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How do chess Grandmasters fuel their little grey cells to achieve maximum efficacy during their often lengthy chess board battles? In previous columns I have argued the case for a marine

based diet, rich in brain foods, such as Omega-3 fatty acids, DHA (Docosahexaenoic acid) and EPA (Eicosapentaenoic acid), as advocated by Professor Michael A. Crawford Director of the

Institute for Brain Chemistry and Human Nutrition, at London’s Imperial College. Indeed, during the Howard Staunton Memorial Tournament, which I organised with one of Britain’s most

distinguished artists Barry Martin at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand, Britain’s foremost grandmaster, Nigel Short MBE, was so convinced by Professor Crawford’s opening oration, that he adopted an

entirely piscine regime during the competition, which he then proceeded to win. There are, though, alternatives. Garry Kasparov, for example, favoured the demolition of a large rare-cooked

steak about one hour before his games. Most other elite grandmasters, not to mention we lesser mortals, might succumb to drowsiness after a large meal, becoming inattentive during the

opening phase of a game. Writing from bitter personal experience, I can assure readers that even Grandmasters can go catastrophically astray during the initial few moves, if the brain is not

fully engaged. Kasparov’s secret antidote to the dangers of mental torpor in the opening moves of a game was that he knew his openings so well that he could navigate such dangerous

stretches on autopilot. Kasparov could then rely on the fact that the mental energy provided by the steak would kick into action in the early middle game, when he needed it most. Reigning

World Champion Magnus Carlsen favours Lebanese and Chinese cuisine, with a considerable trend towards vegetarian dishes, and in general the top modern players are quite ascetic in their

habits. Back in the day, chess players used to feast more extravagantly than our modern counterparts and, on the whole, were more friendly towards strong spirits, gourmandising and reliance

on nicotine. For example, there was the Georgian method, which raised conspicuous consumption to a whole new level of intensity. In 1974 I competed in a Grandmaster level tournament in

Tbilisi, capital of Soviet Georgia. The rounds were punctuated by three evening banquets, to which all contestants were invited. A long central table was always laden with Georgian

delicacies, fuelled by heroic quantities of Soviet caviar, blinis and pelmeni, all washed down with vintage champagne and Russian brandy or vodka. To ensure that sufficiently gargantuan

measures of alcohol were being consistently consumed, the hosts always appointed a table captain, or Tamada, to deliver suitably elaborate toasts, whereupon the guests were expected to drain

their glasses, in expectation of a top-up for the inevitable next toast. My Georgian friends explained that their curative antidote, after such record breaking volumes of food and

accompanying lubrication, was to struggle into the garden, dig a hole in the ground, lie over it, with space for the belly in the hole, and cry out a promise to God that this would be the

last time for such super-over-indulgence… until the next time, that is. After the third and final banquet, I departed in the early hours with my friend, Icelandic Grandmaster Guðmundur

Sigurjónsson. We scoured the streets for a cab in vain, until I saw a car glide sedately into view, with a flashing green light and a seemingly smartly dressed gentleman in a peaked hat at

the wheel. I promptly hailed the long awaited cab, in spite of Sigurjónsson nervously tugging at my arm and urging me to desist. The car pulled over, and with my Icelandic companion becoming

ever more tense, for reasons which I utterly failed to comprehend, I addressed the driver, stating in my vestigial Russian: “Gastinitsa Iveria pojalsta” or words to that effect, thus

indicating that he should please drive us to the Hotel Iveria, where we were staying. On being informed that we were two chess grandmasters in need of a lift, the driver politely saluted,

ushered us into car and duly headed towards The Hotel Iveria. The siren, which suddenly sounded, should have given me the first clue, plus the fact that we were sitting in a cage, unusually

located at the back of the cab. As alert readers will have by now deduced, I had hailed not a taxi, but a police car! In foreign tournaments the only chess banquets I have encountered, to

rival those in Georgia, were those served up in so called government rest houses in Shanghai, Guangzhou and Beijing. The most lavish consisted of nineteen separate courses, fish carved into

the shape of dragons, crispy duck, dried baby scorpions, and instead of vodka, a distilled Chinese spirit called Maotai (which seemed to the British delegation to resemble a peculiarly

potent brand of rocket fuel) – no wonder the government needed a rest after such repasts. England in the Middle Ages witnessed some spectacular feasts, with up to forty deer and a thousand

chickens regularly sacrificed on the twin altars of Dionysus and Hestia, but such excess had little or nothing to do with chess, apart from the presence of bishops, or perhaps Grandmasters

of military crusading orders. Generalities apart, one of the most elaborate medieval feasts for which there is specific hard evidence (such as actual accounts of expenditure) was the

installation of the new Archbishop of York, the aristocratic George Neville, brother to “Kingmaker” the Earl of Warwick, in 1466. It included as main ingredients: 104 peacocks, 4,000 ducks,

204 cranes, 400 herons, 1,000 sheep and 104 oxen. High-status food tended to be separately served to high-status people, of course (such as the items at the start of the above list) and was

often recorded as especially impressive. As historian Richard Eales has noted, it’s not too clear that the participants did much afterwards – or if they did play chess they would have been

utterly oblivious to their results. The most extravagant banquet ever held in the UK in connection with chess was staged during the London 1883 tournament, which saw Johannes Zukertort

triumph, ahead of such luminaries as Wilhelm Steinitz, Mikhail Tchigorin and our own Joseph Henry Blackburne. Here is that lavish menu from the book _Games Played in the London International

Chess Tournament, 1883_ edited by James Innes Minchin. Although the tournament was held in London, the menu was doubtless deemed to increase in prestige if rendered in French. Here is my

translation of the menu into English: WINES FOOD Hors-d’oeuvres _SOUPS_ Manzanilla Clear soup with stuffed lettuce Manzanilla Cream of asparagus _FISH_ Hockheimer Salmon with Genovese and

Hollandaise sauces Chablis Lobster cutlet with rich sauce _STARTERS_ Pommery & Greno Sweetbreads with Spring vegetables Noisettes of mutton in huntsman’s style with new potatoes _SECOND

STARTER_ Champagne Ruinart 1874 Portuguese style larded fillet of beef _ROASTS_ Chateau Margaux Corn-fed chicken with straw potatoes Chateau Margaux Roast duckling with French salad

_VEGETABLES _ Asparagus with butter sauce _ENTREMETS & DESSERTS_ Amontillado Sherry Stuffed peaches with macaroons Old Port Strawberry jelly & Petits Fours Chateau Pomys 1870 Ice

Pudding Chateau Pomys 1870 Desserts & Coffees It is said, possibly apocryphally, when the toast to the best chessplayer in the world was pronounced, that both Zukertort and Steinitz

leaped to their feet. In spite of such culinary excursions and adventures, there can be no doubt that the dining establishment which has entertained by far the greatest number of chess

Grandmasters, whether in the UK or worldwide, is that self-same Simpson’s-in-the-Strand (_pictured_), where, as we have seen, Nigel Short converted, if briefly, to a DHA enriched diet of

lobsters, oysters and Dover sole, in order to boost his little grey cells for the chessboard combat to come. Simpson’s standard fare focuses traditionally on roast lamb and beef, carved at

the table from mobile silver trolleys. During the 19th century Simpson’s was, in fact, the world’s greatest chess club, with coffee and cigars proving as popular as roast beef and lamb. A

famous chess board and pieces situated at the top of the main staircase still commemorates the exploits on the 64 squares of such chessboard immortals as Howard Staunton, Adolph Anderssen,

Paul Morphy and Emanuel Lasker. On my 50th birthday the _genius loci _Brian Clivaz (now of L’Escargot in Soho, London) invited me to play a couple of games on this hallowed chessboard turf,

and generously inscribed my name on the plaque, along with the gods of the game. Simpson’s was the location of this week’s masterpiece, known as The Immortal Game, won by Anderssen in 1851.

So impressed were both the loser and the onlookers that top-hatted runners were despatched down the Strand to telegraph the moves to the Café de la Régence in Paris, the then epicentre of

Gallic chess activity, the original, sadly, no longer being extant. Here is a description of The Immortal Game on YouTube for chess fans with an explanation of the moves, tactics and

strategy. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle can be added to the illustrious list of patrons who frequented Simpson’s, and he rewarded Sherlock Holmes with _“something nutritious” _there after solving

the cases of _The Illustrious Client_ and _The Dying Detective_. It is my belief that Sir Arthur observed the chess champion Wilhelm Steinitz in action at Simpson’s, borrowed his shaggy hair

and beard, huge domed forehead and short, but muscular stature, to describe the epitome of the scientific adventurer, Professor George Challenger, from his novels, _The Lost World_ and _The

Poison Belt_. I conclude with a brilliant tour de force by the winner of that world class tournament, held at London in 1883. Here is the game of Johannes Zukertort versus Joseph Henry

Blackburne in 1883, the absolute pinnacle of Zukertort’s chess creativity. A MESSAGE FROM THEARTICLE _We are the only publication that’s committed to covering every angle. We have an

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