A CRIME AGAINST WOTAN - PLEASE HELP FIND IAIN PATERSON'S BAG

Iain Paterson, the phenomenal baritone, currently performing in the Met's Ring cycle had his bag, with 5 weeks of notes on Wotan stolen last night in the NYC restaurant Fiorello's next to the Lincoln Center. He is preparing to sing Wotan for the first time at this summer's BBC Proms. I gather from Iain that the restaurant, which was about to close up for the night, refused to show him the CCTV footage. I know it's a long shot, but if anyone can help track down the bag (a gift from his girlfriend - they just got engaged this week) or the notes, please contact me (vthompson.uk@gmail.com) and I will put you in touch with Iain. I'm sure the thief would have chucked the bag somewhere nearby as soon as they realised it only contained an annotated score and a pencil and nothing of monetary value, so dear New Yorkers, if you're near the Lincoln Center please keep your eyes peeled for both score and bag and check all lost property! Will update as soon as I get full description of bag from Iain... UPDATE - Fiorello's now checking footage from last night... BAG AND SCORE SAFE AND SOUND!

GQ: Never mind the cojones

Colima, Mexico. A body is lying in the sand, an enraged bull is charging around in its death throes, and the crowd are screaming: one of Mexico's favourite bullfighters, Uriel Moreno, "El Zapata", is not moving. Amid the screams and gasps, I can make out the word "escroto". It emerges that Moreno drove the sword in, throwing himself bravely over the horn, the bull raised his head and threw him into the air, badly goring him in the scrotum. He's carried out of the ring, crimson crotched, blood pouring from his forehead, only to re-emerge jacketless, bloodied but still standing, to take his bow and receive the bull's two ears and tail - the highest accolade a bullfighter can be awarded by the judges. READ MORE HERE

The Daily Beast/Newsweek: French Laundry Revisited

Going to The French Laundry for the first time is like going on a perfect first date: you giggle excitedly, become tongue-tied, light-headed, and more breathless as the evening progresses, and try not to think about how and when it will end, because you don’t want it to—you want it to last forever. Back in March, all I could think about was whether I would see that heartthrob calotte of beef again, and after a tense six months of waiting by the phone, day-dreaming about smothering myself in hen egg truffle custard and "Oysters and Pearls," last Friday night I finally got my second date with The French Laundry—this time on my home turf, at Thomas Keller’s 10-day Harrods pop-up. Read more here

The Spectator: A perfect pink drunk propping up the bar: pig's trotter ravioli at Cityzen D.C

Part backlash against the expensive world of 90s ‘haute cuisine’, part desire to encourage Brits that eating can be a communal activity, not purely something to be done alone in front of a television, the force of the ‘tapas style’ food movement has made it somewhat difficult to sell tasting menus: why have 12 expensive, complicated courses when you can share a whole roast chicken and a giant bowl of roast potatoes in East London? Read more here

GQ: The French Laundry

A couple of months ago, Thomas Keller ruined my life. If only I could have predicted the full impact of that late March evening spent at his flagship restaurant, The French Laundry, in Yountville, California, I may have had the sense to turn and run at that very first sublime mouthful of pearl tapioca with Kumamoto oysters and white sturgeon caviar. But I didn't. And now, I can no longer eat out. Read more here

The Spectator: My New World Wine Conversion?

Arriving in Napa, California, for the first time, driving through the beautiful Spring countryside, I suddenly became aware of the impossible task ahead of me and began to have heart palpitations: what was I going to order? What if it simply couldn’t be done? Could I drink tequila for an entire week? How much would I have to spend to find something I could drink? I had a bad case of New World Wine Fear. The only thing stopping me from immediately turning the car around was that it could have been worse: I could have been en route to Mendoza.

I’ve simply never liked or understood New World wine. I’ve always thought they harvest too late, the alcohol content is too high and the weird obsession with single varietals is entirely nonsensical, and of course more often than not it tastes like Ribena. I’ve also done some crazy things to avoid having to drink New World wine – everything from claiming not to be drinking at dinner parties due to medication (I’m never not drinking), to telling dates that Australian Shiraz/Chilean Merlot/Californian Zinfandel/Argentine Malbec gives me migraines when it’s over 15%. Yet it’s still haunted me, turning up unexpectedly at my flat disguised in layers of pretty tissue paper with the accompanying words ‘I’ll think you’ll really enjoy this’ only to later reveal itself as another bottle of goddamn Catena Malbec – I can feel myself recoil at the mere recollection. Read the rest here

GQ: Chatwal, Setai and Plaza NYC...

With a spate of exciting new openings and old favourites being rejuvenated, Midtown Manhattan is back as the place to stay in New York.

"April is the cruelest month... mixing memory and desire," wrote TS Eliot in The Wasteland. Pulling up outside the Chatwal Hotel in New York City last weekend, I finally grasped what he meant.

Walking into the lobby, you're instantly transported back in time: film noir meets a Tamara de Lempicka painting world of Thirties Gotham. Everything smells like something to either eat or smother yourself in, thanks to wafts of the hotel's signature scent, The Chatwal No.44 by Krigler, a French perfumer whose scents have been worn by everyone from JFK to F Scott Fitzgerald. Read more over at GQ here