Bees Daggers and Utterly Barking!

It took quite a few minutes for Luigi and I to pry Alfredo out of the phone Box. He had bunkered down refusing to leave and kept asking anyone who passed by for a pen. Finally Luigi shouted towards Alfredo but pointing in the other direction: ‘Look Al! Sophia Lauren going into the Ritz,’ and in a split second Al was at the corner with us. We half pushed – half dragged him the rest of the way down to the next block.
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There it was – The Holy Grail of finery, the Bastion of Britain’s best, the Alpha and Omega of culinary delights so decadent they can only be whispered about in some countries. ‘Take a pic, take a pic, please,’ Luigi implored me as he backed up against one of the magnificent window displays.
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I pulled my trusty Rolleiflex from around my shoulder and took a quick snap. ‘Oh how beautiful this place is.’ Luigi’s voice had risen slightly as he scanned the items on offer; 200 year old port, Perrier-Jouët Fleur de Champagne, wicker hampers overflowing with Wedgwood Singapore Bird china plates, Tiffany & Co English King cutlery, and a cornucopia of mustards, jams, and pastes. And all of this was before we even went in!
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There’s only one place we could be – Fortnum & Masons! Following the Great London Fire of 1666, William Fortnum came to work for Queen Anne as a footman for the Royal Family. With the insistence of Her Majesty that the palace always use fresh candles every evening, William quickly adapted a small trade for himself selling the excess wax. It helped him to pay his rent to his landlord and friend, Mr. Mason. The rest is history. The men began a lucrative business importing the finest goods from around the world – pelts from the Carpathians, spices from India, tea from China – all to satiate the voracious appetite of the Royal Family.
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Today Fortnum & Masons is the world’s finest purveyor of goods. Whether you’re ordering your custom created hamper from specialist staff downstairs, buying teas, spices and chocolates on the ground floor, or as my daughter loves to do – enjoying a cottage pie, Apple Crumble, and a vanilla milkshake – a 'DD' (Daddy-Daughter tradition for the past 19 years), in the Fountain Café, facing on to Jermyn Street, you may rest assured each and every individual who crosses their doorway will be received as an honoured guest.
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It was a bit embarrassing for me as whilst Luigi was fogging up the display window with his panting, Alfredo had nose marks all along the window from his pressing against it so hard. You would have thought Mr Piddles was obsessing over his favourite dish ‘Fricassée de petite chat.’ (Kitty Cat Fricassée).
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‘All Right Gentlemen!’ I bellowed, trying to get their attention. We’re about to go in. But first I will announce some rules for this visit. Top of the list, Alfredo – keep your hands to yourself! (After all these days with Alfredo and Luigi, I’ve pretttty-well sussed these two and what makes them tick.
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Luigi is the epitome of grace and charm during daylight. But at night, get even a dram of spirits or wine in him and he becomes Linda Blair’s arch nemesis! Alfredo is, well, as my daughter describes him…he’s just a naughty little boy! He’s constantly into trouble, he’s most assuredly a womaniser and I suspect there has been more wine through him than the pipes at Paul Masson’s in Santa Clara!
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Whilst Luigi keeps his background a bit close to his chest and remains an international gnome of mystery, Alfredo is more than pleased to talk about everything, even if you don’t want him to! Before he came to our parish Alfredo spent two years in an Abbey – The Order of Sister Ruth on the Rocks, near Brighton, (Well, Hove actually). Apparently he was the cook at the abbey.
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But there were a few rumours emanating from an adjacent parish – Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt and Bingo Centre, that Alfredo had become a bit too fond of one of the novices at the abbey – a Sister Mary Nora Forma.
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I did check with the Abbess, Reverend Mother Immaculata Concepcione. I felt badly having called her as when I mentioned Alfredo’s name down the phone line, it sounded like the Reverend Mother began choking on a cup of tea she must have been enjoying. She wouldn’t say very much about him, other than the fact she didn’t appreciate Alfredo’s culinary artistry, in the way he arranged his home-made Sicilian Cannoli and plum desserts.
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But the Reverend Mother acknowledges that Alfredo is missed by many of the novices, especially Sister Genevieve Gustoso Crostata, who works in the Abbey gardens. In fact, such is her fondness for Alfredo I was told that Sister Crostata has renamed a number of vegetables in his memory.
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‘I’ve arranged for you to meet the queen.’ I watched the Tutti Twins’’ demeanour as they absorbed what I just said. ‘You mean THE QUEEN?’ Luigi asked, his little pencil thin moustache perking up like an antenna. ‘Well, actually, no,’ I told them. I’ve arranged something far more special for two Italian gentlemen.’ Instantly Alfredo piped up ‘Sophia Lauren is here???’ I tried to ignore him but this broad look of hope on his face was almost heartbreaking. I wondered what Sister Mary Nora Forma and Sister Genevieve Gustoso Crostata would think of this little scallywag.
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‘No, Alfredo, something far more exciting and certainly far younger.’ I responded. He instantly started jumping up and down. ‘Lea Michele from Glee! He’s going to introduce me…I mean us, to Lea Michele from Glee!’ Alfredo is almost screaming. ‘This is hopeless.’ I thought to myself. I decided to take them on inside.
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My friend Esther works downstairs in the great food hall but I wasn’t sure I was prepared to subject her to the boys today; Although I instinctively knew she would have rows and rows of fresh Italian delicacies flown in fresh this morning from Milano and Roma; Prosciutto, Salami, Parma, Finocchiona, Pepperoni Picolcini, Mortadella, etc., the list is endless. And that’s just Italy, the counter is overflowing with meats from all four corners of the planet! (Mr Piddles loves their South African Biltong)!
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No, I thought, I’ll spare Esther from them today. I led the boys to the lift and pressed the button to the top floor. ‘That says Executive Offices,‘ Luigi observed. ‘Indeed it does,’ I replied, smiling at Luigi. ‘You’re about to meet the Italian Queen!’
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I asked the boys to think back about all the parks we walked through around Buckingham Palace. London is blessed to be one of the leading cities in the world with more open park space than registered residents can fill. Whilst in truth, the parks are legally ‘private,’ belonging to The Crown, Her Majesty has never once to my knowledge chased anyone off with her broom.
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I explained to the boys that the parks we walked through, enjoying all the fresh air, are all naturally sustained. The water that feeds them comes from natural wells – the same ones that spring forth creating London’s ponds and fountains. And the greenery and foliage is all naturally and environmentally sustained. No pesticides whatsoever are used anywhere in Her Majesty’s gardens and parks. So you’re safe to enjoy a picnic in the park on any day without having to worry about poisoning from the ground water or grass.
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I suspect I sounded a bit too much like a tour guide. But I had a reason to share this. We arrived at the fourth floor and stepped off the lift. I guided the lads to an unmarked door. ‘Are you ready to meet the Italian queen?’ I asked.
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They looked thoroughly confused, but still interested. I opened the door leading to a series of steps up to the rooftop. As we stepped out onto the roof the sounds of Piccadilly Circus were still there but perhaps a bit more gentle now. You could still hear the occasional american down below, asking anyone who would listen, for directions to places that they hadn’t quite pronounced correctly.
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To the South you could see the spires of Southwark Cathedral, the London Eye, and parts of Waterloo Station. Further east you could see the spires of St Paul’s and the Tower of London. Facing north there was little more than hectares of green, all packed in-between Piccadilly and Hyde Park. And to the west you could see the railway line of The Great Western Railway that carries visitors to and from Heathrow to Paddington Station and all the way down to Bristol and Penzance.
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But what stood out most were the four miniature mansions, painted in the familiar ‘eau de nil’ colours of luxury as featured by Fortnum’s, Tiffany’s, and Claridge’s. The mansions were adorned with great spires and gold fennels. They looked like The Queen’s doll house on display at Windsor Castle. But these were different. Amazingly different!
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These extravagant Georgian style palaces are actually Beehives. In residence are approximately a quarter of a million Italian Carnaroli honey bees! And with this queen you most assuredly need no sovereign flying overhead to know that she is in residence!
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The white oak hives, designed by Fortnum’s ‘sweets’ buyer Jonathan Miller, gave each hive its own elegant detailing commensurate with the quality and luxury for which Fortnum’s has stood for over three hundred years. Gothic, Roman, Mughal, and Chinese.
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The Carnaroli bees, world-renown for their uniquely docile characteristics, produce a rare super-sweet honey. The bees sourcing comes directly from Her Majesty’s gardens and Buckingham Palace, as well as St James Palace and Kensington Gardens. And as a final compliment are the thousands of lime and chestnut trees throughout the area. Production estimates are generally eight-hundred half-pound jars per annum, divided over two crops. However, the honey is so unique and delicious it always sells out within a week or so and there are always waiting lists for the pale golden nectar.
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For those of you who are honey aficionados and are aware of the hundreds of varieties we’re blessed with here in the UK, my best description of Fortnum’s honey is that it tastes similar to Acacia, which is probably logical due to the fragrant gardens surrounding the palace. I also detect just the slightest trace of lavender, but my friends say they can’t taste this.
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I was pleased to see that the Tutti Twins were really quite excited over this discovery. It’s one of London’s many secrets I love sharing with my guests when I serve as a Guide for holiday and walking groups. Over the years, to help fund my mission, I serve as the compère, tour guide, host, or slave master – whatever you wish to call it, for a broad variety of groups and individuals who travel to the UK and abroad. It’s an essential key income for the mission and I often have to work my schedule around some of my trips.
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I’ve done Concorde Round-The World trips for executives from an aircraft manufacturing company, physician and spouse events, and couples & ‘POSSLQ’ holidays. ‘No, I’ve not suffered from a temporary moment of cognitive impairment, POSSLQ is a real word invented by the United States Census Bureau in the seventies. It’s an acronym for ‘Persons of the Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters.’
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Considering a ‘discreet’ luxury trip I was once requested to compère for a half-dozen millionaire executives and their… er, um,… ‘nieces’ to Little Palm Island, The Ocean Club, and a private yacht up the Orinoco River in Ciudad Guayana, POSSLQ was a lovely new word I was able to use rather than some that crossed my mind!
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Another thing I’ve discovered about Alfredo is that his attention span is about as long as his shoe laces! As soon as Al realised it wasn’t realistic to pinch a Queen Bee’s bum, his attention went elsewhere. Off in the distance he had focused on the modernity of the London Eye set against the backdrop of the River Thames.
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Down the back streets of Jermyn Street, across Haymarket, Panton Street where the Stock Pot Restaurant is based – the British equivalent of …well…nothing.. It’s British! It’s just clean food that’s cheap but every tourist who discovers it claims it as their own little secret. Meat & two veg and a pudding for a fiver – you can’t beat it. That is, unless you’re ripping insane and choose to eat at Mr. Wu’s.
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Mr Wu’s is truly one of the most revolting places I have ever been forced to enter. It was so bad I said my prayers after I ate! They serve fried things. And I’m using the word ‘things’ exclusively. I dare anyone to identify anything they serve in their £4.95 buffet. They have fried round things, fried breaded square things, fried long things, and re-fried things that were re-fried most likely over the past two nights. All complimented with rice that even starving Ethiopians would throw back. Yet, because it’s cheap, people (tourists), queue out the door at tea time!
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I’m either ashamed or proud (depending on how you look at it) to say that I’m the only Brit who has ever eaten in the place...once. The rest of us know better! But it’s cheap and that’s its draw. I suppose it’s not any worse than an economy meal on an american airlines flight – 'meat or non-meat anyone?'
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After crossing Leicester Square, running through Trafalgar Square and past St Martin’s I used ‘English logic’ to get to the Eye. Straight down to Charing Cross, we passed the station altogether and headed for the railway bridge that all trains in and out of Charing Cross use. No, I have not gone utterly Daggers* here, there actually is now a foot bridge that runs parallel with the tracks which took us straight to the South Bank of the Thames, where we walked to the Eye.
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Luigi was enjoying the beauty of the Thames, the sights of the commuter boats travelling up and down the river, the sights of Parliament and Big Ben just the other side of Westminster Bridge and off to the distance you could just make out the most mysterious building in the world, the SIS building.
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About a dozen years ago a group of recalcitrant terrorists lobbed an RPG-22 Neto anti-tank missile at the building. The Missile, among the most modern and pernicious of weaponry, is capable of piercing heavy armour through up to a meter of heavily reinforced concrete.
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These ne'er-do-wells reckoned they’d do some nasty damage to the building, break in and avail themselves of the building’s toilets. Their strike had a direct hit on one of the windows. Incredibly, this potent concrete and solid steel piercing missile did virtually nothing other than put a bit of a crack in one of the windows!
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The SIS building is also ‘allegedly’ one of the most expensive buildings in the world. (No, not the UK, but the WORLD!), no 'commoner' has even the remotest clue as to what it cost, it was all classified and conducted under the tightest veil of secrecy. And the substantiated rumour is that quite a few other countries paid a percentage of the costs, regardless of the fact the building is solely Her Majesty’s. 
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Take every James Bond film ever made, every John le Carré, Tom Clancy, and Clive Cussler novel, and roll them into one and you might….just might…begin to touch on the shenanigans that originate from this building! One thing that contributed to the mind-blowing cost is the secret tunnels that run from the building into the Houses of Parliament, Whitehall, and a couple of other destinations that I’d lose my toenails if I mentioned them! 
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Since the days of Blackbeard’s smugglers we Brit’s have been tunnelling everywhere we go. London looks as complex as a honeycomb beneath the surface. Many years ago my father told me that when the main tunnel blueprints were being drawn up some of the SIS planning team made destination notations using names of distant cities on them: Langley, Fort Meade, Camp Williams (Utah), and Menwith Hill (England). I’m sure (I hope) to the intelligent spy, no one would believe that there are actual tunnels to any of these destinations. But to some of the chromosomally challenged, I’m sure there may have been some confusion in the reports they submitted!
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Luigi, again being pushed and pulled everywhere by Alfredo looked exhausted. He was desperate for a brief moment of quiet. So I shouldn’t have been surprised that when we stepped into our Pod on the eye, just as the doors began to close, Luigi stepped off. He waived the old thumb on the nose waive to Alfredo as we ascended into the skies. I noticed Luigi hop into the next Pod so I was able to get a photo of him enjoying the view. 
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The 135 metre tall London Eye is the largest Ferris Wheel in Europe. Additionally it is the most popular paid tourist attraction in the United Kingdom. Originally launched by British Airways in 1999 it was the tallest Ferris Wheel in the world until the 165 metre Singapore Flyer was constructed in Singapore in 2008.
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There are 32 sealed, air-conditioned ovoidal passenger capsules, weighing ten tonnes and holds up to twenty-five people. You're free to walk around inside the capsule, and there is bench seating available in the centre of the pod. One circumference takes thirty minutes. Each capsule represents one of the London Boroughs. Alfredo was worried that he was going to be dizzy, but I assured him that the pods are balanced electronically to insure visitors are level at all times. I also pointed out that the entire facility is wheelchair accessible – a first in the world for Ferris Wheels and a true compliment to British Airways in their insistence that the design of the Eye make such a provision! 
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By the time we made the full rotation on the Eye all of us looked as if we could do with a battery recharge. I suggested to the twins that we walk along the Thames, past the still frightening Clink Prison that dates back to 1144 and on to Southwark Cathedral for the 17:30 Evensong Choral service. Choral music has been part of the cathedral since 1365 when it was an Augustinian Priory. It prospered during the days of Shakespeare who often attended the services before walking to the Globe for the evening’s entertainment.
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And because its directly beneath London Bridge Railway station (not to mention the London Dungeon as well!), it’s a convenient place to convene before heading home on the train. 
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Following the brief Lenten service we walked through the old catacombs, now part of the modern Underground (Tube), up the escalator and up the ramp to our Southbound train.
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Alfredo asked where we were headed next. I told him Battle, but as I looked at them both I knew they were headed for The Land of Wynken, Blynken, and Nod! The two of them were dead asleep even before the train pulled out of the station. I was rather relieved as I didn’t want to face having to make yet another apology to the trolley hostess for Alfredo’s cheeky use of his thumb and forefinger as the poor girl passed by! 
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*Daggers:

Dating back to the 17^th century the Cockney accent represents the basilectal (or Creole) style of English. Completely at the other end of the spectrum of the ‘acrolect’ or prestige accent of the well educated, affluent Englishman, the Cockney dialect is spoken almost in a rhyming way, using numerous and often spontaneous slang words that can leave even the most ardent Oxford educated English speaker utterly baffled. (I have similar problems when I visit people in South Carolina!)
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Here’s how the word ‘Daggers’ falls into the intricacies of the English language: You may have occasionally heard a Cockney speaking Englishman refer to someone of whom they’re suspicious as being ‘Barking.’ The word Barking euphemistically refers to a rabid dog that has gone insane. Also, it happens to be the last stop on the Hammersmith (Tube) Line.
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So you might hear in a café (pronounced Caff), an East London Cockney speaking cab driver say ‘Mate, I had this passenger today, crikey, was she ever Barking!' This means the woman was insane.
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So the other cabby at the table might respond ‘Too Right Nigel, I know what you mean! I had this Bird (woman), who went Daggers on me when she saw the fare on the metre!’
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No need to be alarmed. Neither our cabbies or generally our passengers carry knives or daggers in the cabs. Clearly a game of boasting and ‘one upmanship’ on the part of the other cabbie, he was saying that his passenger was far more insane than his friend’s! Although the Hammersmith Tube line ends at Barking, The District Line, which also stops at Barking, continues on to Upminster. Three stops past Barking is Dagenham. So, in Cockney logic, Daggenham becomes ‘Daggers.’ To say your passenger is Daggers means they’re three stops beyond Barking (mad)!
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So, if I were to believe that anyone at AR is going to read this rubbish I’ve written, I would be absolutely DAGGERS!
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Indeed, as most of my close friends know, I’m three stops beyond being barking mad – I’m completely DAGGERS!