. Sharing a table with three men, I feel like a wonton mistress.

I play it safe with the wine match, opting for the reliable Laurenz V Friendly Gruner Veltliner 2010, which doesn’t disappoint. Crisp and clean, with notes of crunchy green apple and mouthwatering lime, it cuts through the fatty notes and subdues the spice. The main event is memorable. We audaciously order the Lobster Pad Thai, which, at £72, is unquestionably the most expensive main I’ve ever encountered on a menu. We’re so nervous about requesting it, that the bravest of the group coughs the order out then abruptly looks away, while Joanna scribbles down the hallowed words and we all bow our heads in a mixture of reverence and embarrassment. Curiously, the most expensive of dishes is marinated in the most inelegant of spirits: Malibu, associated more with impromptu house parties than fine dining. Despite my misgivings about the dodgy Malibu marinade, the dish is a triumph. Rich with creamy coconut, it’s decadent in the extreme – something you’d imagine Gordon Gekko ordering to try to impress Bud Fox. The flamboyance and sheer arrogance of the dish is very ‘80s, and glaringly anachronistic. I wonder how many orders they get?

Stealing the limelight somewhat from the other dishes, we also enjoy a more modest construction of achingly tender honey rum glazed pot roast of pork shredded into melt-in-the-mouth morsels, and textbook miso-cured Alaskan black cod. Delicate and delicious, it falls off the fork in swan white slithers, its silky texture sweetened by the miso marinade. We also sneak in a pair of cheeky sides – beautifully buttery lobster mash and plantain fried rice, which I could have happily scoffed by itself. Standing up against the rich and creamy lobster is the Grenache-based Domaine de Font-Sane Gigondas 2009, recommended by Joanna. A serious wine with notes of black cherry, liquorice and spice, its velvety, voluptuous body grips in all the right places.

Dessert is a dramatic affair. The carrot cake is obese and slathered with a crest of what looks like shaving foam, while the Cuban Opera imitates an obelisk and encompasses layers of chocolate cake, butter cream and coffee mousse. Served erect with a chocolate musical note resting on a ball of ice cream amid urgent swirls of caramel sauce, I manage a mere mouthful. Defeated, I find space for the restaurant’s signature Mexican donuts, served with a deliciously sweet dulce de leche dipping sauce. Sprinkled with icing sugar, their fluffy centres ooze caramel and prove an ideal match for our final wine, a toffee-filled Taylor’s 10-year-old Tawny Port. Asia de Cuba is not a cheap eat, but if you don’t mind giving your credit card an extreme workout, you’ll be richly rewarded in the flavour stakes. Just don’t go for lunch – lunch is for wimps.

Asia de Cuba at the St Martins Lane Hotel, 45 St Martins Lane, London, WC2N 4HX; Tel: +44 (0)20 7300 5588

Marie Antoinette banquet

She may or may not have uttered, “let them eat cake” to her impoverished subjects on the eve of the French Revolution – or “let them eat brioche” as Jean-Jacques Rousseau would have it, but Marie Antoinette certainly left an indelible mark on history. Known for her flamboyant dresses, elaborate hairstyles and love of gambling, Champagne, shoes and choux pastry, the decadent French Queen was immortalised in Sophia Coppola’s 2006 film starring Kirsten Dunst, who spends a good portion of the movie luxuriating either in bed or on a chaise longue surrounded by shoes and pastel-coloured macaroons.

Taking Marie Antoinette as her inspiration, my mum recently held a lavish birthday party in which she turned a modest Surrey country house into a mini version of Versailles, complete with flourishing flower arches, ice sculptures, a sensational spread of crustaceans, including langoustine, lobsters, crabs and crayfish, petit poussin, quails eggs, and, of course, mountains of cake. Below is a glimpse of how she bought Versailles to life.

Does my beehive look big in this? My mum in full on Marie Antoinette mode welcomes fellow revellers to her self-styled Versailles

Crustacean sensations: langoustines cling for dear life

Fruits de mère: lobster, crab, smoked salmon & quails eggs

Sleeping with the fishes. Below: let them eat cupcakes!

Apsleys, a Heinz Beck Restaurant

"Cookery is orderly insanity. Cookery is life. Mine. Which I taste in little, intense bites to relish it all," Heinz Beck tells me over an early morning coffee in his Venetian pleasure dome of a restaurant in The Lanesborough Hotel. He's about to catch a flight back to Rome, where he heads up the three Michelin-starred La Pergola, the first restaurant in Rome to receive such an honor, so our meeting is spitefully early. Curiously, we are both wearing orange. We ponder over the probability of such an unlikely occurrence. Complementing the dramatic old masters mural on the far wall, Beck tells me he desperately wanted to be a painter. His father wouldn't allow it, so he became a chef instead. I suggest that cooking is an art form, and the resulting dishes often painterly in their presentation.

The week before I had dined under the same glass roof. The room is spectacular in its splendour. Designed by Adam Tihaney – the man behind Thomas Keller's Napa jewel The French Laundry, and more recently Dinner by Heston Blumenthal, the light and airy space is dominated by a trio of chandeliers that hover like calamari rings in suspended animation, while pencil-shaped bulbs dangle languidly mid-ring. The capacious space is populated by a polite number of tables, all far enough apart to give the impression of privacy. The cappuccino-coloured upholstery is plush, and the pillows plump. I could dine out on the visuals alone.

It took Beck a mere four months to earn his first Michelin star in London, which was awarded last January after the restaurant reopened post refurb in September 2009. Sharing the reins with Beck is Massimiliano Blasone, ex executive chef of the Tuscany-based Brunello powerhouse Castello Banfi. Despite Beck's German heritage, the menu – beige, suede to the touch, and illustrated rather oddly with a cross section of an onion, has distinct Mediterranean flourishes, while a number of the dishes are cooked sous-vide.

My companion and I opt to go à la carte, bypassing the tempting tasting menu offering seven courses for £85 (or £125 with wine). Removing a chivalric looking plate from in front of me, an ice-cold glass of Taittinger NV is served with a shallow bowl of luminous watermelon soup. A pair of aubergine croquettes float on the surface like brown Dolly Mixtures amid razor-thin Parmesan shavings. The fresh flavours cleanse and enliven my palate before the forthcoming flavour invasion. Bread comes in the form of peach wafer-thin strips flecked with sesame seeds. Munching on the shards feels like eating strips of paint fallen fresh from the wall. I find this strangely satisfying.

My starter is a work of art. Three fudge-like cubes of foie gras terrine with smoked apple and amaretti lie like building blocks among a foie garden composed of orange cubes, chocolate soil and herbal hedges. With a roof of amaretti crumble, the rich, decadent, Madeira-marinated squares are umami-rich and utterly delicious, both when spread across the accompanying brioche, and when popped whole in the mouth. The marmalade-fueled Jurançon wine match is inspired, its bright acidity cutting confidently through the fat.

Next I bypass Beck's signature dish: Carbonara fagottelli, opting instead for the croissant-shaped Tagliolini with lobster and almonds – a dish I still dream about. Served with a dollop of pesto on top and the lobster weaved throughout, it smells pleasingly of the sea. The perfectly al dente pasta mixes with the lobster into a rich symphony of flavour, which is helped along immensely by a glass of bright and vibrant Greco di Tuffo; my new favourite grape. Waxy and unctuous, it has bags of character and yet retains its elegance.

As if deliberately trying to order the richest trio off the menu, my main is a quartet of suckling pig medallions coated in a golden layer of crispy crackling served with a token sprinkling of mangetout. The pork is juicy, tender and comforting – like a hug from the inside. My companion's black cod, while lacking the sweet miso I so enjoy about the dish, is served with a top layer of powdered Spanish ham, lending it a salty savouriness. It meatifies the fish, which I like, but its intense, bacony flavour overpowers the dish, leaving the humble, fall-off-the-fork cod shivering in the shadows.

My accompanying wine, a 1996 Poderi Colla Barbaresco, is dusty and brooding, with fine-grained tannins. The fruit, having receded into the background, has paved the way for savoury cedar flavours. My companion's Franz Haas Pinot Nero is as bright as a ruby and alive with vibrant red fruit – raspberries and cherries abound. I'm tempted to switch glasses.

The culinary adventure ends with the "Crunchy", a biscuit-based diamond with a dulce de leche filling and rasberry jam lid, served with a scoop of yoghurt ice cream and a pair of edible lilac flowers. Tangy, zesty, salty and sweet, it ticks all the taste boxes and yet leaves me deflated. All the elements are there, but the whole is an anticlimax. The wine match however, a 2007 G. Allegrini, Recioto della Valpolicella Classico, is infinitely interesting. Strangely, our sommelier explains Amarone as meaning "the sweet one", when it means the exact opposite: "the bitter one." Despite this schoolboy error, the wines are expertly matched and enthusiastically served.

Apsleys has much to recommend it – the palatial space is the most beautiful public dining room in London. Service is attentive but unobtrusive, while the food is extravagant, yet leaves you pleasantly satiated rather than trouser-poppingly full. There is a thread of freshness running throughout both the food and the wine that lends the dishes life. The flavours dance across the palate like nimble nymphs. If cookery is life, then Beck's plates have a heartbeat.

Apsleys, a Heinz Beck Restaurant, The Lanesborough Hotel, Hyde Park Corner, London, SW1X 7TA; Tel: +44 (0)20 7259 5599; www.lanesborough.com

Ms Marmite Lover Bacchanalia at Blacks

“Follow the pineapples” Ms Marmite Lover announces, holding one under each arm like dumbbells. Resplendent in a mustard yellow dress (echoing the colour of a Marmite jar), flame red hair prettified with a black fascinator, and a frilly white pinny, Ms Marmite Lover, otherwise known as Kerstin Rodgers, leads her guests up the wooden staircase of Blacks members club in Soho, and into its power blue dining room.

My first encounter with Ms Marmite had been in the same room three months prior, when Tom Parker Bowles had whipped up Tequila-fueled Mexican feast with a little help from chef Alberto Figueroa. After the lunch, while a few guests remained drinking the dregs of their wine and eking out the afternoon, Ms Marmite had educated my friends and I about the joys of “figging”. We listened incredulous. Historical examples of horses were given, along with a suggestion that red chili works just as well as root ginger in achieving the desired affect.

I digress. With Ms Marmite Lover pulling the apron strings, I was curious as to what I’d be served – would ginger make it onto the menu? Opting to take the 18^th century as a theme in homage to the Georgian townhouse playing host to our reveries, Rodgers explains that in the 18^th century, pineapples were the height of luxury. Much like a Louis Vuitton handbag today, the tropical fruits, grown in hot houses in Bermondsey, were excruciatingly expensive, and thus seen as the epitome of chic. Ladies could even pay to hire a pineapple for a few hours to serve as a centerpiece on their dinner tables in order to uphold the appearance of a luxury lifestyle, returning them after the meal.

Our feast begins in a sober fashion with unctuous lemon barley water. Thick with sugar, it tastes like lemon curd. Huge platters filled with fiery orange fritters then emerge, and are quickly devoured by the hungry crowd. “Gentlemen used to cook these on their bedroom fireplaces,” says Rodgers. “A dangerous pursuit,” I venture. The fritters are magnificently moreish – the batter light and crispy, the centre soft and gooey, and filled with those faithful bedfellows: pea and mint. Accompanying the fritters is celery soup with truffle oil, which, according to Rodgers, served as 18^th century Viagra. Slightly too cold, it’s refreshing and redeemed by the richness of the truffle oil.

Mid-feast, Rodgers explains that while seasonality is trendy today, in the 18^th century it was the poor who ate seasonally because they couldn’t afford to eat any other way. The lunch continues with an 18^th century classic that has Blumenthal written all over it: Stargazy Pie, served with garden peas and vermicelli. The pie is a visual spectacle, recalling the theatre of 18^th century cooking. While there aren’t four and twenty blackbirds backed in it, I count no less than five fish heads peeping out of the pastry.

I fail to notice them at first, and get quite a fright when I scoop a head onto my plate. Being so visually close to what you’re eating is an odd experience. As diners, we like to distance ourselves from the animals our food comes from. The Stargazy Pie brings you face-to-face with your plate mate and its unfortunate fate. Eating the rustic concoction was like going back in time to an era I’m not sure I’d want to live in.

Luckily, many a sweet treat was to follow, beginning with black pepper strawberries and a sugar mountain piece montée of profiteroles stuffed with orange flower water and drizzled, Jackson Pollock style, with toffee. Notching our sugar intake up to dangerous levels, we’re then offered tuck shop style salted caramels and sugar-coated candied orange peel. Both look and taste of childhood.

Rounding the lunch off with a fiery Bloody Mary, I step out into the summer sunshine and pontificate about the pineapples. Which foods today are considered the height of luxury – Lobster? Caviar? Foie Gras? Truffles? And more interestingly, what will the luxury foods of tomorrow be? In colonial times, lobster was considered poverty food in America, and was often fed to prisoners and servants. The law even limited the number of days lobster could be fed to prisoners before it became abuse. Today ordering lobster off a menu is the ultimate display of decadence. The beauty of food is its cyclical nature – you can never predict what’s around the next culinary corner.