That call came on the morning of November 14 as I was in bed massaging my head, a pounding miserableness that smacked of dirty chacha. My five-year old daughter was doing her fart in daddy’s face trick to rouse him while a voice on the phone told me there had been terrorist attacks in Paris and that the writer had to return home immediately before they could shoot. “Can you meet us at Gabriadze’s in an hour?” Then I understood. I was going to have lunch with Anthony Bourda

Chef Jaume wants to feed people, not give them coronaries.

"...You are our guests. I am head of the pick-pocket’s union, nobody will bother you.”

* Sponsored Content Last week I walked through the revolving door at the Ambassadori Hotel and was greeted by an attractive hostess who...

With a Russian invasion of Ukraine imminent, my thoughts go back to more innocent days, when Crimea was Ukrainian, Yalta was an open...