In (Faint) Praise of Fortnum & Mason

Clocks with features are not new. Many cities feature them. London, of course, is best known for the chimes of Big Ben and their preamble, beloved of many doorbells. Prosaically, that clock keeps good time. Take Edinburgh by contrast. The clock on the Balmoral Hotel is always three minutes fast. If you are at the other end of Princes Street, you may stop and stare at the Highland figures emerging from the famous clock at the Johnnie Walker Experience. Known to Edinburghers as Binns Clock, this was recently restored. Bizarrely, however, things seem to happen at seven minutes past the hour and twenty three minutes to.

But back in London, on Piccadilly, a crowd will assemble at Number 181 every hour on the hour. For this is the home of Fortnum & Mason. Once upon a time simply an upmarket food shop, now extended to an interesting department store. When we are in London, usually a couple of times a year, we lodge in a hotel opposite the back door and generally find ourselves paying a visit.

Fortnum's, as it is now generally known, was founded in 1707 by William Fortnum and Hugh Mason. The former was a footman in the royal household. Strangely he also moonlit as a grocer. One suspects he had something of the Blackadder about him. The Queen insisted on new candles every night. Fortnum sold off the partially used ones, employing the proceeds to further his business. Mason was his landlord, and they went into business together.

More royal patronage followed and the store developed a reputation for specialty and luxury items. It is claimed that they invented the Scotch egg. They were the first UK stockists of a new product by H J Heinz - yes, baked beans.

The current premises were rebuilt in the mid 1920s. I was surprised to learn that the iconic clock is much younger, installed only in 1964. It weighs four tons. The assembled crowd referred to are there to see Messrs Fortnum and Mason emerge, bow to each other, then go back inside, presumably to take tea or sherry.

There is a wide range of inhouse eating available. L enjoys going for a coffee of a morning, as it's served with the teeniest ice cream cone on the side. At the other end of the scale, their restaurant, 45 Jermyn Street, is very good indeed and was favourably reviewed in Tom Eats! a few years ago. But what of the store itself?

The ground floor and basement are dedicated to food. There is a huge array of specialty teas and coffees. Not of much interest to us, but always good for a present for the more traditionally minded chums. A dazzling array of sweets, and a huge range of preserves. The Sir Nigel marmalade was a favourite here until we started making our own. There is one thing which keeps us returning, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Much of that produce is unique to Fortnum's. It's only when you descend to the more traditional grocery section that you begin to realise how eye-poppingly expensive it is. The story is told of the Scottish lawyer who intended to buy a cucumber until he realised the price was £10. Before he could get words out, the tail coated shop assistant raised a hand. I regret, sir, I am unable to oblige, as the space to which you were about to refer is currently occupied by a £25 pineapple.

Get away from the food, which I rarely do, and the upper floors are rewarding. There is some very beautiful china, and amazing kitchen equipment. (I lusted after the Japanese knives.). The bookshop has only food books, with one or two of F & M's own, with their distinctive turquoise blue covers. Appropriately, given the company's royal connections (they currently hold three Royal Warrants), two of these, The Cook Book and Time for Tea, are written by Tom Parker-Bowles, the Queen's son. For the child in your life who has everything you can also buy the Fortnum & Mason colouring book, a snip at £19.99.

On the same floor they distil their own gin. Some of that, for all I know, may be blended with the honey produced from the hives on the roof of the store. Then you find the desk where you can order the legendary hampers. No shooting party or bridge evening should be without one.

Back downstairs. We'll often stop for a glass of vino in the wine bar, but it was too early. So instead I wandered round the booze section, snorting at the price tags. Then something very odd happened. In one section I was struck by the prices, but in a good way. And if you buy by the case there is a reasonably generous discount, something which is illegal in Scotland. Delivery is a flat rate £5.95 and our order placed on Saturday morning arrived on Sunday.

The Alvarinho was just so-so, but some Fleurie and Cotes du Rhone were great value, and we've yet to try the white Burgundy. Perhaps the age of miracles and wonder is not yet dead.

But our main reason for this annual trip to Piccadilly? Why, the Fortnum's piccalilli, of course. A condiment which can be so disgusting elsewhere, but which is so perfect here. Go for a large size and you have the added benefit of a big multi purpose Kilner jar. Tony, my sourdough starter, resides happily in one such. Samuel Johnson said that when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life. I say that when your piccalilli jar is empty it's time for a trip to the capital.