nicolette kaponis

Being a somewhat average human, with a somewhat average human's earning capacity, my experience of Michelin-starred restaurants is limited. So when I visited not only a Michelin-starred restaurant, but a 3-star Michelin-starred restaurant, you can bet I would be TELLING EVERYONE I KNEW ABOUT IT. Ahem. And so, I give you the degustation feast of restaurant Arzak, San Sebastian. A blog post in eleven dishes. Apparently not the start of the meal, just a teaser. Moringa and prawn (PINK) gyoza on the left. Banana and squid in the tree bamboo-thing on the right. Of course. (Forgive the crap photos - I took them in a blind panic not wanting to be 'that person' even though I was very clearly 'that person'.) Still haven't started yet. Just a taster! Marinated sardine and strawberry. Again, just a hint of things to come! 'Cecina' and kalamata on the right. Eel rod on the left with the log. I despair of people who never have a log on their dinne

When I began this blog, I decided that though I could write my entries in advance and schedule them to be posted each week at the same time, I wouldn’t. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss out on writing about something that happened, say, Tuesday morning because I had already written my blog that previous Saturday. And so as a result, by Tuesday mornings my I’m in hyper vigilant mode, eyeing up every inch of the city as I search for the subject of that day’s blog post, if it already hasn’t hit me in the face by then. (And trust me, sometimes it really comes down to.the.wire as I scrape the bottom of the barrel of ideas for blog post content. I even considered writing a piece about eating at Pret three times in one day and what, exactly, that said about me as a person in the grand scheme of life. Thankfully, I have as yet had to fall on that sword).   This week was a blessing from the blog post Gods though, because I already had offerings a plenty as the new week began. For in

After the impossible perfection that was four days in San Sebastian (with a side of Bilbao), I knew it would be pointless to return to the UK looking to recreate my Spanish mini break. Summer in London had been dismissed without so much as a cup of Earl Grey and a Hobnob, and I had more of a chance of marrying Harry (even with MM in the picture) than getting a glass of white wine for £1.80. Not to mention that my days were more back-to-work than back-to-the-beach. But don’t cry for me, Argentina. I was saved from the literal and metaphorical ‘couch of woe’, where dreams of pintxos and txakoli and Gerald’s danced in my head, by a duke, a queen and a right big house. The day was September’s first Sunday and as I forgot to wish my dad a happy Father’s Day (while actually talking to him on the phone and hearing him describe the gift my sister had bought him), I boarded a train to the exotic locale of Brentford, headed into the unknown wonders of a place called Syon House.