It's beginning to feel a lot like..... an Australian Christmas

I'm heading back to my home country in only 3 sleeps. Bring it on! The street lights will be laden with snowflake decorations, every window blinking with a twinkling green pine tree and the entire country will be putting on a brave simulation of the North Pole in a blizzard. It will be 40 degrees Celsius in the shade.

Ahh, I LOVE an Australian Christmas.

Christmas Day, in the Greedy family, is awwwwll about the food - celebrating with it, worshipping it, sharing it (although don't try me if it comes down to the last slice of pav), and, presumably, trying to induce a heart attack with it.

Sure, presents provided a minor distraction in the younger years for me and Little Sis. We'd be up like clockwork at 5am on Christmas Day to clamber over my sleeping parents shrieking "Father Christmas has been!" while tugging at the corners of the duvet. To their eternal credit, they never once slapped us over the ears and sent us back to bed until an appropriate hour. En masse, we would migrate to the family room - where our resplendent (usually plastic, but these days real) Christmas tree would be holding court - to inspect the goods.

Since I had cottoned on to the secret about Father Christmas at the age of 5 (I will never forgive that little she-devil next door - the witch also called me "freckle face"), I already knew it was Dad scoffing the beer and carrots we left for FC and Rudolph, Dancer, Prancer etc the night before. From my position behind Little Sis, I'd give him a knowing nod acknowledging another fine act of wily subterfuge. Obviously, he had no idea what I was on about. But I clearly reveled in being an insider on the conspiracy more than enough to compensate for the premature revelation of childhood's last great secret. And it also gave me an opportunity to sneak around in cupboards trying to get an early peek at the loot.

But once the last ripping of paper was done, the final shrieks of delight at FC's mind-reading genius had subdued, and the furtive sideways comparisons of respective booties was over (bigger was always better), it was on to the main event. The food.

Christmas Day has never been just about our fabulous foursome. Oooohh no. Soon the entire extended family - about 30 grandparents, uncles, aunties, cousins, boyfriends, girlfriends, friends, kids, babies, dogs, leave the cats at home - would be descending upon us bearing arms full of plates, platters and bowls overloaded and heaving with glistening culinary delights.

Mum, of course, would have been planning dishes for weeks and her carefully outlined attack on the day will begin early with whatever mixing, whirling, baking, stirring, chopping and roasting needs to be launched into action first.

There'll be no civilised sitting around of any dining room tables, pondering life's pleasantries while eating hot roast turkey and trimmings in my fam. Uh uh. It's hot outside. It's hot inside. And they're all mad. So there'll be a huge table spread with every possible food bearing any tenuous link to Christmas - and there'll be grabbing, pouring, loading, scoffing and strategic positioning to maximise gains per serving.

Not that there's not enough to go around - each person contributes enough to go around for the entire group twice, with the end result that everyone takes home a doggy truckload of a bit of everything, which is only about 1/3 smaller than what they came in with.

There'll be roast turkeys, chickens and hams aplenty, all cooked that morning and cooled down by lunchtime to serve "summer style". There'll be gigantic cheese plates and Glen's amazing seafood platter, bursting with prawns, smoked salmon and oysters. Mum's infamous layered garden salad will make its annual appearance (I'll be eyeing it off as my strategic starting point around the table), and various delicious potato salads, rice salads and everything you can possibly imagine salads will be up for grabs.

Having downed a couple of tumblers of Mum's thick extra brandy eggnog over breakfast, lunch service will officially start at 12pm and continue without interruption until about 3pm when the dessert spreads will take over - Mum's cheese cake, the traditional Christmas pavlova, an attempted replication of Kaye's ever-amazing fruit salad (my first introduction to the lychee) and Gran's Christmas pud with brandy cream. For the latter, think 8 parts brandy to 2 parts cream. Hap-py days!

The original savoury dishes will then go back out to the table, intermingled with the sweets - just in case anyone feels a bit peckish in the late afternoon.

We'll drink beers and prosecco while watching Dad and the Uncles take on the kids at back yard cricket (with all the ferocity and competitiveness of professionals playing for Australia), while Martha the dog narrowly avoids concussion as she chases 4's and 6's around the yard.

And eventually, as the sun starts to set, all will make their way home, giant doggy bags in hand, to polish off the leftovers for the next 2 days in between BBQs and cricket tests. I can feel the top button popping already.

The Duke of Wellington - Marylebone, London

It's been a while since I've dined at the Duke. My lasting memory from my previous visit is of a fellow guest, a usually sane and extremely law abiding citizen, telling a Seinfeld-esque tale of skulduggery and grand larceny involving him, a dry cleaner and at least 1 pair of lost trousers. I can't for the life of me remember what I ate - but I remember it was good.

This time, I'm on the ball. Our group of six settled into the upstairs dining room, which is a lovely enough space with the semblance of a proper, grown up sitting room - intimate setting, white walls, dark floorboards, big breezy windows. So perhaps it's down to my juvenile and unsophisticated nature that I'm always slightly reluctant to leave the cheery downstairs pub behind - it's also a lovely place to eat.

The menu offers simple-but-posh pub nosh. There's crab on toast, crab bisque, jerusalem artichoke soup with truffle oil and steak supplied by the Ginger Pig.

I was, for once, avoiding the meatier dishes in preparation for the Christmas feast awaiting me later that evening. So, I settled on the mussels in a light, soupy Thai green curry with a side of pilaf. Alright, alright, I hear the gasps. I never order Thai curry in a pub, nor even mussels for that matter. However, this version was enjoyable - and would have been even more so had I been given a spoon to get at the lovely soup. Instead, I resorted to the scoop by shell method. Classy.

The grilled haloumi was a popular choice with the ladies - a salad with toasted almonds, rocket, hummus and grilled bread. As much as I adore haloumi, it has to be cooked well and eaten in a timely fashion to avoid the rubber tyre effect. It seemed to pass the tyre test with flying colours and gained the full approval of the girls who nodded and devoured and attacked it wholeheartedly.

The Peanut Gallery opted for the rather plain looking scrambled eggs - perhaps one too many fandangled protein shakes that morn, TPG? But he was happy enough with his choice.

Our sides of spinach and long, knobbly new potatoes were all cooked well, and as satisfactory as such sides could be. I certainly hopped in for my 3rd side of carbs (rice, bread and potato - mmm...). The bread was hot and fresh from the oven - always earning a big tick on the Greedy Diva checklist.

Desserts were fab. I had my heart set on the apple crumble but it was, to my dismay, sold out by the time we got around to ordering. However, the sticky toffee pud with banana ice cream was a solid wingman, ready to step up to the plate. The sauce was delectable, the pud rich and moist, and it was happily generous in size. The ice-cream was disappointingly icy but, all round, it earned a big thumbs up from me and Mands (we had one each, of course).

The Peanut Gallery's rice pudding with raspberry compote was lovely and creamy, and I liked the bitter sweet tang of the fruit - although he, of course, thought it superfluous. Don't put expendables between TPG and his pudding.

The Duke of Wellington is a lovely place to eat fine pub fare. What it does, it does well, as recognised by its Time Out Award in 2008 for the Best New Gastropub. Go lofty upstairs for a reliably good meal with friends, or nestle in downstairs for a relaxed and lazy afternoon pint, watching the rain fall over the quiet streets of Marylebone.

94a Crawford Street, Marylebone, London, W1J 2HQ

Pop-ups, supper clubs & underground restaurants

One of the trendiest trends in trendy dining this year has to be the growth in pop-up and underground restaurants, or supper clubs.

Budding amateur cooks, committed food lovers and dazzling hospitality queens have flung open the doors of their homes, polished the cutlery, popped open the bubbly and allowed word of mouth (read: Facebook) to bring friends, friends of friends and inquisitive strangers to share in their offerings.

Jay Rayner has expressed skepticism over whether the fad would last - and it's true there may be many "flashes in the pan". However, some underground "amateurs" are proving themselves to be able to stay the distance, and solidify their reputations as quality dining alternatives month after month. The Rambling Restaurant is reputed to be one such example I'm hoping to try (although I haven't yet had the pleasure) and Ms Marmite Lover's Underground Restaurant is another which has attracted much publicity. Even famous restauranteurs have indulged in the pop-up scene, and many London foodies were quick to sample the goods when Pierre Koffman sprung to the surface with La Tante Claire in October for a matter of days on the roof of Selfridges.

Underground restaurants offer the intrepid diner a sense of camaraderie as fellow patrons meet for the first time in the intimate setting of the host's home, share wine at communal tables and interact with cook and host in a way that is a hybrid mix of social event, restaurant dining and dinner party setting. It may not be for everyone, and there's always the risk you'll be stuck next to a freak, but if my first supper club experience last night was anything to go by, the underground scene is likely to give birth to a new generation of talented cooks and hosts testing and fortifying their skills just as quickly as it will weed out those who will discover it's not really the game for them.

It was high time for the Greedy Diva to get on the scene. And so it was with much anticipation that I attended The Humble Kitchen's "Supper Club for Christmas" on Saturday night - my initiation into the underground.

First, the disclaimer. This is not a restaurant review. Host and hostess are two of my known underground associates, who have created a new outlet for their passion and creativity with their recent HK venture. So, I will try not to wax too lyrical here about my fabulous evening - and you may take or leave my praises with a grain of salt. Instead, I'll simply flesh out my views on the whole supper club trend with some illustrations of what is has to offer at its best by way of the examples of the fare, service and company I experienced at the HK last night.

Having booked our tickets online for £25, a cluster of around 20 friends and strangers gathered at HK's fashionable base pad overlooking Brick Lane in Shoreditch. Having offloaded our coats and brollies, we warmed up with a Christmas champagne cocktail (elderflower, berry, gin, champagne) and canapes, perused the rather professional looking wine list (a range of bottles from various regions available by raffle ticket for £15) before being seated in time for our first course.

Entree: Savoury spiced mince pie topped with a sassy egg yolk, and some English sweet and sour on the side. This was explained on the menu to be the crafty HK take on the original mince pie, "the medieval chewet", which was a fried or baked pastry containing chopped meat, mixed with boiled egg yolks, dried fruit and spices. I have now banished all memories of mince pies past, and sickly supermarket monstrosities - this dish was meaty and rich, with a wonderful combination of flavours and textures. Loved the egg yolk. Totally gour-met.

Main course: We welcomed the whole roasted partridge with bread sauce, winter lentils, mash, roasted garlic and game jus. This meaty bird was beautifully roasted and succulent, and the juicy lentils provided a lovely texture and balance to the full flavoured meat. I tried to imagine myself pulling off 20 such dishes so well - until the fire alarms started going off in my head. Not a pretty thought. Back to reality.

Dessert was a rich plum pudding with a luscious vanilla and brandy custard. No need for a dishwasher for my plate...

Over a cheese board, coffee and home baked biscotti, the troops gathered and gossiped, polishing off a healthy amount of wine, until our hospitable host chef (complete with stripey T) and his glamorous hostess joined in the gaggle. The Peanut Gallery and I, full bellies and groaning livers, retired at around the 1am mark, leaving several solid performers still going strong and likely to head out to the nearby bars of Brick Lane.

I have been wined and dined by these two gourmets before at their enormous dinner parties, but with the Humble Kitchen they have taken their expertise to a whole new level. Each dish was perfectly executed, the environment warm and welcoming and they have completely nailed the right balance between homely and professional.

I'm amazed at the level of professionalism that some of the current underground operations have apparently mastered. It's inspiring to see that passion and skill, from complete amateurs in many cases, really can generate something unique, exciting and satisfying, bringing together friends and strangers alike to share in the creative experience. And all the better that this particular social wave of endeavour caters to the most gluttonous among us. Bring it on.

Babbo, New York - Magnificent 8 course pasta carb-arama

Bill Buford, in his account of his adventures as Chef Mario Batali's kitchen slave, says people go to Babbo "in the expectation of excess". He ponders Batali's enterprise of "stimulating outrageous appetites (whatever they might be) and satisfying them intensely (by whatever means)".

Now, I'm known to be partial to a bowl of pasta. So you can only imagine my ecstasy at the sight of Babbo's 8 course pasta tasting menu with matching reserve wines - 6 bowls of pasta, 2 desserts, 8 delectable wines and, 3 hours later, one very humorous stumble home.

But let me take you back a step. Batali's Babbo is tucked away discretely in a leafy street of Greenwich Village, near Washington Square. Outside, all is quiet and respectable. Open the front door, and be swept up into a celebratory bustle of lively fine dining with the crotch-rock riffs of Led Zeppelin smoldering over the front bar ablaze.

This is a restaurant with personality.

The Peanut Gallery and I perched ourselves up at the bar for a pre-dinner Aperol, and a blatant perve at the fare around us. Next door, a bowl of pappardelle with butter, parmesan and lashings of white truffle was showing some leg. The truffle was grated flirtatiously at the table, while its 2 recipient (and presumably flush) diners watched the bar girl coo desirously over their raunchy $300 bottle of Barolo being decanted on the side lines. TPG tried to make friends, to no avail.

But soon it was onwards and upwards to the beautiful, white upstairs dining room for the main event.

Having trained under Marco Pierre White, Batali reportedly has a fierce aversion to kitchen tantrums and all things French. He forbids the use of reduced sauces and all stock other than chicken. His passion is for simple, traditional Italian food. Just add a pinch of Batali flair.

There's so much more on the menu than just pasta (although, do yourself a favour...). There's a traditional tasting menu ($75), and countless number of sure to be ravishing a la carte options. Both the food and atmosphere are lusty and exuberant; and Babbo was bestowed with an easily deserved 3 stars from Ruth Reichl at the New York Times soon after it opened in 1998.

Batali's pasta philosophy is that "it's about the pasta, not the sauce". All his pasta pieces are beautifully hand made and cooked to perfection.

We started with the black tagliatelle with parsnips and pancetta - light and delicate in a butter and wine sauce. It was matched beautifully with a Gerwurtztraminer, Kuenhof 2007 (Alto Adige).

The Casunzei with poppy seeds were gorgeous Northern Italy style bundles of pasta stuffed with lustrous, sweet beetroot, potato and ricotta which spilled out in shocking brightness on first bite. They were paired with a lovely Trebbiano D'Abruzzo, Emidio Pepe 2004 (Abruzzi) which the TPG helpfully cried out "tastes like Chicken Twisties". In case of doubt, this is the highest of compliments in TPG's repertoire.

The Garganelli with Funghi Trifolati was absolutely delicious - gorgeous mushrooms, fresh parsley, a light sauce and, of course, fabulous rolls of fresh pasta. All swilled happily with a robust Barolo, Borgogno 2004 (Piemonte) from a magnum - phwoar!

Domingo's Pyramids with Passato di Pomodoro, firm pasta pyramids filled with delectable braised beef, doubled up nicely with the Fontalloro, Fattoria di Delsina 1993 (Toscana). Again, showing that wine tasting course was money well spent, TPG likened the wine to the Green Tomato Bloody Marys at Jane which we sampled the year before - and, I have to admit, the man had a point.

Of course, by now, our beloved (and exceptionally lovely) sommelier had already filled us up with 4 glasses of wine each - and we still had 4 to go. Each glass was carefully selected and passionately explained. Glasses were filled generously and evenly (no smaller serves for the womanfolk, a Greedy Diva pet peeve). So life was getting better by the minute at this point - each dish became more awe inspiring, each amorous moment more enamored, each joke more hilarious and each mutual congratulations at finding ourselves here with the food of the gods more flushed.

And then came the much anticipated Papperdelle Bolognese, matched with the ballsy Contea di Sclafani "Rosso del Conte", Tasca d'Almerita 2004 (Sicily).

Buford tells how Batali retreated to the small northern Italian town, Porretta Terme, in 1989, where he gained hands on experience at hand making pasta and traditional sauces. He learned to make Bolognese with veal, pork, beef and pancetta, cooked slowly with olive oil and butter. Leave in the fat, add white wine, milk and a little tomato paste. All, I imagine, while staring over the peacefulls hills and valleys from Florence to Bologna.

Once again, the pasta was perfectly firm as it layered and flipped around the sweet, rich and luxurious sauce. Buttery goodness. A "sit back, close your eyes, and picture the olive groves" moment...

Next, out came jigging the Dancing Ewe Caciotta Fritters with Honey and Thyme and an Erpacrife, Scarzello 2006 (Piemonte). The crunchy exterior encased a gorgeous, gooey but fairly mild cheese, balanced beautifully with the sweetness of the honey.

The spicy Chocolate al Diavolo was our transitionary course between savouries and sweets, and we saddled it up with the Sagrantino di Montefalco Passito, Bea 2003 (Umbria).

The desserts were our only disappointments with the night (not that we needed more food by now). We sampled the Tyrolean Carrot and Poppyseed Cake with Olive Oil and Orange Gelato (average) and a Pistachio Chocolate Semifreddo (which I really liked, but TPG was not fussed - all the more for me). Both were paired with the Moscadeddu, Dettori, 2005 (Sardinia).

Babbo was simply sensational. The flavours and textures were wonderful, the service and ambience was attentive and fun. We paid $69 each for the tasting menu and $95 for the reserve wine pairings (our special occasion luxury) - although the traditional wine pairings are less at $50. However, we'd love to come back for a simple bowl of pasta at the bar which wouldn't break anyone's wallet. Book ahead.

So, that was our magnificent Babbo carb fest. Some other time, I'll tell you about the stumble home...

110 Waverly Place, Greenwich Village, New York

(Bill Buford quotes from "Heat: An Amateur's Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-maker and Apprentice to a Butcher in Tuscany", Bill Buford, 2007)