week 24 - Debate and Debacle

Last week was all about the joys of dogtastic Battersea. This week was about Masterpiece and tidying up.

It's Sunday and I am dragging my suitcase along the seemingly endless corridors of Green Park underground station as I am 'tubing' it to Heathrow en route to New York. I began the day by making scones for my son who is in a rowing regatta this afternoon; he woke me at 7 explaining that he needed the carbs in order to perform well and if i did not make them his position at no 4 in the boat was under dire threat.

Following this I mowed the lawn- Mrs Sungoose pointed out that it needed doing, especially as I was away for a week and the grass would get completely out of hand. I finished, put the mower away and swept the boy off to meet his team. On my return I filled the car with petrol and picked up Anna ( boss of Hatfields ) and started lunch. Barbecued rhubarb may seem like a bit of an oddity but we love the barbecue and we grew the rhubarb. Marinaded in palm sugar for an hour and roasted for 5 minutes then tipped back into the sugar to cool it is a wonderful sweet and bitter pudding when garnished with thick yogurt. Preceded by sweet corn, green beans in soy and fried crispy garlic, micro burgers scattered with paprika and cosseted in mayo. Result! Lubricating this luncheon machine was Sauska 113, a crisp aromatic white that unfortunately is too delicious for only one bottle to suffice. An intense cup of Illy coffee and I am off, trudging to the station.

Years ago I envied my Mallett colleague Richard. He set off each year for Tefaf in exquisite county garb -padded jacket, bright red trousers, a canary yellow jumper and shiny brogues. The very epitome of the English gent. Admittedly he was only in his twenties, but the perfection was intense. Pulling behind him, as we headed for the Eurostar, an immaculate world traveller suitcase, it was blue, had wheels and a stylish leather handle to boot. I have to admit I wanted it. The green eyed monster of jealousy. But I am cheap and he is not. I scoured eBay. I looked in charity shops. I expended endless energy looking for a bargain. In the end, indeed, only a few months ago, I found one, bid and bought it. The result is that I now have the most annoying suitcase ever. It clips my heels and has a stupid balance. As I walk it either falls out of my hand or twists, turns and jumps like a rodeo bronco. It will do anything to avoid falling into subservient line. Mrs Sungoose told me not to buy it so obviously I must give the impression that it is the best purchase I have ever made. It so isn't. It drives me nuts. It is an inanimate direct recrimination for my greed and avarice. And I am lugging it along the platform as we speak. Dammit.

As I walk the week past washes over me. In a weird way I am not only leaving London I am also saying goodbye to the last week. It was an extraordinary week.

It began with a debate at the Ivy Club. Oscar Humphries, editor of Apollo, and Philip Mould, exhibitor and TV icon, were mediated and moderated by yours truly on the subject of whether modern art would stand the test of time or not. We quickly reduced it down to a binary choice between the 'living or the dead'. The debate raged in an amiable sort of way washed down with our sponsor's gift of Ruinart champagne. Oscar besports many a cunning tattoo - including his chest which reads 'protect me from what I want'. Philip is every inch establishment, steady argument, finely coiffed hair and masterpieces in his own stock to draw reference from. We had this game - each member of the audience was given an imaginary million pounds to spend on art. At the end they had to vote with a show of hands who would get the pot to spend, Oscar or Philip. It was fun to see an almost palpable sense of where the gathering throng wanted the money to go. I thought the maverick Oscar would win with his outré vision and cunningly self-effacing air. But Philip carried the day.

Moving into the building phase of the fair sees some issues pass and others enter the frame. Stands are all allocated and numbered, plans are being framed and pictures are flooding in to the website. One of the strangest indices of the impending fair is watching the building of the Chelsea Flower Show. As their structures ascend so ours become ever closer to their moment. We had a very jolly lunch introducing Nazy (our CEO) to the Royal Hospital team - Peter Currie, Lieutenant governor, and Andy Hickling, Quartermaster. The management of the Royal Hospital is based on military lines as their titles would suggest. There is a refreshing sense with them that if there is a job to be done then the only hurdle is how to do it quickly, efficiently and economically. There is no ego, or any other distraction. It is never a question of doubt, or concern about covering their backs, none of the paranoia associated with corporate 'health and safety', the euphemism for inertia that cripples many a business. If they want to do it, they get it done. They are completely committed to the welfare of the in-pensioners, as they are called, and the sensible and pragmatic modernisation and development of their site. At the table we are all builders and planners and it made for a very stimulating and creative lunch. Ideas for the future crackled.

Friday was a key day. We and Apollo finished the magazine and I cannot wait to see it. Oscar and his team have fashioned with us an appetising meld of both serious scholarship and entertaining reading. Natalie in our office has been working all hours to get it done and as she strode out of the office for a weekend away she had a definite triumphant swagger alongside a sense of exhausted relief. She had pulled it off!

For me Thursday and Friday were a counterpoint between California and Egypt. I had two clients in town, one on each day. California I met in the exquisite Bar de Cuisine by Poilane in Cadogan Gardens just by the Kings Road. I had not been there before and it was a revelation. The decor was pale wooden benches and seats and a broadly industrial air. This has become the paradigm set by "Le Pain Quotidian" but this was altogether a superb expression. I had a double espresso with grilled bread and butter, scattered with rosemary above a crispy sea of bacon. Dead simple but totally - distractingly delicious. Poilane bread is so moreish- it has a sourness and coarseness that could be perceived as negatives but it is amazing. With Egypt I was faced with the awful truth that I know nothing about carpets. She had rung me to say that she needed rugs for a new house in London- I had taken her and a friend up to park royal and an old university friend Mike who deals in great stuff, but mainly to the trade. He does not like dealing with actual end users. They want precise sizes and colours rather than admiring the detail, quality or rarity of a carpet. He greeted us cordially and had laid on sweet tea. So far so good. He is exceptionally knowledgeable and is happy to share and discuss but I had nothing to contribute. When I had said "ooh that's a nice colour" for the umpteenth time I could see my superfluousness written in capital letters on everyone's face. Countries of origin, ages and patterns merged into a swirl in my head and I had to sit quietly in a corner to avoid embarrassing myself even more. They were all very polite and as I drove Egypt and her friend back to town they could not have been kinder and more appreciative. But the crunch came when they wanted to see some of the best pieces at the house. Egypt kindly and gently pointed out that my presence would not be required.

So here I am, dragging that stupid suitcase off to New York and another continent where we are having a Masterpiece event and exhibitor meetings. All next week.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

week 23 - Battersea Decorative fair

It is the penultimate day, Saturday. I am standing in the corner of my 5 m by 2.5 m grey painted stand. My feet are on the sisel carpet that got laid down a week ago. The mortadella, cheese and chutney sandwich in sourdough that I have just bought is disappearing fast. The glass of cold white Chilean Chardonnay that is supporting the sandwich and me, is comfortingly still not empty. My mouthfuls are a bit nervous. I don't like eating on the stand,but I don't want to go away for fear of missing the stand clearing deal. But equally my dribbling chutney down my chin and onto the white calico upholstery is not a good look. My wife, optimistic and cheerful as ever, is cleaning the glass on her cabinets of costume jewellery. My stuff lurks in recrimination around the rest of the stand. Don't get me wrong. I still have affection for the pieces but the fact that they are still here tarnishes that affection. They are like children in their twenties who still live at home. Of course you love them, of course you will cry when they do eventually leave home, but another part of you will whoop for joy and feel like your work has been done.

Around me there is a wonderful binary character to the dealers and their stock. There is a dealer here called 'the trading room'. On the fair website they specify what they sell economically as; 'nice things' is all you get as guidance. On the other hand you have my neighbours at the fair Pinn and Lennard; '17th & 18th century furniture, metalwork, treen & decorative objects.' The former wears jeans and artfully torn clothes, has his hair fashioned in a cunningly tousled, slightly oiled manner and has a contented, successful, look to him. His stock is undeniably glamorous; pieces are chosen for scale and drama. They are what the estate agents call 'statement' pieces. Friends of his buyers will gather around the latest purchase and jealously, covetously admire. The secret is that these are 'nice things' not really antiques with concern for history, provenance, knowledge, condition or restoration. They are all about shape, colour and function. This is what people want!! Pinn and Lennard worry. They are concerned about every aspect of what they buy and what they offer. I bought a Windsor chair from them. They took me through the condition, the regional variation of the chair, they explained how to care for and maintain the chair for the next generation. They really appear to care deeply and have profound knowledge about each object.

If you sell Antiques here you face an uphill struggle. If you sell a 'look' you start at an advantage. There are dealers who strive to achieve both, but it is not easy. It is a sort of Holy Grail. It is a credit to the fair that both strands have their place but the team playing in the old, historic, antique way are definitely the B team.

I cannot resist buying, each day when I wander around to stretch my legs I find a new treasure to delight and attract. Graham Child, erstwhile of Sotheby's brings a collection of garden implements. He retains that smart smooth Sotheby's way almost like a retired senior army officer, charming to everyone, casually dressed but with beautifully polished and cared for old shoes. He chooses things for their sculptural qualities. Each one is metamorphosed from a humble tool to a cross between surrealism and the antique. I often gravitate his way, and I hate gardening. It is like housework -washing, tidying and hoovering, but outside in the cold and rain. Then we have the Norfolk crew of father and son Pearse and Morgan. The latter is relatively new to the business but his father has been around for ever - I suspect he was doing deals at Primary school. He looks formidable with a shaved head and a penchant for black but he is incredibly nice. He can be rather gloomy though, his stand looks impressive, combining a crumbling country chic with a dash of scholarship. But everyone is friendly and charming, they all are happy to chat, reminisce and discuss their stock. It may not always be commercial but the sense of community is palpable. They are all real people.

But I must not forget the dogs, they are everywhere. Exhibitors and visitors alike worship and parade their hounds. I don't know anything about dog breeds but every size, every colour, every nose or leg or head shape out there would be available for view at some point. There are the perky, cheeky, noisy ones that yap and need constant attention, walks, water and cuddles. Then there the others who are larger and more docile that curl up on a blanket in the corner of the stand and sleep or yawn all day, between the occasional biscuit, noisy slurp of water and rotation in their bed. It is the fair for dogs.

All week I have been wearing, to much comment, my daffodil from the charity Marie Curie. The masterpiece team attended a breakfast at the super sleek Bulgari hotel, sponsored by the generous owner Hani Farsi. I gave a brief talk about the fair and our party chairwoman Heather Kerzner enthusiastically and passionately roused the troops for action. The assembled listened and watched a touching film about the last few days in the life of the labour party strategist and erstwhile advertising executive Philip Gould, Baron Gould of Brookwood. The role of the Marie Curie nurses in bringing his last days, the 'death zone' as he chillingly dubbed it, as much comfort as possible was very powerfully expressed. He spoke of his own forthcoming death with incredible honesty and frankness. I spoke to one of the nurses, Irene. She had been a nurse, then had turned to holistic healing and finally had returned to nursing for Marie Curie with a zeal for care that was intensely humbling. We all pledged our efforts to Heather for the party. And I have been promoting the charity and its spring fundraising daffodil as hard as I can.

week 22 - Naples eating and shopping.

On Monday I was in Paris, with Giles from Mallett.We had run round the auction rooms at the Drouot, which they are sadly renovating, cunningly destroying an immaculate 70's interior just when it is becoming the height of cool. They are replacing it with a ghastly confection of chrome and wood which will probably be ripped out in 30 years, just when it stands a chance of looking interesting as a period survival. We ventured to the Carré on the rive gauche where we bought a couple of fab things. Giles and I then celebrated over lunch at Lipp. Giles is sensible and prudent and had poached haddock with boiled potatoes. I don't remember what I was having because all my attention was spent on Giles' potatoes. They were broadly rugby ball in shape with what could best be described as carved sides. They glistened slightly and sat like basking seals in the shallow waters of the fish juice. Giles disdained them for reasons of controlled greed whilst I tucked in. They were just slightly waxy and were a soft bite suffused with flavour, a hint of salt and their own potato essence. These were the perfect "pommes vapeur" something so ineffably French that one felt instantly transported to every French moment in the memory banks.

Potatoes can be so evocative. They are chips and pommes frites. They are boiled and vapeur. They can be baked, mashed, fried, rolled or cut into a fathomless myriad of shapes and sizes. There are probably hundreds of different species and yet they are all the same, recognisably a potato from a mile off. Simultaneously they manage to be deeply rooted in their individual culinary cultures. No ingredient has quite the same chameleon nature. In Spain, Italy or any European nation, no matter where, the same magic takes place. In Naples on Friday at La Bersagliera in Santa Lucia the sea bass and boiled potatoes achieved the same indigenous perfection. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Masterpiece had an event on Wednesday for the London decorator scene. The magazine World of Interiors co-hosted as they are Masterpiece media partners. Our team had organised a drinks party at an extraordinary house belonging to a wonderful Iranian couple in South Street. Just over the road from the famous Art Deco house built by Bendor for Coco Chanel. With the interiors they have combined in an individual and beautiful way, superb contemporary art sits alongside ancient and renaissance pieces. The furniture is just as eclectic and the overall achievement is both arresting and comfortable. The decorators attending were duly impressed.

On Thursday I flew to Naples and my potato rendezvous at La Bersagliera. Naples is always a shock and a surprise. The mess and the chaos on the streets disguise a systematic way of life that is probably unchanged for 3000 years. For example if you take a taxi in Naples you can choose a fixed fare or use the 'contadore' - the metre. The fixed fare is negotiable but then set as they scrupulously write it down for you on splendid official looking sheets of paper. The metre it turns out is negotiable too. But at your destination and never downwards. At the end of your trip there is always a 'supplemento' which whatever the actual total on the metre turns the final bill into a sum much greater than the original fixed tariff. It is like a weird sort of morality tale. If you trust the guy in advance as a person, it is better than trusting the man via the machine. I don't know what the moral is but it is multi layered and too complex for me. But the paper is definitely the winner.

Naples is full of antique shops and second hand warehouses. Though they love the internet and mobile phones and other trappings of the 21st century the city throbs with a love of the ancient. The infamous but always super charming taxi drivers often recount tales of recent archaeological discoveries and often share their own excitement with a favourite find or discovery. I had a taxi driver who loved scuba diving and had a room full of broken pots which he listed to me over a long traffic bedevilled ride. No other city in the world could boast so many enthusiasts for broken pots, shards of ceramic and twisted metal. The shops are dusty and apparently full of unloved objects but it is a charade. These objects are revered and cherished. Each grizzled diminutive dialect speaking vendor waxes grandiloquently on the subject of each treasure in his or her emporium. It is not just salesmanship; they really love the things they own.

There is one dealer in 20th century things who focuses (not unsurprisingly) on 20th century Italian design. He has curly black hair, dark rings round his eyes and a fluttery enthusiasm. He has a makers name attached to every work, which I think he mainly makes up. However his taste is impeccable and whilst his warehouse is beyond cramped everything seems to emerge unscathed and beautiful. Somehow he is always able to find something we cannot resist.

In the evening we dine at San Ferdinando which is in the Nardones. This wonderful place appears to have been a restaurant since the late 19th century and serves quite simply the best Neapolitan food I have ever had. We began with pasta and I had a miracle of a dish - tubette with mussels and clams. It was dark and mysterious and had a taste of such intensity that one mouthful was almost enough. But like the fine food junkie I am, I had to have more and more. After an embarrassingly short space of time the plate was gleaming white and empty. On came a fantasy of Orata (bream) and more magical potatoes. Again a well carved, waxy, perfectly cooked balance between bite and softness, along with a sufficient suffusion of fish juices, oil and potato. Heaven, but tempered. The end of a week in celebration and respect for the potato had come. We also had red wine, an extraordinary liquorice toned black red wine from campania called Marziacanale, an Aglianico but a delightfully twisted variant. A genuinely extraordinary wine that was great to drink but one that I would not court again. The experience was good but not repeatable. We drifted after dinner back to the hotel which was not too far away but felt like a long walk after such an epic gastronomic event. Sleep came fast but endorsed the intensity of the experience through memory.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

week 21 - Spring Has Finally Sprung

Spring has finally sprung. Admittedly there is the worrying, nagging doubt that another cold wet snap lurks like some mugger round the next corner. But heh, let's enjoy the aroma of warmth and the effulgent budding of the trees. That killer blossom moment is upon us and sap city will surge our brains into creativity and concomitant optimism.

That feeling of creativity was bubbling when the Masterpiece team met on Monday with Apollo. Oscar, the editor of Apollo is steering the Masterpiece magazine along its path. He seemed full of energy and buzz and has come up with some terrific interviews and articles which I hope will both delight and enlighten. He has a great tattoo on his finger of a cigarette. Whilst most people struggle to give up he has his passion tattooed onto his pointing finger. It is almost as if a hedonistic, directional urge is bursting out of his finger tip. Only the gestural lines of ash offer any note of reflection or hesitation.

From Tuesday through to Thursday we had our exhibitor meetings and the myriad dealers passed through the doors. The Stabilo team bustled around providing advice and encouragement. Nicola sat sagely alongside drawing a veil of calm and good sense over the proceedings whilst the pr team from gong muse whipped the exhibitors up into a frenzy of excited expectation. One of the ideas we have this year is to get our exhibitors to make micro films of their favourite objects. Not to pump up the importance of the scholarship or the value but to share the excitement and the passion. To show in a discrete way why an object or a work truly speaks to them. They will be fun to watch.. Every year the commitment to bringing a Masterpiece to Masterpiece seems to be truer and truer and so many of our dealers have put aside fabulous things for the fair. This year in every discipline the great, the newly discovered and the unusual or pioneering will be revealed and displayed. Have a look at the Masterpiece London website if you want a sneak peak.

Then on Thursday I flew to Madrid. I have an English friend who has lived in Madrid for nearly 20 years and last year with worries about her ailing parents she returned to the UK. For the last few months she has been tortured by the foul weather, worse food and depressing blandness of renewed Englishness. I told her I was in Madrid and she revealed that she had moved back. We met at Bufalino just off Gran Via. Her eyes were gleaming and I could see that every corpuscle in her being was celebrating her return. The bar was busy, Thursday night and there a throb if people. She was a few minutes late and idled away the time working my way through a goats' cheese tapas and a typically enormous Spanish vodka and tonic. Not my usual drink but enlivening after a boring flight. We were also meeting a great friend of hers who ironically was moving to England after a sojourn of twenty years in the Spanish capital. Work is very hard to find in Spain. The options and opportunities for creative people have evaporated with the economic downturn. He is called John and is an industrial designer, a sort of cross between an architect, an interior designer and a product designer. I have rarely met such a polymath. Looking quite scary at first glance with a fierce expression and a shaved head, he revealed his enthusiasms. There seemed no end to them. He makes wine of the dark deeply fruity style I adore. He makes olive oil. He adores food. His knowledge of history and design seemed boundless. The Italian bar we were in produced dish after dish of original yet simple food. Although it had an Italian edge the dishes were rooted in Spanish cuisine. Wonderful savoury tempura fried courgette sprinkled with sesame and sweet soy and amazing spinach burgers which managed to combine crunch with a hint of texture that was almost meat like, but so fresh and immediate tasting that they leapt off the plate. After hours of gassing we went our separate ways but bit before I was shown his amazingly cunningly arranged apartment which had an Edwardian dentist's chair which bizarrely I owned the doppelgänger of many years ago. A true kindred spirit.

The next day was spent with my dear friend Antonio. He has been dealing for a thousand years and lives for objects. He will buy anything from any period and is fearless about price. He revealed he had literally not eaten for a week so that he could buy a Trapani coral decorated object a few weeks previously. He is quite ancient and he has constant health grumbles but he continues to smoke enthusiastically and is constantly eager to learn and discover more. We toured the shops and found intriguing and beguiling objects. But then we stopped for lunch at Cruciero. We were lucky, a table and two stools were unoccupied. What shall we have? He was only asking me out of politeness. I could see he had already chosen. A tosta of Morcilla (black pudding with rice) chopped and deep fried. Octopus drenched in oil and paprika with boiled potato to soak up the juices. Calamari which were so light and hot they floated above the plate. Salt cod sliced wafer thin and bedecked with finely chopped spring and red onions. A feast in other words. Washed down with a fiercely cold fruity white wine that barely had a label.

Back in London I went to the Pompeii show at the British Museum. It is a wonderful portal through to understanding provincial Roman life. The focus of the show seems to be to highlight the domestic and the objects, art and fresco fragments brought so much of that to life. Also, inevitably, there is the story of the cataclysm that brought this captured bubble of life to us across the centuries. A truly astonishing moment. Whenever I go to the BM I cannot avoid a quick hello to the wonderful Hoa Hakananai, The Easter island figure, and a walk through the Enlightenment gallery which is such an elegant snap shot of the whole museum, highlighting the figures behind its establishment.

A wonderful end to the week.

week 20 (a)

It began on Thursday with a photograph in the paper. A sale in France on Sunday was offering a pair of Chinese coromandel lacquer armchairs. They looked 18th century and though that is quite late for Chinese things it is the golden age for European furniture.

I booked the euro tunnel for 8pm, booked a cheap hotel in Calais and held my breath. It was going to be a long drive. Down to Angers, (I immediately nick named it angers managements) and I prepared to set off.

We had had a frantic week in the office. With finishing touches being made to various aspects of the fair. After Easter is one of those transitional moments between gathering and building. The gathering is now almost done and we are ready to fully focus on getting the show ready. It is like a play and we now have the script and the cast, the next target is a fabulous performance.

After this week of calls and meetings a quiet weekend would have been welcome but I had decided to drive. As a rule I like people and their lives and stories. But this weekend I was going to have to sit in a box on wheels and discourse with a very dull man called "me".

Friday was frustrating too. Calls were expected confirming a number of choices and one after the other they were put off until Monday. So it was with a certain relief and aggression that I revved the engine and headed off.

The roads for a Friday night were astonishingly clear and I was serenaded by a podcast of "in our time " I arrived in Folkestone in good time. Dealt with customs, manoeuvred my car onto the shuttle, felt uncomfortable as the train seemed to rock, shake and grumble generally as it was loaded. Then we were in France. My hotel, awkwardly named the Cottage and aspiring to look like the White House with a white colonnade at the front, was reassuringly gruesome. The lady at the desk was nice enough. She wore a badge with the Spanish flag and the English flag proclaiming her efficiency in those tongues. Her bright dyed orange hair and slightly blotchy complexion did not encourage me to test her language skills. I quietly scuttled away to my room. A certain type of hotel has worryingly stained carpet in its common areas and the rooms are faux wood Formica or vinyl. This was one of those. There was a shower too which had a surreally high tray. It was almost encouraging you to try to bathe in its minute squareness. Also certain hotels have a very distinctive smell. Bleach and ancient vomit. I was quickly asleep lulled by the rumble of large lorries rumbling past.

In the morning I checked my destination. 5 hours away. Then a second destination and then Paris for the night. Wow. I had better get going. The roads passed but I did not feel the urge to stop. Usually with friends I try to negotiate a lunch. With wine, them driving in the afternoon and me snoring quietly. No such strategy this trip. Mid afternoon I filled up and bought a vaste bag of m & m's. A sausage in a bun and a bottle of Evian. Gastronomy indeed. Cunningly I managed to empty the entire bag of sweets onto the floor and for a couple of hours until my next break my feet looked like they were in some miniature children's ball park awash in brightly coloured balls.

The first stop was Rennes. There the single room auction house was quite full. And there were some interesting bits. But the lady who sat on her dais behind her computer screen was in full flood. ' You want to bid on the telephone? Where is your letter of credit from the bank? Have you never bid here before? I don't care for your credit card or your business card or the names of the dealers you know' . No, it is not a shame for the vendor that you will not be bidding. Rules are rules. I stomp back to my car heading for 'angers managements' with real relish and intent.

Two hours later I am in Angers. The sale room is charming and the staff are helpful. I examine all I need and I jump back in the car leaving my mobile as the contact number. It is a bit scary as the phone is never 100% but what is the option?

To Paris and again sat nav Melvyn Bragg and I make it without much of a hindrance or a hazard. The car is purring and the only problem is my sugar rush from eating all those sweets all day. Even the dusty ones.

Paris, and I park on the pavement right outside the hotel. I shower and head out to brasserie Lipp. This restaurant is a legend. Classically good, no Michelin stars or anything like that but for decades and decades the food has been brought to the table in a charming and efficient way and is absolutely delicious. I celebrate my 750 mile day with a glass of champagne and a half bottle of Chablis. Next to me a group are magnificently tucking in to that festival of pork products choucroute garnis. The large slabs of pink meat nestling in grassy mountain of sauerkraut. They are large people with large mouths and facial hair and gurgle and chew noisily and appreciatively. On the other side are a youngish couple who seem to be having a row. They sit side by side and though we are inches away I never hear a word exchanged. Just gloomy expressions. They don't last long and are soon gone. But the roast chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans that are brought to them look wonderful. And amazingly French. I don't understand how such basic food can be graced with a national identity. But those dishes were the quintessence of France.

I order one of the house classics the pate de fois gras. It comes with a tiny sprig of lettuce leaves, you might deride it as garnish but it is better than that. It leavens the richness and smoothness of the pâté with a fresh bitter crunch. Joining all together is the soft runny jelly. As I quaff the last bite so do I swallow the last vestige of my champagne. Perfection. Then on to the main event, brandade de Morue. It comes in a pot, a spiral of grilled brown surmounted by a sharks fin of toast. Fluffy, salty, fishy and potatoey it offers a forkful of France in every mouthful.

Bed and I simply disappear in white linen to emerge a little late to rush round and see a friend who thinks he has made a furniture discovery. Sadly not so. The piece is a 19th century copy.

Then I notice the sun is out. I have not seen the sun for weeks. London has been bleak and grey and cold. Paris is smiling and there is a flash of warm in the spring sun. I put the hood down for the first time this year and drive around enjoying the beautiful city. Then I head back to the shuttle. Painless. The smell of the tomatoes and strawberries I bought in the market by the rue de buci aromatically smoothing my way.

Two hours delay because of French reasons. Then supper in Primrose Hill discussing kitchen rearrangements and job prospects for recent graduates. Then home, bed and back to work in the morning.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

week 20 - Easter Weekend

Two short flights and an hour in a hire car and the hurly burly of TEFAF is a long way away. Not before the ghastly Ryanair have managed to add a new twist to their reasonably priced torture. The wretched fanfare they play on landing now, I realise, is also aimed at waking you with a start when you are trying to catch a few zeds after a criminally early start. Cunning devils.

I am in Ireland. I make an annual pilgrimage here to the West, to Co Mayo. I have done this trip with my family for over 18 years and for a week or two, sometimes, the world stops. Long walks on the beach are rewarded with local fish and simple vegetables. The fire becomes an activity in itself, needing constant fiddling and tweaking. Sleep is a full time job. Early to bed and late to rise and a nap in the afternoon. Here the batteries are fully disengaged, taken out. They can be recharged elsewhere and at another time.

One of the most wonderful views in the world can be enjoyed from one of the most depressing pubs in the world. Dalys in Mulranny has it all. It is a petrol station, a grocery, a restaurant and a pub. It sits beside the road with the natural bay of Mulranny below it and some of the many small islands of Clew Bay further off. In the distance you can see the Holy Mountain of Croagh Patrick. Come rain or bright sunshine the view from the massive picture windows at the back of Dalys is majestic, breath taking, humbling. However, the pub is the deadest place I have ever entered.

You enter to a small outer bar by the road - there is no one there, ever. Then you enter a sort of intermediate bar, where you have no view of either the bay or the road. No view of anything at all except a few faded posters of fish breeds and an old signed picture of a Gaelic football team that has hung crooked for as long as I have been going there. Here in this inner sanctum the die hards gather. There are never more than three - I think there must be some sort of rule here. They are never the same three but there are always three. As you pass they emit an ambiguous grunt. It could be a curmudgeonly welcome. It could be a death threat. It is impossible to say. Having made it to the vast back room you order your Guinness and bag of crisps. It can often take quite a few minutes to be served. They don't like coming to the back room. The view captivates and enchants as it always does, but the cold and the emptiness get to you after about 20 minutes and you leave. It is an annual ritual.

In the nearest town, Newport, there is a masterpiece. When we are not consuming the local black sole, we are eating produce from Dominick Kelly's. The black sole is a breed of fish I have not encountered elsewhere - it is very like plaice but the locals insist it is definitely sole. I like to think there must be some sort of religious irony or pun in the deliciousness of eating black sole. It is a very refined fish and the skin on one side is very black. But the meat is lily white, delicate and soft with just a hint of the bite you get in sole. When you have the opportunity to buy it, it comes twitching fresh and needs no accompaniment other than a hot grill, a knob of butter and a knife and fork. It also goes down well with a glass of Powers whiskey, whose peat and pepper taste perfectly enhances the fish.

But Kelly's is a dream of a shop. Owned and run by the family name over the door they have provisioned the west with a dazzling array of very individual meat products. They make multiple award winning black and white pudding. Once when my son was about four he was caught in the kitchen with what we thought was a chocolate biscuit in each hand. I chastised him for his naughtiness taking away the biscuits. Only then did I realise he had raided the fridge and had a slice of black pudding in each hand. I was very surprised but he has loved the stuff ever since, even raw!

But Kelly sells sausages too, which are delicious and very old school. They have lots of bread and mysterious whatnot in them and cook in the most erratic way but are a byword of yum. He makes chicken burgers, which sound pretty grim but again the boys fight over them. He also has access to the most amazing chickens that taste different to chickens I eat elsewhere and eggs that are bright orange in the yolk and sit up in an almost flirtatiously buoyant and springy way when fried. All in all Kelly's is a wonder of a butcher and the brothers Sean and Seamus and their sons who run it always seem to be laughing and joking and the place is spotlessly clean. The older brothers have short grey hair and are quite round in a healthy and ruddy cheeked sort of way. They bustle about directing and serving and I am sure there must be some sort of pixie magic in their twinkle.

Given the chance the world would be run on Kelly's produce. Certainly my family runs better, just yesterday we had an omelette and a fry-up of pudding, mushrooms and their wonderfully strongly flavoured back bacon. I have rarely seen food disappear so fast.

week 19 - A Tale of Two Sjieks

How can I admit this? How can I publicly admit to such an emotional betrayal? But I must! I must confess to a venial sin. I have discovered another Sjiek. I am back in Maastricht for the final weekend of TEFAF, and I have strayed.

With almost perfect symmetry and by pure coincidence and with no connection Sjiek Kookpunt is on the other side of the river in Hoogbrugstraat. It is run by the lead character in an American cartoon called "Family Guy". He is happy and cheeky and immersed in Italian cuisine. A week ago I ate there as a guest of Helena the super smart and glamorous wife of Ramis - one of our Masterpiece exhibitors. The star turn at dinner was Mira the daughter of the genius craftsman George Nakashima. She is creative herself and was awash with both charm and elegance. But I sat before a plate of pasta with mushrooms laced with truffles which completely bewitched me. There was no cream just a salty dark stock, mushrooms with just a hint of bite and truffles that aromatically entranced me. Yes the conversation was distracting. Yes so many things tried to divert my attention. But in the end the truffle mushroom pasta took me home. Nothing else mattered. Now I am back in Maastricht and with Giles and the rest of the Mallett team. The boss looms before us and the pasta arrives and it is love all over again. This time it is washed down with a delicious wine called Eclissi di sole, by san Valentino, which is intense and full of rich cherry fruit and spicy notes from the Sangiovese grape, just the way I love.

Back across the river to Cafe Sjiek, in Sint Pieterstraat. I met Robin the benign monarch of this perfectly ordered but passionately unruly eatery. He has a deep and intense love for the business of creating a thoroughly professional and delicious fusion of wine, food and friendliness. Somehow you always get into conversations with neighbours and random fellow travellers. It isn't just the other dealers you chat to, it is anyone who happens to be there. He is quite round and has short curly hair but the jovial tone and air should not be mistaken as softness. He definitely carries the air of The Boss. There are others too: Andreas who spins around totally on overdrive all evening, he knows all about the wines and is constantly trying to beguile us with alternatives that are ever more obscure. Andreas has been at Sjiek for 8 years and I cannot imagine him leaving unless he were to start his own place. Then there is Max who has fair hair and is a bit round, like the boss. He moves in a calmer fashion than Andreas but he still gets round the cramped bar with the elegance of a dancer, and he never stops until the last punter crawls out of the door.

I am so torn between my old love and my new one. They are both low key, food and wine centred, disinterested in show or pretence in any way. In the end I think I can cope with two Maastricht Sjieks in my life. It is not a betrayal after all.

At the fair the mood is very complex, some dealers have done well and quite a few have not. I sit at breakfast chatting to a Masterpiece exhibitor who has done every TEFAF, all 26. I ask him what structure does a normal Tefaf take, given that I have only done 18. He replies that he would like to know as he is still trying to work out a pattern. It is true, no two fairs are alike but this year there has been lots of snow and the global economic outlook is far from rosy. However it is not a time of gloom - the energetic dealers make it happen. Through inventive display and a robust attitude to doing deals they create an active market. The stands where sales have been made seem to have a glow or an aura, maybe it is just because the dealers are smiling. I prefer to think though that there is some sort of sympathetic magic, an energy that passes between the dealers and their objects and the clients are drawn to this positivity.
 

The stands are all so diverse; every time I do a circuit I notice something new. Hamiltons have an amazing collection of Irving Penn photographs of sculls and cigarette butts- a minimalist and elegant reinvention of the concepts of Momento mori. The hang seems strangely appropriate in the home of the Dutch still lives. Turn the next corner and you can see anything from ancient to modern.

On the other side of the fair is the stand of Leslie Smith. He has built a two storey stand housing Aborigine painting upstairs and Impressionist on the ground floor. It is great fun and the work is very strong.

In another corner the Finers, father and two sons have put on a glamorous display of arms and armour. Peter, the father stands proudly beside his boys and his stock - the boys look on eager to make a sale.

Every corner of the fair has an art and a human story to tell - you could walk round for weeks and not hear or see it all.

Tonight it will all be over and the Stabilo team in their orange garb and their blaring dance anthems will start taking it all apart. In a few days the dentist show will be installed where Andy Warhol and Van Gogh held sway an echo ago.

week 18 - TEFAF cont.

TEFAF is 260 exhibitors, seemingly miles of corridors and countless objects, pictures and jewels to admire. But behind all of this sparkle lies a delightful human drama. It is the people that make this show happen, it is the daily flow of passing crowds and hurried meals and chance encounters that create a unique ambience.

The week began with a sort of elegant dance, a courtship. Leaving my travelling companions at Brussels station I drove off to Maastricht. The weather was closing in and the snow was beginning to fall. I arrive at TEFAF mid-afternoon and gather my badge from Nadine who smiles enthusiastically from behind the information counter. We met last year and it is always reassuring to see a familiar face. The Mallett stand is looking marvellous but I don't spend long there. The strange fact is that Tuesday is vetting day and we all have to leave the building until Wednesday lunchtime. So I run round like a mad thing looking for buying opportunities. Then off again. My little sample of the fair is all too quickly over and I am at the hotel.

I had wanted to whizz back to Brussels to view Eurantica. This is another fair that takes place simultaneously. But I look out of the window and snow is everywhere. The whole of Maastricht has been transformed appropriately into a Brueghel winter painting. My friend Amir, who has more energy than any human I know, is keen to take on the snow. At 2pm we brave it, gingerly making our way down the motorway in his sliver Range Rover - 4 wheel drive owners love bad weather, the chance to press all the buttons is a dream come true. Despite appalling conditions we hit the fair in good time. The only downside is that there is nothing good or tempting at the fair. We repair to les sablons (the famous Brussels antique district) and do a lightening tour. With good fortune he spots a rarity which cheers me as he has done all the driving without complaint and thus far only I have managed to buy.

Back to Maastricht and poor Amir gets home ragged and exhausted. Cafe Sjiek is my refuge and with the Mallett crew we sample their wares. To begin the traditional Dutch croquettes. These crunchy rolls of potato, spices and grey shrimps are such a cliché that many despise and ignore them on the menu. But when they are hot, crunchy on the outside and fluffy and spicy inside they are a dream and not to be beaten. Then a topical taste challenge. Today's special is horse steak. It is pitch black meat but soft and subtle in flavour with a gentle bite to the meat. It comes with mushrooms and a rich but not heavy sauce. But the mood enhancer to beat all mood enhancers was a new wine to me. It has a great label with Durer's rhinoceros and it makes a perfect accompaniment to a Maastricht evening. The wine ticks all the boxes. Dark as night, spices and rich fruit. Delicious.

So, I have flirted with the show and now I am refused access. Wednesday afternoon we are back in for housekeeping and further refreshments. Then Thursday beckons and the real event begins. It is extraordinary how the space fills and fills. It is like the tide coming in. In small waves it increases and increases. In proportion the catering starts gently with water and orange juice, then little cakes, building to a crescendo with venison and mashed potato. Champagne emerges in the afternoon. Like some strange bacchanalian ritual the crowd begins calm and focused but metamorphoses by evening into a ravening beast. The waiters are besieged, the serving tables are crowded round, people argue about who is first in line. The dealers are all observers to this. They stay keen and alert often not eating or drinking. They are there to work this crowd. Many appear content as deals are concluded or negotiation begun. Others look twitchy like hunters waiting for prey, expectancy and nerves are palpable in the air.

Then it is all over. The hall empties and the post mortem begins. Was this year better or worse than last year? How were the crowds? Did you see so and so, did you see this or that. Tired dealers troop out with clients or friends for the final push. The opening night dinner - a marathon that begins at around 10 and rarely concludes before 1. The diehards go out and party. The famously ghastly Alibaba club heaves with the glitterati until dawn.

Headaches in every sense stalk the hall for the first official day. TEFAF is well and truly underway.

week 17 - TEFAF

TEFAF (The European Fine Art Fair in Maastricht) beckons and is everywhere. Bond Street and all the streets around Mayfair are jammed with shippers. Paper, bubble wrap and enormous wooden crates clutter the pavements and galleries.

A little further out of town and every restorer is being rung up to complete that last piece of perfection which will complete the object and make it ready for TEFAF. Assistants and secretaries pack books, type tickets and prepare research folders, ready for their ultimate sales pitch and ready to meet the stringent vetters who in a few day's time will be poring over their goods.

This brouhaha is taking place in Munich, Paris, Rome and all over. The confluence of cultures and international people is remarkable. It is a unique invasion of a small, strategically placed, but otherwise irrelevant town. On a personal level I felt touched by a postcard that I received from my friends who run a bar called Cafe Sjiek. It is the culinary and oenological epicentre of Maastricht for me and they are eagerly awaiting my return, once again to stalwartly battle my way through their stock of Nero d'Avola. The pitch black wine from Sicily that inspires and comforts in equal measure.

Now I am off to Belgium and then to Holland and Maastricht. The usual early start is accepted and I head off to Folkestone in the car with my assistant Francesca, and previous colleague Nick. Nick is a hoot to be with and he is coming with us to scout for treasure. He has gone into business with another ex Mallett guy, Tarquin. They work well together as a sort of Abbott and Costello double act. The car journey is surreal. Francesca coughs in a way that must hurt her and it pushes her forward in her seat whilst Nick chortles away in the front, what about is a mystery. Strange companions.

As we sit having a coffee in the hall our shuttle is called and it is immediately 'last call' (shades of Ryanair). We rush out and drive on. A few minutes into the tunnel and my name is called over the tannoy. I find a guard and he informs me that I left my jacket and wallet in the hall. Argh. The whole trip is in jeopardy. But amazingly my jacket was handed in and equally amazingly it has been bundled up and put on the next shuttle. A delay of half an hour and we are once again on our way. Thank you Euroshuttle!

We end the day in Vismet in Brussels by Saint Catherine's. It is a simple place, not overly large, and is a broad rectangular room with an open kitchen to the side. It is one of the best fish restaurants I know. The staff are super friendly and they scamper around in a helpful and obliging manner. A surprisingly rare thing with waiters. We order Zeeland oysters which are medium size and bright and clear in taste, with an intense saltiness. Six is perfect. And my beloved grey shrimps, I am obsessed with these little salty chewy morsels of the sea. They are on every menu from here to Maastricht and what a joy they are.

The market at Tongeren is huge and sprawling and takes place every Sunday. It is great fun and awash with delightful foreign ephemera. Why is it that foreign junk is so much more appealing than domestic junk? I once bought at a 'vide grenier' in France a petrol can. It was rusty and covered in oil stains but it had some lovely French writing on it. It sits in our kitchen to this day, my wife still cannot understand why I bought it. Unfortunately Tongeren is too tempting and I sweep up loads of bits and pieces. I buy one thing that is really intriguing a pair of blown glass spiral candles. According to the vendor it was a Belgian tradition to have fake candles when you weren't using your chandelier. Well there you go.

Back in Brussels and a visit to Tom Desmet, a father and son concern which thrives because they manage to combine being quirky and original with being focused on quality and classic design. This again is a rarer combination than you might think, especially considering how vital it is for survival and success in our business these days.

Tomorrow off to Maastricht.

week 16 - Willy Rizzo

 

I am sitting in La Caleche on the rue de Lille in Paris. The waiter, who is also the owner, hums as he works. There is a bar and a few tables at the lower level. Two steps up and you have a further half dozen. The decor is mainly black painted wood. Rough not chic and slick. I am eating snails. They come in a rustic pottery container with six holes for butter, garlic and herbs. There is a thin crust of Parmesan over the dish. Though quintessentially French, there is an Italian twang about the whole place. I am drinking blood red dark wine from southern Italy and remembering the last time I came here. It was with Willy Rizzo and his beautiful, attentive wife Dominique. We had walked slowly from his eponymous shop around the corner. He was frail and speech was difficult. But Dominique attentively, gently and lovingly coaxed him along. We sat at his normal table at the top of the steps just to the right. He was very excited by a new piece he was developing. A sort of media centre, based around a pod into which all manner of devices could be inserted and from which all manner of things could be managed. Aesthetically, it was a cross between James Bond and space age. Both are very Willy. He drank a glass of the same wine that I am sipping now and toyed with a steak tartare. Though frailer than I had ever known him, he was still brimming with ideas and creativity. I left the lunch inspired. The restaurant was a home from home for Willy, a Parisian from his teens but born in Naples. The touch of Italy in this very French restaurant clearly made him happy.

This Monday I learnt that Willy had died at 91, and that his funeral was going to be on Friday at Saint Pierre de Chaillot. A peculiar and ugly Art Deco period Byzantine flavoured church. I cancelled meetings and sped over on Thursday night to be there for Friday at 10.30.

Now as I sit, gradually suffusing my body in garlic and red wine, my mind is roaming over our last few years.

It all began with a purchase - a pair of end tables in polished steel and brass. I had sent them to be cleaned and the restorer had marvelled at the quality of the work. This was an especially rare thing as restorers never give compliments. During cleaning someone had visited the workshop and had been so taken by them that he bought them. I never learnt who the maker was. A year or so later I saw a pair of console dessertes in the Paris Carre. They were clearly by the same hand and I was told they were by Willy Rizzo. I looked him up and found out what a legend he had been.

As a photographer he was close to everyone in LA, Rome and Paris. He had an unprecedented history of over twenty years and countless covers for Paris Match (a French magazine). He was the last to photograph Marilyn Monroe, he charmed Marlene Dietrich into a rare photo shoot and he took the only known picture of Coco Chanel laughing. But he was also an amazing furniture designer. He fashioned a style in the late sixties that straddles both classicism and modernity - a struggle we are all engaged in today. He effortlessly combined the period and the modern in life as well as art. His apartment in Paris was a poem of modern ideas laced with antiques. Or was it the other way around?

But in 2006 when we first met, following months of telephone calls and internet searching, he was rightfully in semi-retirement. He was still taking the occasional intimate portrait in his inimitable style but doing little else.

I sat awkwardly in his flat perched on a massive sofa and with a perfect pair of breasts in brass right in front of me. He could not escape following my gaze and noted that they were modelled from life. In the end I persuaded him to do an exhibition with us and Paul Smith to showcase his photography. He agreed. My only worry I expressed to him was that I was nervous of finding enough furniture to go along with. He then revealed to my amazement and joy that when he had closed his business in the early 1980's he had mothballed a warehouse full of pieces. I jumped up. The event was in the bag. Mallett and Paul Smith were going to have a show of pieces from nearly 30 years earlier all of which would be essentially brand new. It was like finding a garage full of unsold Ferraris. In addition he had agreed to print his photographs in an unfamiliar size of nearly a metre square and he also created a new design of frame for them. Both were big hits.

Needless to say the show was a wow. And Willy was hugely, and rightfully, lionised. We could not wait to do another one.

In 2009 we followed up with a show of new furniture designs and his ballet photography which captures, amongst other things, the end of the Ballet Russes in Paris. One of his images was chosen by the Guardian newspaper as one of the defining images of the 50's. A year later 2010 he opened his own shop in Paris selling his designs and photography. Mallett continue to sell his work and have shown his pieces at Masterpiece and elsewhere. Wherever it goes it gathers plaudits for the magical way it all seems so timeless.

I am very proud of the time Willy and I worked together. We always used to joke about him being 'pere et fils' to himself. His own life offering up two careers but in truth he was not just a creative genius, he was mainly a really lovely man who was full of fun and generosity. I adore the story of his friendship with Jack Nicholson. Dear friends for probably 40 years. Neither had managed to learn the others language and I was told they would make each other weep with laughter making animal noises and drinking late into the night. Dominique would roll her eyes in despair as Willy would make pig noises as Jack collapsed in giggles followed by Willy falling off his chair as Jack pretended to be a donkey.

Jack was there at the church. Sitting behind Dominique, his head bowed. The church was heaving and the young were there in force all looking chic in black; all friends of Willy's children. And there were many old people. Dear friends mourning their lost beloved companion. The recorder and witness of their generation. The glamorous and the once famous in all their crumbling magnificence. We trooped up to the coffin, which was traditional. I was half expecting a coffin in Willy's trade mark lacquer. Red maybe. Everyone said goodbye as we touched the coffin and sprinkled holy water. The man before me was tall but stooped and helped along by a younger relative. He seemed to hesitate before the coffin. Then he bent down, whispered a few words and kissed the coffin. Old friends saying goodbye.

I touched the edge myself as I had held Willy's arm so many times, a gesture of tender support.

I too wish him well and thank him for all he has given me.

week 15

The day began too early. It was still dark. I was in NY and jet lag had tricked my body into being wide awake at 4.30am. My body is so stupid. Doesn't it realise that when it's dark and the brain says sleep, which is what it should do. It's really disobedient; not like a child, more like a truculent adolescent. It enjoys being oblivious to the social interaction between me and my warm bed.

But the day had begun. Out into the icy and aggressive wind that sweeps the avenues of NY when the weather is inclement. It is now 7.30. I spot a slight corridor of a shop, more a kiosk than anything. It is a sliver of white marble on 6th called Zibetto. It is open and an elegant man of middle-age stands behind a gleaming Gaggia espresso machine of traditionally huge proportions. He is dapper in a blue shirt and smart, narrow, dark blue tie. He seems more than a barista. We are alone; the wind howls outside; inside I mutter 'double espresso' through layers of coats, gloves and jumpers. As in Italy, a saucer is placed on the counter and a swig sized glass of water. The machine grunts and groans and a majestic, viscous cupful of heaven is placed before me. The man is a genius, a god, an angel from another dimension. Whether it was tiredness, cold, being abroad, the man's elegance, I don't know what. But I have just consumed the best cup of coffee I can ever remember.

Down into the subway. The NY subway is always surprisingly grungy. It is dirty, noisy, ugly and smelly. The metro card machines never seem to like my card and there is always a fever of shoving and pushing. Yet it works. Trains rattle across the island in all directions all day and all night. It is cheap, and actually perfectly unthreatening. I stand waiting to grab a train downtown. Amazingly I leap into an almost empty carriage. Immediately I see why. A tramp has taken up residence and everyone is either moving or looking away. A whole bench is clear. I sit and try to look into space. He begins by asking me for a dollar. Being rejected, he then begins to expound on the nature of the American debt crisis. And he talks and talks. Despite his unprepossessing appearance and aroma he is quite compelling and articulate. When questioned, he is almost rational. He knows what's going on in the world; he has just taken a skewed version to live in. After a few stops, I notice I cannot smell him anymore. We chat away for the length of the journey. As I leave I press 20 dollars into his hand. A fair exchange for his madness and wisdom.

I canter around the antique trade on the lower east side; it is all a bit cold and miserable. The morning passes unproductively except for some random mobile office work to France, Italy and Spain. Deals and dealers for Masterpiece. London is ever increasingly a draw for European dealers as their native countries make domestic dealing harder and harder.

Back up town I go and see Luke at the Met. He has been at the museum for a year or so now, and whilst we miss him in London he is a welcome English oasis in NY. He is ridiculously passionate about the museum. Commitment is not the word. I am immediately swept up by his enthusiasm and cerebral approach. He takes me round the "plain" and "fancy" show which counterpoints ornament and intention in a cross-period and cross-material way. It is a much rarer idea than you might think, and it really makes one both look and think.

Lunch with Larry- we have roast chicken at Benoit, 55th and 6th. He gave up booze a while ago and seems to favour decaf iced coffee on the rocks with milk. An abomination. I have a glass of perfectly delicious picpoul de pinet. (seemingly a hero from zero, I don't remember seeing this wine on menus a few years ago and now it is ubiquitous). The chicken is the star. With the aura perhaps of being a slightly boring dish, it arrives chopped into appealingly robust but not too large chunks. A warm brown crispy skin wrapping soft flesh all coated with a suitable sticky and sweet natural chicken jus. It goes down very well.

Back down town to visit Christina, who used to work at Mallett, on Madison Ave. She has a charming husband called Matt and a wonderful baby called Ava. Christina was always life-enhancingly positive and full of ideas and creativity. She is tall and very skinny, and has jet black hair. She is managing her baby with the same total commitment that she took to work. The baby does not do very much. It does smile and gurgle a bit. Quite shortly after my arrival another baby arrives born by its rather bossy mother. She is leaving her spawn for a couple of hours and lists an astonishing catalogue of instructions. I roll my eyes. She leaves and we continue our gossiping and reminiscing. However the new child starts roaming around and crashing into things and falling over. I begin to recall how grateful I am that my own children are no longer babies. We both run around managing these roaming puppies for a while and then I bail in a most cowardly way. I am ashamed of the deep sigh of content that issues from my lips as I close the door behind me.

Cocktails at Bemelmans at the Carlyle. Yum. The best thing about their drinks is that they come with a spare. The waiter brings a micro decanter and rests it in an equally micro ice bucket. It feels so pampering to have built in back up.

Then back to the hotel. I crash before supper. Damn the jet lag.

week 14

The early morning flight to Budapest is a killer. You rise at 5am and then get the first tube up to Tottenham Hale then the over ground train to Stansted. It is cold, dark, misty and wet. Simon (my architect friend), Louise (Mrs Woodham Smith), and I exchange many glances wondering why on earth we are doing this. But we get through it. Coffee is drunk, and a breakfast bap with an omelette and bacon restores a bit of sanity as the eyes begin to focus. Ryanair does its very best to render the flight as gruesome as possible. Firstly, the flight gate is announced and then is closing almost immediately, thereby adding a breathless, brisk walk to our early morning. Then, having rushed, we stand for half an hour queuing to queue. One line of relentless waiting follows another and as, when we are seemingly on the brink of actually sitting down, they slip in another queue on the tarmac. Finally, landing in Budapest the ghastly Ryanair add insult to injury by trumpeting a little fanfare to themselves, celebrating superficially how efficient and on time they are but surreptitiously celebrating how they have tortured all of us for hours and the prospect of torturing us on the way back.

Stephanie, who is getting married in August, is waiting for us as we emerge. She is an enthusiastic, open-hearted woman of around thirty, born in America but with a Hungarian soul. She is trained as a lawyer but is now working to build and develop her father's wineries, Sauska wines. Surreally, we cannot escape from the airport. We all have 10,000 forint notes and though that is only about $50 we cannot break the note anywhere to get the necessary 2,000 to exit the car park. I try to buy a phrase book. The book shop has no cash at all. I go to the change office. They also only have denominations greater than 5000. Finally, I go the cafe to spend as much on coffee as I can. Espressos and cappuccinos are ordered and, as the girls twiddle the relevant nobs, I look at the chocolate bars resting in a basket before me. I remove a twix and a mars bar, beside I observe little bottles marked Palinka and flavoured with plum, apricot, and pear. What are these? Palinka is local vodka. Wow, isn't it great to sell vodka shots to go with coffee? Come on Starbucks- get with the programme! Needless to say a purchase is made, the car can be extracted, and Simon and I stand outside and greedily gulp down our early morning coffee, fortified. The day is seriously looking up.

Budapest is dusted with snow; the city looks romantic and straight out of a fairy tale. The roofs are adorned and graced by the Szolnay factory coloured tiles and the frequent onion domes twinkle even in the grey sky. Last week I stood shivering on Hammersmith Bridge watching my son row, this week I am on the chain bridge. Weirdly, they are almost by the same architect. William Tierney Clark built the first suspension bridge over the Thames at Hammersmith. The current bridge stands on the same foundations and has the same profile but is an 1880's replacement by Bazalgette. Tierney Clark, though based more or less his whole in Hammersmith itself, ironically, designed the first suspension bridge, indeed the first permanent bridge across the Danube between Buda and Pest. Widely considered the signature construction of the city and completed by a Scottish engineer also called Clark (but no relation) it is actually a scaled up version of a bridge at Marlow crossing the Thames!

For supper, we headed to a new restaurant in the city with Christian and Stephanie. Christian always takes his own wine, and when I say his own wine, I mean his own wine. The restaurateurs kick up a bit of a fuss, but Christian charms them and soon they are putty in his hands, bringing ice buckets and special glasses. Many of Christian's wines are named after prime numbers. This evening we taste a preview of 105. It is an explosion in the mouth; it has an amazing mixture of crispness and minerals, with fruit and honey jostling for attention. It is not sweet at all but neither is it dry. In short, it is a poem- a love affair. I want to drown in it. With it, I eat an extraordinary-sounding dish of barley, scallops, and pig's ear. It sounds weird but the barley is prepared like a risotto and has a yellow tinge from saffron. The ear is sliced to thin shreds and deep fried, rendering it crispy and salty, all vestige of an ear a distant memory. The food throughout the meal is delicious but we are preoccupied by the wine.

Back to London, and then down to Sussex to have a midlife crisis day. Boy's toys are to the fore. I am visiting Eagle Cars and Shaw Speed & Custom. The latter exhibited at Masterpiece London last year and are producers of custom Harley Davidsons. They are the only non USA firm to ever become world champions at the annual custom show. Their bikes are the diametrical opposite of the brash flame and nude expectation of 'custom' bikes. They are simple, pared down, almost British reserve style bike. But they are astonishingly glamorous. Each one is a unique design fashioned from both an initial design and reworked in the workshops based on what will actually work and be ride-able. Like all good workshops, their rooms are spotlessly clean and every nut and bolt has an ordered and clean home. I love the calm professionalism as much as the bikes themselves. I am shown round by John and his right hand man Steve. Though they are boss and employee, there is a touching, almost father and son, bond between them. Total trust is conveyed in every sentence, coupled with mutual respect. Steve is shaven headed, tall, and slim. If it wasn't for his easy smile and friendly manner, he could be quite intimidating. John is grey-haired and ageless, clearly a generation older then Steve, but nonetheless hard to date, he could be 60 but equally could be older or younger. They drive me over to the nearby Eagle cars. They are the renowned specialist dealers and restorers of e-type Jaguars. Based at what appears to be a simple collection of wooden farm buildings, they have created a jewellery box of wonders. Black painted doors open to reveal an unbelievable array of these iconic sports cars. Each one is cosseted back to perfection in a forensic way by the Eagle team. My camera clicks away as I am rendered speechless through a mixture of respect and desire. I am wooing them to bring some of their cars to Masterpiece. They would be a 'wow'. In many ways, they typify all that we try to achieve with the show: great art, beautiful condition, fabulous engineering and most importantly, a current and relevant respect for today and the past.

week 13

Monday morning is always a fresh start. Somehow we begin things on a Monday morning. New leaves are turned over and best feet are put forward. This Monday I had decided that though I was meeting someone for breakfast I was NOT single handedly going to keep the pig population at bay. No sausages, bacon etc. I sit down with Michael who is a tall grey haired but boyish ball of creative fire who organises big outside contemporary sculpture shows for Christies amongst others. I am discussing a possible plan for Masterpiece. We look at the menu and both discuss the merits of yogurt with berries. That suits our seemingly mutual new leaf. The waiter appears. He dutifully requests berries etc. After a moments pause I order a bacon sandwich, he immediately curses me and changes his order to bacon too. So much for Monday morning, feel afraid pigs! Feel very afraid.

In the afternoon I rushed down to Hatfields, a commode I bought is being delivered. Part of the deal was that a certain amount of restoration had to be included. I cycled over shivering but stately on my bike. Once there I thaw out nursing a cup of coffee. I look out of the window. Time passes, steam rises and time passes. Finally a shiny silver mercedes sweeps into the yard. Hugh, brisk and smooth with his country tweed, highly polished shoes and military bearing emerges. I am intrigued. He describes and demonstrates the work carried out. I cannot work out whether he is happy or sad. The work has gone well, possibly too well it seems. He gives me the impression that he has undersold it to me now the work is done. Once he leaves I realise what a clever chap he is.  I make a mental note to try and copy his technique.

On Thursday I rushed over to the Bulgari hotel in Knightsbridge for the launch of the committee for this years charity party at Masterpiece. Marie curie are taking over the mantle of the Midsummer party and it is a huge responsibility as the evening should be worth around half a million in fundraising. The hotel is stylish black and the staff hover with the enthusiasm of the new. We are ushered to a cinema on one of the lower levels. There we are introduced to Heather Kerznerwho will lead the project. She is elegant and skinny and incandescent with energy. Everyone is greeted with delight, affection and purpose. We see the presentation and hear her plans and a buzz brightens the room. I think that she is the kind of person who will make things happen. The crackle is very appetising.

I whizz off to Sotheby's cafe where I meet Carol, the jewelry fashion guru from Vogue. I had not seen her since the fair and it is always a delight. For someone as eminent as she is it is strangely humbling how shy she is, or even lacking in confidence. Her "Brilliant" show at the fair required a huge amount of work and took diamonds from over 30 different sources to celebrate the Jubilee in an original and fun way. It brought with it enough headaches that I feared i might never be on friendly terms again. But here we are reminiscing positively and fashioning an idea for 2014. Wow.

Then lunch, not just an ordinary lunch though. Lunch with 71 other people. It was the Women in the Arts lunch at the University Women's Club in Mayfair. I had never been to this club and it is tucked away by Park Lane. I was impressed by this gathering. We men were there under sufferance, this lunch is the annual 'bring a date'. It was amazing to scan the room and see just how many businesses and corporations would crumble if a bomb landed. An incredibly powerful group. The food was pretty ghastly. A cow pat of pâté was followed by chicken with a dog bowl of vegetables, which cunningly managed to incorporate under cooked potatoes and over cooked broccoli. the pudding was a slice of cheese cake that would have better served as a door wedge. But the food is not the point. A fabulous, funny speech by Lucinda Lampton recalling pioneering work done as a proto paparazzi and her burgeoning love of architecture. She had paved the way for so many women, not just in the world of work but also in life. As I went back to the office I realised that I had spent the whole day surrounded by female power and success. Each of the women had achieved their goal in their own way, without any reference to so-called feminism. I felt I was privileged to be working amongst such a plethora of talent.

From the world of female to the world of male. Saturday was spent merging the joys of standing in the freezing cold, enjoying damp feet in driving rain, with fabulous Russian food washed down with Standard vodka and champagne. My son rows and I cycled down to watch him do his thing at Hammersmith. The bridge itself is fabulous, designed by the legendary Bazelgette, seemingly the author of so much of what we experience in London. A festival of cast iron, it glitters in green and gold. Every car that goes over seems to make the whole structure shake and tremor. I watch my boy pass below the bridge as I proudly point my iPhone camera. Then a chase back to the boat house. The gathering of testerone as steaming boys gather, chat and heave the massive boats out of the water, is impressive. None of them seem to feel the cold.  I cycle home and prepare for dinner with Paul. He is a new friend, and he is passionate about Russia. He has been going since the 1960's. his house is a a peon to the culture and craft of Russia from 1760 to 1820. Malachite, rhodonite, korgon and other hard stones abound with gilt bronze twinkling in the candle light. No electrics here. Even the chandelier is perilously lit with a lighter dangling from a pole. We sit around a small English regency breakfast table and quaff from tall glasses engraved with eagles and resting on stepped square feet. A white Georgian lemon cream soup gives way to fluffy blinis layered with sour cream, herring, smoked salmon and roe. The whole blissful ensemble soaked in clarified butter. Great conversation coupled with frozen vodka, and the flickering late combine to make a late night. Boys will be boys.

week 12

January in London with its gruesome cold and darkness, gives way to the warmth and watery generosity of Miami. I arrived in Florida on what was essentially a dealers charter flight. Almost every dealer I know was on board. Fat cats up front. Healthy cats in premium and skinny cats in the back. I sat next to a charming guy called Steve who leads the world in Chinese export silver. He is an excellent travelling companion and we pass a painless 9 hours watching movies, eating disgusting food and modestly imbibing alcohol.

There is a clubby feel to economy class, as everyone moves around and chats and probably a few deals are done. We are all heading to a group of hotels on South Beach which are a few minutes walk from the convention centre. There 1000 dealers are about to swarm. The "booths" are cheap. The smallest costing $850. The key days are the set up ones. The trade gathers around as the goods are unpacked and deals flourish. Great treasures emerge and disappear into waiting vans and trucks. Many of these pieces will re-emerge at TEFAF or Masterpiece.

The next day in the chaos I find and buy a wonderful Austrian silver double magnum decanter. A friend kindly volunteers to take it up to Palm Beach where Mallett will receive it and hopefully sell it without it leaving Florida.

The energy in the Hall is amazing but it is only surpassed by the palpable excitement as everyone gathers at the Raleigh hotel for cocktails. Again everyone is here. So many of the Masterpiece crowd. They all look exhausted. Miles of aisles have been walked often several times. But purchases have been made and there is a general mood of satisfaction. No one stays up late though, and people imbibe modestly. Tomorrow is going to be just as hard, just as long.

I am staying at the Richmond. The rooms are clean and reasonably priced, but that is not the reason you stay there. The secret of the Richmond is Gus. He runs the kitchen and the bar. He has been at the hotel for 20 years. He is tall, upright, wears a Hawaiian shirt and a pork pie hat. He is from somewhere in South America and is discretely camp. He is on duty from dawn to way beyond dusk. In the morning he fries your eggs and brings crispy bacon. At lunch he will fashion a chicken club sandwich and in the evening he mixes the best mojito. He is always quiet, gentle and efficient. There is a sort of fawlty towers factor too, as the other staff are perpetually in a grump or something isn't working. The coffee machine broke on the first day. The computers weren't working and everyone including the staff piggybacked on the wifi from the adjacent hotels. I love it.

Coming out into the street on the second day we were confronted by tragedy. The road was blocked and police were everywhere. Circled with cones and chalk were two lone black shoes, basic trainers. We found out that the chef of the hotel next door had been run over and killed at 2.30 in the morning by a drunk driver. She had left her victim and driven home. However she had been spotted by another driver who had given chase and called the police. It was all over the news bulletins. The chef had a wife and children and the driver also had a family. As my friend Charlie pointed out as we looked at the sad forlorn shoes "all those lives ruined in a heartbeat" and all for driving drunk.

Behind the scene of carnage. About two blocks away the local Lamborghini dealership was launching the latest model. Two lines of very expensive cars and within the hotel the chime of clinking glasses and thumping music trumpeted the launch. It was spectacular if you like that sort of thing but we weren't really in the mood.

Back to the cold, in NY. I landed and headed in to meet with Tod who is considering becoming part of the Masterpiece family. He is always very dapper in a casual way. Always charming and has great stories to tell of adventures trading in far flung corners of the globe. He sells modern and contemporary furniture and is uber connected. I am trying to encourage him to join up but I am distracted by the menu. The fried chicken sandwich which arrives is decadence itself. Lovely sourdough bread cosseting within its folds crisp lettuce and a juicy deep fried slab of chicken. I lose my thread of conversation as this high calorie treasure roams around my mouth. Tod is elusive, he may or he may not join up. Never mind. I make a note "Peels" in the Bowery. Yum.

Bizarrely I am back almost to the same place for supper. A new restaurant called Circolo in Bond St. The owners are friends of Suzanne Demisch whom I have long admired for her fabulous book on Maria Pergay. Who is and was the queen of shiny metal furniture. Suzanne has helped with the look of the restaurant and it is warm and uncluttered and undeniably cool. The restaurant has only been open a few weeks and though their intentions are good, the food is a little disappointing. However they serve delicious brussel sprouts (now seemingly ubiquitous on menus) and one really fabulous dish which is grilled octopus with nut shards and a well-balanced hint of spice. This is all naughtily washed down with heavenly Brunello, ever so slightly tarnished by a strange pantomime the waiter went through of sloshing a splash of wine into each glass and then rolling each glass. I am sure it is good and correct for the wine. But it was weird.

Nicola and I went to visit the Winter show at the Armory. They have had a redesign and it looks much cleaner and brighter. I love the Armory and the restoration seems to be proceeding really well. The interiors by the short lived Associated Artists were a high Victorian aesthetic movement triumph from the design mavericks and pioneers Louis comfort Tiffany and Lockwood de Forest. However at some point, probably in the thirties the lush decorations were all painted over with gruesome greys and greens. Gradually the magnificence is re-emerging. And snippets are revealed in many of the administrative and formal side rooms. The fair is the bastion of Americana and painted furniture and decoys abound, a few formal furniture and decoration dealers lard the otherwise pretty repetitive offering. But it looks great overall and most of the dealers seem content with business. We bond as we walk, it is amazing how many people are actually excited and looking forward to Masterpiece. I am particularly touched by one couple who have children heading to ballet school during the run of the fair who are still prepared to do it despite the clash.

The day ends downtown in Duane st at the shop of Jonathan Burden, an Englishman who has carved out a clever niche for himself as a dealer and restorer. He has a loyal following, which is due in part because of his eclectic stock and part because he is ridiculously charming. You just want to buy from him, and I do succumb to an Art Deco side board which I now have to ship back to London. Oh well.

week 11

Following a manic day of moving pieces of furniture left and right, backwards and forwards, and generally wasting time, we finally arrived at an arrangement of furniture and objects on the Sungoose stand at the Decorative Antiques and Textiles Fair, Battersea that all parties were happy with. Sharing is a tricky business, particularly when neither party wants to be forceful. There is a limit to the amount of 'please do' and ' no you' and ' I never liked it anyway, you have the space' that one can tolerate before you just want to scream and behave badly. Anyway, we got through it and it looked fine. Pearse disappeared and Mrs Sungoose and I took up our positions, ready to sell.

But I also need to buy and I spent the early hours rushing around spotting things for the surreal project I am working on in Hungary. I have a piece of paper in my pocket with small print which is a long shopping list that I was battling my way through- divided emotionally between the urge to get rid of things and the urge to acquire more.

One of the joys of the end of the day at the fair is when to have the first glass of alcohol. In the old days we would debate at what time was Seabreeze o'clock. The cocktail of grapefruit, cranberry and vodka. Fairs can be very dehydrating and the mixture of fruit was always a good one, and a stimulation to push you through to the end of the day.

Once in San Francisco at the Fall show I had a few too many. It spawned the phrase "what you don't mess up, you can claim as a triumph". The opening night party of that show is now something of a legend. It is the most lavish opening party I know. Stationed by my booth was a curious looking waiter who had a shiny bald head, with seemingly one part missing. His head looked as if a slice had been taken away. He was super charming and had as his responsibility, the caviar and vodka shots stand. The evening wore on and I visited his stand regularly, indeed rather too regularly. Towards the end of the evening I was getting rather jovial and was looking forward to the exit. Suffice to say a client and her decorator appear and look intently at a pair of mirrors. After some time they approach me asking ' are those mirrors available?'. Concentrating with all my might and manner, I utter the word "yes" they withdrew and muttered together for some time. Again they approached asking " may we buy them?" I considered their proposal and with some trepidation managed to get out the word "yes". Probably the hardest sale I have ever made. But "what you don't mess up you can claim as a triumph" was born.

The extraordinary thing about Decorative Antiques and Textiles Fair, Battersea is the number of dogs. Seemingly every stand and every visitor has a dog. They come in all sizes and some match their owners and others are diametrically opposite. I think this is the only fair where there is a dog bowl of water by the entrance. At any given moment you can hear a bark or a whine. The most intense moment was on Thursday when a buzz swept through the fair from left to right as the dogs serially went CRAZY. An announcement over the tannoy explained there was a squirrel in the hall!

The fair divides old school from the new. There are young fashionable people who look like they went to art school .They either sell bleached chairs and chateau windows turned into mirrors or cabinet makers' benches as serving tables and industrial light fittings are everywhere. Then there are the old guard, they dress smartly and the men often wear a tie. They sell antiques. They gather and moan because they can recall better times. The average age in this division is around 70. The art school types sell and sell and sell. The old boys and girls stand around waiting for a client who might understand what 'Elizabethan' means. Despite their misery they do find great things and Tony produces a fabulous pietra dura circular table top. The nicest I have seen in years. Tony is fantastic. He has been around. He has reading glasses on a string and a moustache that reminisces on its own. His soft friendly voice is modulated by his generous stomach that enters the room a moment before him. I have bought from him for years and years. His eye remains innovative but driven by quality and technical excellence. It is actually a treat to buy from him.

The Masterpiece fair does not go away and I see many of our exhibitors and clients at the fair. It is a boost when people come up and say how much they like the fair. Of course, not everyone does. But it is all good, I feel passionately that this coming year will be superb and I embrace the challenge of justifying what we do and the way we do it. I am particularly excited by the number of continental dealers coming. It will have a really cosmopolitan feel. The Caprice will have to cater for greater supplies of Prosciutto and rich dark red wine.

My attention on Friday was diverted by being required to be in court. I had transgressed, and I was due to be punished. A couple of months ago I had been caught in Vauxhall parking wrongly. I was due up before the beak. At 9.30 I attended Bromley Magistrates court. A building of no great age or beauty. It seems to have been built by someone who had stayed at a Travelodge hotel. Brick and stone combined to no great effect, even describing the building as mock Georgian is to aggrandise it. I waited patiently in line as a litany of bad parkers, people with no license or insurance paraded their failings before the magistrate. The amazing thing was that the case before me, a no insurance Spaniard, lived in my street-clearly a hot bed of criminals! My turn came and my excuses were acknowledged and ignored. 3 points and a fine. Happy days.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

week 10

This Monday was one of those big Mondays. You know the ones which are expected and you feel slightly nervous about and the result is uncertain. Well it was one of those. Monday was Nazy Vassegh's first day. Who is she, you ask? She is Masterpiece's first CEO. It is like a coming of age for the company. We have been a very successful new kid on the block, but now we are a BUSINESS. We have a CEO. First impressions are invidious but we all have them and mine are very positive. I like people who have an edge, an individual oddity. She drinks strong coffee, and has a cup of boiling water on the side. Not diluted, just alongside. Cool! She is a mother and a business woman who has given a considerable amount of her life thus far to Sotheby's and in particular the Impressionist and Modern division. So she brings corporate thinking, business acumen and a knowledge of the picture world. It will be an exciting time, and we look forward to working together.

But there was another reason to get excited on Monday. I was riding my new bicycle. I had had a rather riotous Friday night. It was meant to be a lunch. But it just got a bit mucky and I ended up leaving the restaurant around midnight. To discover that my beloved specialised Fixie had been purloined. It's chain left like a damp rag hanging limply around the post I had optimistically tied it to. A sort of moral karma. My decadence had to be paid for. However, one of my life mottoes is: every loss is a shopping opportunity in disguise. So it proved to be. Come Monday I was cycling to work astride my sparkling new shiny silver Van Moof 3. It has one gear, a back pedal brake and big fat white wall tyres. It is like cycling a stately barge. I feel I have moved from a sports car to driving a bus. But I love it. The pace infects my mood and I am able to use my commuting time as a useful adjunct to the day.

I ran into a old acquaintance, a decorating legend. We reminisced about old times. He used to come to Mallett at Bourdon House. He was a great friend of my first boss and mentor David Nickerson. They used to wander around the shop smoking. This was already a bit of a taboo. I think they both had a sense of it being naughty. My friend used to smoke with passion, gusto. It was almost an art form his smoking. I once proposed that we got him a grant from the Arts Council to be a walking art work called "the smoker" . A sort of last man smoking. These days he has given it all up. He looks very well even though he is a bit of an antique now, and he is full of plans and creativity. His style is a sort of crumbling empire look. You might even describe it as damaged chic.

I set up my stand at the Battersea decorative fair which I am sharing with Pearse from Norfolk. Even though our stuff is very different it went together pretty painlessly. The stand was painted by Mad Dougie who is also from Norfolk. They went out afterwards on a traditional china town pilgrimage slash pub crawl. Dougie parted ominously pointing out that he does not get hangovers. Maybe not. He does not say much, a lot of his time when not painting was spent running his hand down his long and unfeasibly thin blonde beard, it more resembles a piece of string stapled to his chin than a beard. But he is a great worker. He cracks on and the stand is better painted and looks more professionally finished than all the others. I won't say or hear a word against Mad Dougie.

I finished the week in the elegant company of the Masterpiece PR team Freya and Claire. At a pop up recommended by Scoopt. Some friends of theirs called "the basement galley" are starting a catering business doing fancy dinners in people's kitchens. There were endless courses and a few culinary eccentricities. I am not sure how often I will want to eat chopped smoked salmon and cheddar with a crispy rosti popped on top. But the main thing was that the two fresh faced guys who were behind it were brimming with optimism and glowing with start up. I think they will develop their ideas and do well. Part of the fun was choosing the wine because we had to bring our own. Safe to say there was a bit of showing off. Claire went to Vagabond and I went to my favourite Italian wine shop in London, Vini Italiani, which is in the Fulham Road. I think it is the only Italian wine shop in London, but that does not detract from their charm and helpful approach. I bought a sweet wine "Pius ix" an unusual blend of Sauvignon blanc and Gewurtztraminer, crazy sweet but equally crazy flavour. It sort of has everything packed in somehow. The mixture of curious food and wine led to good conversation. And everyone became more and more interesting the more I consumed. Strange that. But there was one extra bonus. I met another entrepreneur. Max, he is opening an Italian bakery pasticceria around the corner from me in Stockwell. It is going to be called Dolcezza. He promises to make proper Tuscan bread. If he can conjure that wonderful hard sour bread into existence practically in my back yard. I promise to be his best customer.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

week 9

The first flight of the year took me to the astonishing maelstrom that is the city of Naples. I have been coming here since I was a teenager. Coming out of the railway station bleary eyed after a sleepless night travelling in a carriage with noisy fragrant fellow travellers. Stepping out across a sleepy but busy Piazza Garribaldi, finding a newsagent and simultaneously noticing a small oven in the middle of his shop. He rushes out, opens the door and produces a tray of fluffy brown doughy balls. He presses one into my hand and it is scalding and astonishing. A heavy bread, white and crusty but with an intense bitter sweet orange goo inside. I walked out into the city with a small paper bag full of these treasures pressed to my breast as I trod up to the Museo Nazionale waiting for it to open. I have loved the city ever since.

I am with Andrew. He is my agent for Naples. He is English but totally international. He lives in France and has an Indian boyfriend in London. Andrew is a taste guru. His style is sort of scruffy chic. Tousled hair and crumbling carrier bags, he gathers treasures in France and comes to London to flog. He has a devoted following who buy all he has to offer. Often you might think you don't want what he is purveying. But you buy it anyway. Tomorrow it will be what you want.

We have a ritual. Lunch in La Bersagliera in Santa Lucia and supper at Ciro in Mergellina. The first is light and airy and you look across at the sea. The second has the worst lighting in the world, brutal hospital style. The food is delicate at lunch, a glass of Falanghina white (in continuous production since Roman times ) with a plate of seafood pasta. Basta cosi. Perhaps a little coffee. Supper is all deep fried and steaks and the bold black volcanic wine Aglianico, which tastes of the sulphurous soil of Vesuvious. Today I divert from tradition for a plate of Arancini. They are those wonderful savoury balls of fried rice that are covered in bread crumbs and filled with delight. I am in love with the fictional detective from Sicily, Montalbano. I eat them in homage to him.

Then the fun begins. Between meals you shop. Naples is one of the last cities in the world that loves antiques. The steep hills and higgeldy piggeldy streets seem to have generated a divine labyrinth of chaos. Along the often narrow streets cars, motorbikes and pedestrians jostle for priority. Amid this energy the taste for slic modern chrome and plastic struggles to create the supremacy it enjoys elsewhere. Mayhem rules. And the love of the old and the second hand still has glamour and style. There is one shop we go to where a young couple hold sway. Maybe in their early 30's they are always in situ. The walls are not straight, the paint is beyond peeling. Everything either is against the wall or leans against the wall and everything is broken, and I mean everything. If you see something that looks sound then look hard, for it will be broken. In another there is a jovial, round, grey haired man of stocky diminutive scale, a Naples paradigm. He has a shop crammed with things. You cannot walk around the shop you can only gingerly rotate. Given enough time he will tell you how marvellous, rare and possibly royal every item in his shop is. Amid the bedlam there are a few elegant shops and ones where you will see truly great pieces. And I have found several items every trip, unearthed from often unlikely sources and sometimes from predictable ones. Naples is always a joy.

Back in London. The Masterpiece exhibitors are back at work. Stands get allocated. Contracts wing their way. The rush is now on to get the world going and everyone seems very keen.

Masterpiece is producing an exciting new short magazine to both review and preview the fair and I was cycling around visiting exhibitors in Kensington Church Street when the cover page was emailed through. I stopped, downloaded it and did not quite love it. Florence at Apollo said she would send me through a variant. I had a few minutes to kill so I looked around for what to do. Should I see one of our exhibitors Butchoff Antiques who was over the road? Or our new exhibitor this coming year Rolleston? Or a new potential? Just as I was deciding, who should pop out of his wine shop but Tuggy. He used to have a wine stand (Huntsworth wines) at Masterpiece. He is one of life's good guys; tall, fair haired, cheerful and always positive, despite having often good reasons to not be. We shoot the breeze and discuss old fair times. I say I am off to NY and he says I should remember to put tea tree oil under my nose before flying to avoid winter plane bugs. He then offers me advise on a cold remedy he has found. Then we discuss wine and he has one we serve at Masterpiece 'Picpoul de Pinet'. It is on offer. Then I spot an Art Deco mirror lying on the floor. How much? Within 10 minutes I have bought two cases of wine and a mirror. I look at my phone. The email is in, the cover is fine. I tell Florence I am going to send Oscar the bill for my wine. Waiting for the correction cost me a fortune.

So it goes.

week 8

The world is rising slowly this morning of 2013. Last year was an awesome party. We had it all. All the usual food and drink but it was expanded by so many feasts that no wonder we all are slouching around in our pyjamas.

The funny thing is that at Masterpiece London our year finishes in July and I have been stupidly talking about "last year" for months. Now we are half way through. Most of the contracts are in and the logistics of planning the build are well under way. We are planning, planning, planning. It feels as if we are about to gird our loins for the big push. The summer is within touching distance. We have a final crunch at Easter and then it is all nonstop until the fair.

But everyone else is blinking, stretching and yawning as they emerge into the year but not my pal in New York, who is vigorously up and running. He has a big deal that is going to close next week. This is the same big deal that was going to close next week for the last year. He is a wonderful enthusiast for art and decorative arts in particular. He has been collecting all his life. His apartment in New York is like a minefield. Everywhere you turn you might break or brush against a valuable object. His taste is truly eclectic ranging from early English needlework through porcelain and pushing on to Indian marquetry furniture. He is a one off. In terms of pure volume I would hazard that no one has as much stock as he does and he is not a dealer. Well, he sort of is these days as he needs to raise money to fund this "big deal". He is very solicitous on the phone, but his purpose is to encourage me to get into gear selling his stuff for him. But I am struggling to get anyone to answer the phone. The world is still away. Next week, I hear again and again.

I cannot stop. Over Christmas I made a few purchases in Norfolk and they arrived in London brought by the legendary JJ. He has been driving his van from Norwich to London for around 30 years, maybe longer. He is a slow speaking, steady man born and bred in Norfolk. Always smiling and always positive. He belongs to another world where people work to do a job rather than work in order to either do something else or be somewhere else. I feel certain that in all his years he has never crashed. He is too steady. I remember years ago his van was robbed in central London. He was low for some time after that as the betrayal of trust was what hurt him the most. Not to say he cannot see an opportunity when it presents itself. He spotted an old Victorian radiator sitting in the yard gathering rust. He quickly snapped that up and is off to try and flog it. Life behind the wheel of a van must afford the occasional entrepreneurial venture!

The pieces from Norfolk all need work and the workshop was not best pleased by feeling rushed during this time of sluggishness. But it is very exciting finding new objects. There is a sort of glow that surrounds the new. Realising the potential in something, through a new environment or through restoration, is very thrilling. The ultimate goal is to make a sale but the process of getting an object to the point of sale is often more thrilling than actually putting the money in the bank. The money only facilitates getting more stuff after all.

Having seen my stuff unloaded I cycled off to Mallett where the same nascent energy could be observed. The office is beginning to plan the stand at Maastricht and the quiet few days at the start of the year allow for a slow reflection. I wander around, greet everyone, check out the sale catalogues and head to my desk. A certain twiddling of thumbs follows. I look out of the window. I make a cup of coffee. I look out of the window some more. I cannot stand it. I get up and leave the office. I have to do something new. I call home and the boys are just getting up. It is 1 o'clock. I race home and I persuade them to walk into Brixton and we will have a late lunch at Franco Manca. I had never been before and he makes legendary sourdough pizzas. He is in Market Row. The whole market area is being rejuvenated with amazing food and curious shops. Some hate the change but others welcome it. The market is full of covered aisles each with a different decorative theme. All interesting aesthetically. The queue is not too long and we are seated at a marble table with wooden benches under the roof of the alley but in the flow of people. It is equally fascinating to watch the theatre of people as it is to taste his delicious thin but fluffy pizzas. I feel transported to Italy. There is a perfect balance between basic food and a gourmet approach. We leave full and stimulated by the vibe of Brixton. It is an odd comparison but the area reminds of St Petersburg when I went in the late 80's. The excitement and thrill of opportunity crackles in the air. In this case the fear is that it will all become very bogus and twee, but the commercial buzz is palpable and exciting to be around. I am enthused by it all so much I want to get to work!

week 7

During the feast, effulgent gift giving and general excess that is Christmas the art trade tends to go to sleep. With a few notable exceptions. France does not stop. The auction catalogues keep flopping on to the doormat and the email alerts ping into the inbox. Rather than being annoying however it is a comfort, it is the counterpoint to all the over indulgence. In a weird way art shopping, which most of the time is the epitome of indulgence, suddenly becomes transforms into an almost Spartan activity. Cast in the serious world of earning a living it smacks of gravitas and provides a comforting alternative world.

Of course it is a delight to be in Norfolk with my sister and her family. Nothing could be nicer than the seemingly endless parade of deliciousness. My nieces all seem well trained and each one in turn fashions a fascinating twist on the traditional culinary expectations of Christmas. The day itself passes with the formal structure only slightly changed as we eat at supper time. But bedtimes rolls round and I am as uncomfortably full as I should be. However the day has been spent travelling round the local dealers. From one I have acquired a charming desk chair, Edwardian and mahogany, it looks like a late Gillows model with turned reeded tapering legs and reeded seat rails. But the unusual aspect is the slatted, almost arcaded back. It bears an echo of Weiner Werkstatte and is a fascinating fusion. Then at another dealer I find a cool pair of open bookcases. Actually that is rather too grand a term, they are basically a pair of tall shelves. They probably date only from the 1960's but they have guts and charm and will hopefully present my glass collection well at the forthcoming Battersea fair which starts on the 22nd Jan.

On the 27th the bucolic party are all off to kill birds. They gather outside in a posh version of combats and chat about other days similarly occupied. They look rather marvellous all together. There all all ages from 14 up to about 70. I cannot help thinking of cliched images of the First World War. There are two classic blonde sloane rangers who look round with a sort of blinking innocence, almost like young birds. Nothing has ever stood in their way, and probably nothing will. From school to trust fund to job in the city and wives and children. That same untroubled innocence will probably remain all their lives. That sort of pampered life is quite rare these days and the boys should be followed and filmed as a kind of anthropological record. Like recording the last throws of an extinct species. I feel like I am privileged to observe this rarity in its natural habitat. During the Great War they would have been fodder for the guns.

I decided to embrace the celebration of guns by taking my urban brood off to have a lesson in clay pigeon shooting. We arrived not looking very country tweed at all. My eldest son having made a point of trying to look as Stockwell as possible. We are quickly delivered into the hands of a true Norfolk voice. He looks and sounds built from local soil. I ask him if he has shot all his life. From under his worn baseball cap and through his jovial grey beard he says, no. He only took the sport up when he was 60 and he has only done it for 31 years. Wow, our teacher is 91! And what a marvellous man he is. All patience and encouragement, my two sons cynicism evaporates in the face of his complete kindness, slow speech and the regular clattering to the ground of exploded clays. The oldest, coolest son hits everything. Loving it from the start. He ascribes his instant skill to years spent killing aliens on an x box. I don't doubt it. The wife is annoyingly much better than me and the youngest who is always a slow starter soon gets the knack and ends the session killing clays from different directions. We drive back to the game lunch thrilled and our cold numb feet a minor irrelevance. Bleeding pigeon and grouse on the gravel actually don't seem as weird and alien as they did before. But my blood lust remains focused on the kitchen rather than the field.

Back in London and we are mapping out the next few days. The New Year's Eve and a gathering of neighbours, but it is a joy to be home. The smell of the city and the sirens and the multi cultural citizens. I can feel the throb of business and I can't wait for the new year to get going.

week 6

The public Christmas is over and the private one can begin. The last party was the Hatfields lunch. A wonderful gathering, rather an antidote to everything else over the last week or so. Though Anna is in her 30's and her sidekick in the office, known as the Princess of Nebraska, is in her 20's, the average age of the men is verging on antique. I sat next to Ken who has been restoring lacquer for 51 years. He is an exceptional character and he fits in well with the current company. The average age of the local industry is over 30 years. They have all been to many a Christmas do, and they slip with easy fluency into conversation and turkey. 5 hours later and a lot of ground covered, I drag myself away to walk home and prepare for a family evening.

However the phone rings and it is a request for a red lacquer cabinet. I rack my brains, I know one in Italy, one in Belgium, and one in Cambridgeshire, and finally I remember one in Barcelona. I start ringing round; all are sold except the Barcelona one. Emails with pictures follow, then details, then money is discussed. By midnight there is a deal on the table. It may not come off but it is an amazing realisation of the way the market has changed. Things can happen really fast. Images flick across the web like leaves in the wind, occasionally landing somewhere useful.

But what is it about red at Christmas? My assistant Francesca has been wearing a plastic silver tiara all week. Something that at any other time of the year would be seriously odd. She has also been wearing a series of red jumpers some of which are bedecked with Santa and some with cuddly deer. Red is everywhere. Shop windows, street lights even the otherwise sane start allowing the red and the sparkle to invade their lives. It is quite possible that the red cabinet client is not wanting a Christmas red, but I would not be surprised. And to cap it all it is not the true colour of Christmas anyway! The traditional seasonal colour is green and it was rebranded in the 20' s by the Coca Cola company. Anything Christmas and red is actually an advertisement for Coca Cola. And yet it is ubiquitously adopted, with a glance at the voluptuous bottle of fizzy brown liquid scurrying along behind.

One of the most delightful aspects of the restoration business is the opportunity to talk and reminisce with people who have lived through the trades many twists and turns over time, people who have worked through boom and recession. However the restorer tends to be only broadly affected, as long as there is work on the bench the vicissitudes can seem a little distant. However a dealer who has been in the business for his or her whole life and is possibly second generation has a more intense tale to tell. I really feel privileged to sit down and break bread with these leviathans from time to time. A lunch this week was one such moment. Wonderful anecdotes about current grandees in their early days, selling from backs of trucks. Miles of complicated deals involving international trades and swaps. Planes missed and long car journeys. It could never be all written down, it's probably all libellous but Adrian and Rosie' s lives would thrill and enchant. I am very envious of the intensity with which life has been embraced.

One of the features of Christmas is the indulgence and I have created an indulgence test. It is called Butterscotch Delight. It is served at "Little House Mayfair" off Curzon st. It is a Proustian doorway. Not a Madeleine cake but a spoonful of childhood. I, greedily, often consume it. But offering it to guests at lunch is a fascinating test. It does not simply divide the fat and the thin; it does not divide the sweet from the savoury. Being a good eatery the Butterscotch Delight does not come plain, topping each goblet is a spoonful of whipped cream with a hint of vanilla, and sprinkled on top are scattered shards of salty burnt caramel. It is as delicious as it could be. However most people I speak to think of school or worse when they reminisce about Butterscotch Delight. So in a way it is not just a greedy treat but it is enhanced to be a conquest over childhood. So I watch those who tuck in and note that they are not only indulging themselves at Christmas but they are also moving on, unfettered by memories or prejudices carried from the past. The best people eat the Butterscotch Delight.