Jamie West clutches his acoustic guitar at center stage. The venue is the Cobdon Club, a dim lit lounge with black leather sofas and graffiti artwork—about the size of a small living room. The sparse crowd is mostly twenty-somethings. Some are friends and fans. Others are strangers. All eyes are on West. Multi-colored spotlights cast a rainbow on his gaunt, scruffy face. Donning his signature striped fedora, he leans into the microphone with a cheeky smile and begins to sing.

West is the latest poster boy for the London Underground. He became the first ever champion of Boris Johnson’s Rhythm of London Busking Underground competition back in September, beating 10 other finalists, aged 16-to-25, in the live “busk-off” at the O2 Arena and garnering the title: “best young busker in the capital.” Since then, he has been offered a coveted invitation to appear on Simon Cowell’s tv talent show Britain’s Got Talent and his Facebook news feeds read: “Just did another interview with smooth radio.” But the majority of the time, West performs gigs like this one.

Tucked away in the inconspicuous nightclub, West is performing his winning tune, “Give Me Everything You’ve Got.” Hugging his guitar, he strums a cheery refrain and taps his red Converse trainers along with the contagious beat. “Because I’m making a list. I’m making a lot,” he sings with rock-and-roll panache, striving to imitate legendaries Chuck Barry, Little Richard and Elvis Presley.

These days, it’s West’s stage presence and command over the audiences that are gaining him popularity. “And even if you’ve got nothing,” he sings out and pauses for a few seconds to slip in an Ella Fitzgerald-esque improvised riff. “So give me that too!” He slides into falsetto and dances with his guitar. The crowd goes wild.

“He’s got it down. That energy,” Tai Tu mutters in between numbers. Tu, 23, has known West for 10 years and speaks highly of his comrade. “You can go and see professionals, but they don’t have half of what he’s got. He will make it definitely.”

When you ask West about “making it,” he admits that he has got a long way to go. Humble yet tenacious, fame is still a tangible goal in his eyes. Since learning to play the guitar at 5, West says he knew he wanted to be a pop star. “Frankly unpopular” at secondary school, he spent all of his time jamming with his father, a professor of psychology and hobbyist songwriter.

West’s big break came during his first year at St. Francis Xavier, when he was chosen by his teachers to perform in front of 300 parents and kids. “I remember all my peers coming up to me and congratulating me afterwards. It was weird,” he admits, with a tinge of pride. Relentlessly praised by Dad, his talent had never been that popular with classmates—the people that really mattered to a teenager.

At that time, he was already lead singer and songwriter for the Jamie West Band, a group that consisted of his father and the musically inclined medical students and doctors from Dad’s work. “I thought it was amazing that I was 13 and telling people twice my age or more what to do,” West confesses, laughing to himself. Beyond garage sessions, the band performed at birthday parties and charity fundraisers. “You can know all the theory and practice forever in your bedroom, but it isn’t until you play in front of people that you learn to entertain,” West says.

He continued to perform with the Jamie West Band through his teens while studying English Literature at UCL. Reading prose and brushing up on his poetry he says contributed a great deal to his lyrics. “I had reached a certain level where the songs were actually good,” West says. And then at 18, he broke away from his father to form a second band with younger (by three years) brother Daniel. For the ensuring five-and-a-half years, West tested out various techniques on stage with his sibling, ranging from reciting a T.S. Eliot poem, which “ended up being a hit” he says, to the intermittent question-and-answer method he uses today.

“I have to ask the obligatory question,” he faux-grudgingly tells his timid audience back at the Cobdon Club. He has just finished his opening number and is helplessly trying to rejuvenate the crowd. “How are you guys doing tonight?” Just feet away from the stage, a group of redheaded girls in pearls are giggling. The rest of the audience is silent. “Sometimes you could be bloody Frank Sinatra or Bruce Springsteen and the audience just doesn’t go for it,” he later tells me.

Tonight, he is performing alone. West’s longhaired and introverted graphic designer brother Daniel left the band in April. He could no longer make time for rehearsals. “Daniel is a very talented drummer, but he put a huge strain on the band,” he says. The lack of practice left West feeling vulnerable and exposed. So, these days, it is just Jamie West.

“I feel, in a sense, more confident,” he says of his band’s hiatus and recent solo career. “There is more freedom.” And after the big busking win, West is ready to make it big by himself. “I am on my mission to get my music out,” he says. Following his performance, West offers his CD for free. Even Paul McCartney’s producer has a copy, he shamelessly namedrops.

In the meantime, he works as an assistant in Wandsworth Library, playing songs and telling stories to kids. He says trying to get the attention of the children through nursery rhymes and storytelling is “the same as a performance.” Their imagination also inspires new lyrics for West. And during his spare time at his studio, which is in the house he shares with his older brother Matthew in Tooting, he continues to write music and record.

As for career plans, he recently turned down the Britain’s Got Talent gig. “That’s not me. No one should have power over my talent,” he says, referencing the infamous Simon Cowell. The next time Jamie West will take the big stage is in August, opening for Playing for Change, the multimedia music project and charity foundation, at Royal Festival Hall. “It looks like things could take off, but I am not there yet,” he says. “You never know when the big break is going to occur.” And until he does, Jamie West is giving it everything he’s got.

At first, I had convinced myself that one year without turkey smothered in gravy and a massive slice of pumpkin pie was doable. And then I woke up the morning of Thanksgiving desperate for that hearty meal.

Well, at that point, everything was booked up in London. Even the Brits had made reservations.

But there was one place that still had an opening. The Breakfast Club in Islington was offering a traditional meal for 16 quid.

I had been to the one in Soho for brunch and wasn’t too impressed. But desperate times called for desperate measures. So yesterday at 8pm, two Americans sat down for a not-so-home-cooked Thanksgiving meal.

Okay, the turkey was a bit dry, the sage stuffing was just not as fluffy as Mum’s and the pumpkin cheesecake was nothing like my grandmother’s. But, the cranberry sauce was out-of-this-world and the mashed sweet potatoes hit the spot. And all-in-all, it was just what my tummy needed.

And the place itself was adorable. The walls were plastered with trinkets and posters. One was completely covered in a post-ited red tablecloth. At the top, it read: “Wall of Thanks.”

Thanksgiving aside, The Breakfast Club off Angel is a great place. I will definitely be returning.

–

The Breakfast Club

Angel tube station

31 Camden Passage

NI 8EA

020 7226 5454

Tucked amidst Missoni and Vivienne Westwood, hidden beneath the Egyptian escalators, and a corridor away from the fragrant perfumery of London’s one-stop shop for everything luxurious lay Harrods Food Hall. And if you glide passed the signature teas, the truffles and petite cakes, you will hit a bar. Sushi, that is.

Bright orange salmon and plump scallops are a specialty. It is the freshest you can get in London, but definitely not the cheapest, so do not come hungry.

Once you are satiated enough, it is time for Morelli’s Gelato. Gelato sundaes–now that’s a first.

Served in funky martini bowls, each sundae is one-of-a-kind, with heaping scoops that range from hazelnut vanilla to banana caramel topped with homemade whipped cream. Each mouth-watering bite melts in your mouth. I admittedly gasped aloud after swallowing a spoonful of French vanilla gelato smothered in caramel with chunks of fresh banana. And who wouldn’t?

Most head to Harrods to drool over fashion. Instead, satisfy that hunger with the good stuff.

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Harrods

87–135 Brompton Road
Knightsbridge
London, SW1X 7XL
United Kingdom

It is all about the sweet corn tamales at the stall Downtown and the carne asada burritos upon request at the hole-in-the-wall in the Valley. I have been raised on cheap, authentic south-of-the-border food. My family vacations in Puerto Vallarta every other year. I know my Mexican.

In Boston, there was this great cafe near Fenway called El Pelon. They stuffed whole plantains into their bulging burritos. It was amazing. But the underground eatery burnt down just after returning from Winter holiday.

In London, I had practically given up on the hunt for Mexican food. I mean, this is as far away from the country as you can get. But for my birthday, everyone was set on margaritas, so naturally, I caved in.

Cafe Pacifico, the Covent Garden Mexican eatery, is a hot-spot. Reservations are impossible on the weekend. And no matter what time you arrive, the place is always buzzing with an eclectic crowd.

The wait was an hour at 9pm, so we gathered around the bar with the rest of the patrons for pitchers of strawberry margaritas. I usually like mine on the rocks with a rim of salt, but I settled on sharing. It ended up being about £5 for each of us–that’s about 2-3 glasses each. The bartender, a bonafide Mexico native, gave us free birthday shots, to boot. It was that kind of place.

When we finally sat down, the waitress took our orders quickly and the food came not too long after that. I had low expectations for the food. But I was starving, so I licked my plate of chicken enchiladas clean. I will admit it. It was good. Not great. But good. I think the rest of the group enjoyed it as well.

We will definitely be coming back.

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CAFE PACIFICO

5 Langeley St, Covent Garden

020 7379 7728

There, chandeliers in the shape of large, gleaming mesh balls dropped from the elaborate ceiling. Tapestried  walls the shade of crimson bordered more contemporary, plastic tables and chairs. Named Morris, Gamble and Poynter, these original “refreshment rooms” formed the first museum restaurant in the world and were intended as a showpiece of modern design, craftsmanship and manufacturing.

Opposite the dining room lay the courtyard. An infinity pool, just one-foot deep sits in the middle of the towering, rosy V&A Victorian facade. Those who know the museum’s secret getaway sprawl themselves out on the trimmed lawn. No food or drink is allowed outside, which is a pity. But all the more reason to take in the beauty of the cafe’s interior.

Plant yourself and a friend on a table beneath the shimmering chandeliers and share a pot of loose-leaf tea, with a homemade scone on the side. A steaming oversized mug of jasmine tea and a raisin scone smothered in clotted cream is just the thing for a free afternoon in Kensington.

Everyone has their go-to happy place when they are feeling down. Mine is this.

–

VICTORIA & ALBERT GARDEN CAFE

Cromwell Road
London SW7 2RL

Open: 10.00-17.15

During the summer of 2008, my close girlfriends and I partook in a tour de Europe, beginning in Dublin and ending in Barcelona. Somewhere in between, we spent four days in London. And that long weekend is now a blur, save for the Japanese curry we had one night in Soho.

That deep-fried pork cutlet drenched in a sweet golden sauce still slips into my dreams every so often. Four cutlets, a mound of white rice and lettuce drizzled with ginger dressing took up an entire plate.The meat was so tender, you could cut it lightly with a fork. And the combination of crunchy and saucy was just out of this world. Many would not dare to eat it all. But I do not leave a restaurant until my plate is licked clean.

Robin, a friend since I was six-months-old, and I have been raving about this place since we stumbled upon it in July 2008. And while I have been back in London, my unrelenting search was going sour. Then, on the first day of Robin’s visit, as we headed down Wardour Street towards my new favorite Thai place (Busaba Eathai), there it was–directly across from the National Celebration Day flags of Chinatown–Misato. Our first inclination was the closet-sized candy shop next door, which sells bargain sencha tea bags and overpriced gallons milk tea. Robin had bought pocky sticks there for a friend back home while waiting in a queue for 15 minutes. But at 4:30 p.m., Misato was just about empty.

We took our seat in disbelief. And after waiting an eternity for our server to finally arrive, we ordered what we came for–Katsu-karē. We shared a glass of calprico–a sour yogurt soda, while we waited. And in a jiffy, our steaming plates arrived. We devoured our meal in minutes, shoving large slices of curry chicken into our mouths, accompanied by spoonfuls of rice smothered in that delicious golden sauce. And after it was all over, we decided that that late lunch/dinner made Robin’s entire trip.

–

Misato

11 Wardour Street, London, W1D 6PG
Telephone: 020 7734 0808

Neil Armishaw floats across the dim-lit stage of a basement burlesque club in an ‘80s glam leopard robe and 6-inch plastic pole-dancing heels. At 45, he sports a red 1920’s shingle hair-do, wears seven layers of false eyelashes, and heaps concealing lacquer onto his face to make a living. “Hello gorgeous!” oozes from his over-lined lips, greeting his sparse audience with turquoise eyes and high-arched brows. Tonight is the final show of the residency of his drag queen troupe, The Globe Girls, at the Pigalle Club in Piccadilly Circus. Armishaw welcomes the first act. A clichéd Tropicana tune bursts through the speakers and mannish women enter in silver leotards and Dolly Parton hair.

“How I ended up like this—god knows,” Armishaw says, lounging in full costume at the bar before the show. He moved from Yorkshire to London at 16 and trained in hospitality. In 1998, after working at big-named metropolitan bistros, Le Caprice and The Ivy, Armishaw opened his own eatery, The Globe. His modern Swiss Cottage restaurant quickly became a hub for aspiring actors, whom Armishaw came to call his friends.

For Christmas Eve, 2003, Armishaw decided to hire a cabaret act. But the cost was too much, so he called on his thespian comrades to put on a drag show. Armishaw had never performed before, but willingly became part of the act, The Globe Girls. “I think you can do or be anything when you put on a drag face and a wig,” he says with a cartoonish chuckle. And that was the moment that this restaurateur entered show business.

Drag brings to mind burly men prancing beneath the spotlight as gaudy women. A figure that was once upsetting and marginalized now denotes glamour and glee. Films such as The Rocky Horry Picture Show (1975), which burned our memories with the image of Tim Curry in pleather, and Hairspray (1988), which popularized Harris Glenn Milstead’s drag personal Divine, jumpstarted an international buzz for drag. The late ‘90s heightened the craze with two cross-dressing A-list actors—Robin Williams in The Birdcage (1996) and Johnny Depp in Ed Wood (1995). While Hollywood may have recently caught on to the popularity of drag, cross-dressing is not a new trend.

The professional female impersonator originated in the Elizabethan playhouse of the early 1600s. Back then, prohibitions against women appearing in public led men to dress up in bustles and bonnets as the comic female characters of Shakespearean theatre. London caught on in the 1700s, in gay bars or “Molly Houses,” where drag shows were a hot commodity for the fringe community. It was not until the late-nineteenth century, when female impersonation infiltrated public theatre and drag became a common leisure activity for all.

Even now, in the 21^st-century, drag remains a staple of entertainment in London. Today, Tony Award-winning musicals, Priscilla Queen of the Desert and La Cage aux Follies, dominate the West End. With sequins, Lycra and feather plumage redefining London theatre, drag queens have been able to transform from seedy gay pub variety acts to high-earning stars of the stage. Armishaw’s Globe Girls act has become just another example of mainstream amusement to the regular theatergoer.

Some scantily clad male dancers with washboard abs and bare-butt cross-dressers may be right out of a gay nightclub. And the lip-synching to compilation tapes and the cheesy pantomimed dancing harkens back to the vaudeville era. But The Globe Girls’ elaborate two-hour production, complete with Las Vegas wigs and Parisian couture heels, attests to more sophisticated drag theatrics.

“We are not trying to look or dance or sound like girls,” Armishaw says, pressing his crimson lips together while he adjusts his fake diamond necklace. “Drag should be a celebration of women and of something bigger-than-life.” While other groups have crossed over to a more lewd transvestic performance, Armishaw distinguishes The Globe Girls as an urbane form of entertainment. Drag for Armishaw is not burlesque—striptease being the primary attraction. Instead, of underground bars, Armishaw chooses what he calls “exclusive” and “top-end” venues for the girls, such as the Pigalle. Intensive rehearsals are called on a daily basis. And he ensures that the routines are light and satirical. “We do it for the comedy,” Armishaw says.

Halfway through the first act, Armishaw takes center stage in a frizzy blonde wig and cheetah-print tights. Planted on his stomach is “Wide Load” and across his chest are bold exclamation marks. The soundtrack is a ‘60s Motown medley. And while Armishaw mouths “Devil With The Blue Dress,” waving his black-gloved arms into the air, his sidekicks on each of his side can-can in nothing but booty shorts. “I wish I had their legs!” a young woman in the audience mutters to her friend as she gawks at the ladies’ soaring kicks.

Palatable for general consumption these days, drag queens do not just perform; they also engage in mix-and-mingle or hosting work at nightclubs, private parties, and even red carpet events. Armishaw remembers when the Globe Girls worked a meet-and-greet at the Dream Girls premiere in London in 2007. “We were statuesque and 6-foot. Beyonce swarms past us and says, ‘Oh my god girls, you look gorgeous!’ It was just surreal,” he says with a colossal smile. In addition to Beyonce, the Globe Girls have performed for Sir Elton John, Eric Clapton, and Sharon Osbourne, to name a few.

Back in the ‘50s-inspired Pigalle, The Globe Girls have drawn an eclectic crowd that spans Soho regulars to amateurs from abroad. “I am not gay. I just like drag,” Monica Salawe, 43, says to her date in a thick Jamaican accent. The Brooklyn hairdresser’s curly, jet-black hair is thrown up into a high ponytail, blocking the stage from her neighbor. “The fashion is different. The things they do are extravagant,” she adds, taking a sip of her red wine. “It gives you a chance to come out and feel free.”

After intermission, Armishaw finds his place beneath the spotlight. He is dressed in a translucent gown and his silver hair and glittery white lip-gloss are blinding. With one hand over his heart and another stretching up into the sky, he—well, Barbara Streisand—sings, his solo: “Somewhere” from the musical, West Side Story. “People say I do Barbara Streisand brilliantly,” he says in a kitschy voice following his curtsy. The crowd cheers.

Zach Ferguson—Salawe’s date for this evening, a dark-skinned Italian with a bleached buzz hair-do, is applauding wildly in his opulent leather seat. “I have never seen anything like this,” the self-proclaimed ‘70s pop star says with wide eyes. His reggae CD allegedly sold 3 million copies nearly 40 years ago. He professes to know a great deal about talent. “You can tell how hard they work. They are all very well studied. Very impressive.” Ferguson can barely sit still in his seat.

Two hours and 20 routines later, the show is over. “I am pulling out. The choreography is getting more complicated,” Armishaw says, gliding through the audience and embracing friends as the crowd clears. While he manages the company and will continue to host each performance, Armishaw will no longer be taking the stage with the girls. But partaking in London’s drag scene will forever be his passion. “I know it’s cheesy, but I love seeing the people that just come in and smile.”

Ann Tudor Williams, a veteran of the opera stage, knows all about the stars. Luciano Pavarotti, the iconic voice of the 20^th century, has been praised for his “Nessun dorma.” Well, “He wasn’t a very nice man,” says Tudor Williams. She always preferred the other tenor in the trio, Plácido Domingo, who once trekked to the basement of Covent Garden just to snatch a picture with her. As for the world-renowned dramatic coloratura, Dame Joan Sutherland, “You’d never know she had such a voice!” Tudor Williams says. “She used to sit in my living room sewing tapestry.” They are all “dear old friends” of Tudor Williams.

At 67, she has the energy of a 30-year-old. Flinging open the doors to the women’s dressing room, she shouts “Hi girls!” in her lofty soprano voice. It has been two years since Tudor Williams retired as chorus member of the Royal Opera House. She is here today to visit the family she was part of for a good chunk of her life—35 years to be exact.

Tudor Williams glides through the room like an old Hollywood actress. She towers over the sitting ladies with legs like the branches of a Hyperion tree. And then she eases into a seat in a vacant partition of the dressing room. Above her head, posted onto the wall, is a tattered piece of paper that reads “Ann Tudor Williams.” “Oh, my name is still here,” she says, blushing. Piercing green eyes bulge from her cherubic face.

Tudor Williams joined the chorus of the ROH in July 1972. At the time, she was one of 17 Welsh singers. An Old Colwyn native, she admittedly “didn’t know opera existed” until a school trip to Amsterdam at the age of 14. There, she saw her first performance of La Traviata and fell in love with opera. She made quite the name for herself in Wales by singing in the choir at the National Eisteddfod, as well as performing pantomimes at the English Congregational Church.

At the age of 22, Tudor Williams married Ceredig “Carey” Evans, but retained her stage name. Evans, Tudor Williams says, was a Welsh man who went to chapel on Sundays and sang in a men’s choir in his spare time. The couple moved to London, and there, Tudor Williams took a job at the Midland Bank as a clerk.

Opera crept back into her life when a coworker set off to study vocal performance at the Royal College of Music. “I thought, well if she could do it, why can’t I?” Tudor Williams says. And after three years, Tudor Williams received a bank-sponsored education at the RCM. She spent four years at London’s prestigious college of music and an additional year in Geneva on a Boise Scholarship.

In 1972, she returned to London to audition on a whim for a coveted spot in the Royal Opera’s 73-member women’s chorus. “When you are young, you have a lot more confidence,” she says. Suffice it to say, she achieved the position. “Here I was, this little girl from Wales, standing next to legendaries like Joan Sutherland,” she says.

Over the course of 35 years, Tudor Williams has had the privilege to work with famed opera singers ranging from Bulgarian bass Boris Christoff, who “had this aura about him,” to Grammy Award-winning American soprano, Renée Fleming, who wrote Tudor Williams a letter of thanks when she retired. She has come a long way from the “little girl from Wales.” And yet, to this day, Ann still regrets not introducing herself to her opera idol, African American Verdian soprano, Leontyne Price, at the ROH performance of Il Trovatore in 1972. “I put her on a pedestal and was too shy. Now I would go right up to her and tell her how great I think she is.”

One would think singing backup to celebrities for 35 years would get tiresome. But Tudor Williams admits that she never wanted a solo opera career. “You need a tough hide and I was always very nervous. I wouldn’t have been very happy,” she says. Even though her close friend Dame Ann Evans “made it big,” Tudor Williams has no regrets. “Now that her (Evans) career has ended, she doesn’t have a family. But I, on the other hand, still have my two boys,” she says.

While she may have never received mainstage roles, Tudor Williams was often offered supporting parts in the chorus for her notable acting. Kath Wilder, a fellow chorus member and friend since studying together at the RCM, boasts of Tudor William’s acclaim as a “bag lady” sauntering across the stage in one particular opera. “It was the first time in living history that a chorus member was mentioned in a press review,” Wilder says, with kind blue eyes and a bent smile. “She’s an old pro.”

No one at ROH really has anything bad to say about Tudor Williams. Edmondo Kuttav, up in wardrobe—an old Italian man with a thin mustache—has known her for 41 years. “She’s a lovely lady. We’ve had the best years,” he says.

Coasting outside the dressing room in the common area of the ROH, Tudor Williams smiles at new faces and leaps into the arms of old comrades. And as she throws “hellos” at nearly every passerby, it is obvious that she still longs for her glory days. “Sometimes I really miss it, and then I remember the horribly long hours,” she says. “I barely had a life outside of opera.”

Back in her quaint two-story house in Norbury, Tudor Williams tends the garden and makes use of her kitchen. Her Afro-Caribbean neighbor has just given her green tomatoes. She is going to use them to make chutney for dinner. Deemed “Queen of Fruit Cake” by her chorus cohorts, Tudor Williams is also famous for her baking. Try her homemade scones and whipped clotted cream and you wonder why she never became a chef.

“My mother always cooked,” she says. She tries to visit her 98-year-old mum back in Wales as often as she can. And since her husband passed away one year ago, Tudor William’s youngest son Chris, a 32-year-old insurance broker, has been living with her. “It is nice having him around, but I don’t want him having to look after me,” she says. Her eldest son, Jonathon, 36, lives in a suburb of Los Angeles with his 4-month pregnant wife.

Lounging on a divan in her home’s Chinese-themed lounge, she muses over her past, when she traveled all over the world singing with celebrities. Against the gaudy background, Tudor Williams seems plain and tired. “I was part of the old generation of opera singers. I was lucky,” she says in her posh English accent, stirring milk into her porcelain cup of tea. “When I turned 60, I thought I was done. But you can’t help it if it’s your calling.”

But ROH booted her out seven years ago. And according to Tudor Williams, “That is just how it goes.”

Don’t expect Audrey Hepburn in a Givenchy dress singing her Oscar-winning “Moon River” from the 1961 classic film. Samuel Adamson’s adaption of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, currently performing at the Theatre Royal Haymarket, is no powder-puff, film-mimicking play. Set two decades earlier, this production is raw and gritty and real—truer to Truman Capote’s original novella. And when the curtains close, you will want nothing more than a dirty martini and a fat cigar.

The beginning of the story is really the end. William “Fred” Parsons, now an accomplished writer, returns to Joe Bell’s bar 15 years after meeting Holly Golightly—the young woman who lives below him in his New York City brownstone apartment. Back then, Golightly is an adorable phony with a gaudy lifestyle and a case of what she calls the “mean reds,” and Parsons is a new tenant from Alabama suffering from writers block and adolescence. Parsons needs to grow up and Holly is, well, Holly. And despite there being a hint of something more, the two discover the possibility of love in a non-romantic way.

Esquire magazine published Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s in 1958, Random House made it a book, and eventually Paramount studios took it to Hollywood in 1961, changing the ending to an optimistic finale and casting Audrey Hepburn, who was at the peak of her career, as Capote’s favorite character. Women all over the country flocked to the Tiffany’s display window on Manhattan’s 5th Avenue. And Hepburn as Holly, carrying an oversized cigarette holder to her lips, became an iconic image of 20^th century American cinema.

It is surprising then that playwright Samuel Adamson would not want to ride the film’s waves of timeless success. Instead, his version relies solely on Capote’s 111-page short story. Gloominess underlies the glamorous façade. And Director Sean Matthias plays off of those darker dimensions, encouraging grittiness in his leads’ representations. That means a complete makeover for the leading lady.

With those promotional posters of a brown-haired and red-lipped starlet, you would expect an Audrey Hepburn look-alike. Instead, a bleached-blonde Anna Friel takes the stage. Okay, so the ratty wig is not convincing. But Friel’s acting is. The Broadway veteran and U.S. television star’s slurred quips in old Hollywood fashion are just the thing. And her physicality is superb—whether she is spewing obscenities or letting out blood-curdling cries. Friel portrays Golightly as smart and grounded, even as a blonde. Capote would be proud.

Joseph Cross (Augusten Burroughs in “Running with Scissors”), who plays opposite Freil, portrays the simple Southern William “Fred” Parsons as weak and hormonal, and appears miniature in his grown-up suit beside Golightly at the play’s onset. But over the course of the drama, Cross somehow develops into a man. Aside from the glimpse of his sculpted body in the naked tub scene, Cross supplies heat and passion with his every line after intermission. And thank goodness for that or Anna Friel would have stolen the show completely.

What this particular production proves is that tragic love stories are underrated. Heartbreak is good. Breakfast at Tiffany’s has never been so nourishing.

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THEATRE ROYAL, HAYMARKET

Sep 9, Mon-Sat 7:30 pm, mats Wed, Sat 2:30 pm, booking to Jan 9

087 0400 0626

www.trh.co.uk/contactus.php

boxoffice@trh.co.uk

Balcony spectators frantically shake their Scottish flags. Women of all ages hurl their bras onto the stage. Paolo Nutini is coming to town—London that is—four years after signing to Atlantic Records. Generally rugged and often incomprehensible, the blues-singing Scotsman will bring his pretty boy pizzazz and downright soul to the Hammersmith Apollo on Wednesday, September 30 at 7:30 p.m.

Across the pond, the 22-year-old UK platinum-selling singer is known for his pop-rock nuggets, “Jenny Don’t Be Hasty” and “New Shoes,” and his sultry tunes, “Million Faces” and “Loving You,” which have revved up the sex drives of many a female fan. All of these of course are being played relentlessly on the radio. But the best way to truly enjoy Paolo Nutini is to see him live.

That is because he is at his finest when crouching over his mic, stumbling around the stage and almost tripping over the six-pack of beer in his radius. And hunched over, Nutini then chews his words, often struggling to let out a melody with the lyrics of “Last Request” or “Autumn” from his first album, These Streets (2006).

In person, he has the body of a pre-pubescent boy and the voice of a gruff man. He is pretty. His sound is not. It is raw and genuine, rough and sexy all at once. He is appealing physically and intriguing musically. And perhaps that is the reason why he draws such a broad audience.

With the addition of his most recent album, Sunny Side Up (2009), to the concert, which covers folk, jazz, country, R&B and rock, he is sure to bring even more soul to the stage. The Hammersmith Apollo show is the fourth stop on Nutini’s 15-date UK tour and one not to be missed. Tickets are selling fast, so stalk a virtual ticket scalper and be on your way.

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HAMMERSMITH APOLLO

Queen Caroline Street, London, GB W6 9QH

http://www.ticketmaster.co.uk/Paolo-Nutini-tickets/artist/942217