Staying in a hotel on the 42nd floor in downtown San Francisco, however wonderful the place, is a slightly alarming experience. Great views compensate for the scary elevator and the fact that I cannot walk up and down the stairs every time I enter and exit the hotel.
I dragged everyone yesterday to Alamo Square in the Haight Ashbury district, which reassuringly survived the 1906 quake. En route we made a pilgrimage to Miette, a cake shop which has published a great baking book.
I’m interested in wandering this historic area of architecture to find well-designed contemporary building, not just in public housing but juxtaposed with the Painted Ladies. Forcefully reminded yet again just how boringly conservative and unimaginative local planning is in the UK generally.
And finally our last brunch on holiday. All still enthusiastically tucking in and sharing in a spirit of adventurous enquiry despite the fact we’ve now sampled umpteen buttermilk pancakes and bespoke omelettes. I think we are consoling ourselves with the idea that maybe we won’t then be so desperate to tuck in the the Virgin inflight fare.
A Chevy for Six, Please 