Shoes – Footwear – Shoes – Exotic
Thank you to Piers Berry for these HODINKEE-exclusive photographs.
References ^ visit Pinion Watch Company online (www.pinionwatches.com) Continue reading
The cake I made and ate when young was more milky coffee-flavoured than espresso, but here I've bolstered it without consideration for my children. If that's your constituency or concern, or if you have a nostalgic longing for muted sweet comfort, replace the four teaspoons of instant espresso with two of instant coffee dissolved in a tablespoonful of boiling water. There is a twofold reason this recipe represents quintessential comfort in cake form for me to this day.
The first lies not so much in the confection itself, but in the memories its taste evokes: my mother would sometimes, unbidden, but at intuitively the right time, make us a drink she called "milk-and-a-dash" warm milk with a teaspoonful of sugar and perhaps half that of instant coffee stirred into it that calmed and uplifted at the same time, a combination perpetually to be savoured. Second, this was the cake I always ate with my maternal grandmother when she took me out to a tearoom (this is the olden days we are talking about now, when there were such things as tearooms and Fuller's coffee walnut cake, both part of Lyons 1 , which was the family business) for a special solo treat. And if my sister, my mother and my grandmother are no longer around, this cake comforts me with their presence still.
For the sponge 50g walnut pieces225g caster sugar225g soft unsalted butter, plus extra for greasing200g plain flour4 tsp instant espresso powder2 tsp baking 2 powder tsp bicarbonate of soda4 eggs1-2 tbsp milk For the buttercream frosting 350g icing sugar175g soft unsalted butter2 tsp instant espresso powder dissolved in 1 tbsp boiling water25g walnut halves, to decorate Heat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4. Butter two 20cm sandwich tins and line the base of each with baking parchment. Put the walnut pieces and sugar into a food processor and blitz to a fine powder.
Add the butter, flour, espresso powder, baking powder, bicarbonate of soda and eggs, and process to a smooth batter. Add the milk, just pouring it down the funnel with the motor still running, or just pulsing, to loosen the cake mixture; it should be of a soft, dropping consistency, so add more milk if you need to. (If you are making this by hand, cream the butter and sugar, bash the nuts to a rubbly powder with a rolling pin, or however you want, mix with the dry ingredients, add the eggs, and finally the milk.) Divide between the two lined tins and bake for 25 minutes, or until the sponge has risen and feels springy to the touch. Leave to cool on a rack for about 10 minutes, then turn out on to the wire rack and peel off the baking parchment.
When the sponge halves are cool, make the buttercream. Pulse the icing sugar in a food processor until it is lump-free, then add the butter and process to make a smooth icing. Dissolve the instant espresso powder in a tablespoon of boiling water and add it to the icing while it's still hot, pulsing to blend into the buttercream.
Put one of the cakes upside down on a cake stand or serving plate. Spread with half the buttercream, then put the second cake right side up (ie, so the two flat sides of the cake meet in the middle), and cover the top with buttercream in a swirly pattern. This cake is all about old-fashioned, rustic charm, so however the frosting goes on is fine.
Don't fret about some of the buttercream oozing out from the middle: that's what makes it look so inviting. Gently press the walnut halves into the top of the buttercream all around the edge and about half an inch apart. To serve, cut the cake into eight generous slices.
A version of this recipe appeared in Kitchen, by Nigella Lawson 3 (Chatto & Windus, 26). Nigella Lawson 2010 'This tomato soup is, for me, what home cooking is all about: a simple dish that is cooked habitually using modest ingredients.' Photograph: Courtesy Yotam Ottolenghi Both my parents make the most magical soups. With a handful of basic ingredients and the confidence that comes with years of cooking, they can both master a delicious broth in not much more than 15 minutes.
Tomato and sourdough soup, a recipe in my most recent book, Jerusalem 4 , is an upgrade on a modest tomato and bread soup, and uses fresh and tinned tomatoes, or only the latter. It is my mum's winter version of her famous gazpacho, which uses only fresh tomatoes. It also has garlic, onion, coriander, cumin and olive oil.
This tomato soup is, for me, what home cooking is all about: not the vacant title that is too often used to label anything, but a simple dish that is cooked habitually using modest ingredients; something doable and nourishing that everyone loves and is happy to eat over and over again. The soup also reminds me of my parents' house, which isn't the one I grew up in, but nonetheless captures a chunk of my past. The image that comes to my mind is the dining area, at one corner of their open kitchen.
This is where we always hang out when I visit. The shelves next to the old dark wooden dining table are stacked high with jars of snacks that I only ever have when I stay there: sugared pomelo skins, Turkish delights, little ring-shaped savoury cookies with sesame seeds, caramel and sesame brittle, salted peanuts. As soon as I arrive in the house, whether hungry or not, we all, almost subconsciously, sit at the table, open the jars and start nibbling and catching up.
Later, a soup arrives, then a main course. This delicious predictability is what I cherish and would do anything to savour. The dish I'd like to pass on to my own son, a ready-for-any-impromptu-occasion smoked oyster pasta 5 , is also tomato-based and was served to me countless times on that same old dark wooden dining table.
It is my father's invention, I'm sure of it, and it is every bit as wholesome and comforting as the soup, if a bit more unusual. The method is simple. You saut some onions in olive oil, add diced carrots and celery, and finally some chopped tinned or fresh tomatoes.
Cook until thick, then add a couple of tins of smoked oysters, including the preserving oil, and some chopped herbs basil or parsley when my dad makes it, mostly coriander if I'm in charge. Serve over any small pasta, ideally one with a shell shape, and top with a trickle of olive oil. No parmesan, thank you very much.
My father's infatuation with smoked oysters, the fact that I learned this dish directly from him, the simplicity and ease with which it is made from only store cupboard ingredients, the sweet flavours of the tomato and oysters: all are reasons I don't want it to be forgotten. 'The rest of my family would start hanging around the kitchen, following the scent of the cooking.' Photograph: Paul McCartney/Linda McCartney Some of my fondest winter comfort food memories revolve around times spent after long, chilly horse rides with my mum 6 . Our favourite mother/daughter thing to do on a sunny, cold, winter Saturday was to hack out together. We'd wander down country lanes, listening to the clip-clop of the hooves on the road, and chat about anything and everything that came into our minds.
Wonderful, happy memories, so relaxing and satisfying. By the time we got back indoors, my fingers and toes would be so cold they would ache. It took me an age to warm them up.
To complete this perfect day, mum and I would set about making a warming thick soup, both substantial and nutritious. We would combine a medley of chopped vegetables and herbs that, after simmering in a tangy tomato broth, we'd top with cheese- covered croutons. The pleasure of this soup is that we would sit together at the kitchen table preparing the veg and chopping them into bite-sized pieces.
I loved this way of spending time together. Then, while the soup was gently simmering, we would make the croutons. By then, the rest of my family would start hanging around the kitchen, following the scent of the cooking.
Mum would ladle the soup into bowls, throw on the croutons and then we would go and watch Saturday night TV in front of the fire. When I think of those days, I smile. 'Whenever my brother and I came home for the first day of school holidays, it was this pie that was always waiting for us.' Photograph: Courtesy Simon Hopkinson Simply the word "meat" would rarely, these days, be used on any menu, tin or ready-meal to describe just that: meat. But it used to be, and it remains a given when it comes to a certain pie from the north of England.
It's far too vague a term now, what with no one knowing quite what "meat" may mean any more. I know that's a cheap jibe at recent events 7 , but it was not always thus. Quite simply, a fine meat pie is one of the greatest of British culinary inventions.
Sometimes, a meat pie will have potato and onion in it, too, which makes it especially delicious. As a boy, accompanying my mother around Bury market, I would always ask if I could have one as we passed by the hot pie stall. She wouldn't have been seen dead with her greedy boy eating in public something to do with her being a grammar school teacher, together with traces of Hyacinth Bucket and her excuse was always, "Why would you want one of those when I make meat and tattie pie at home?" I would linger, hopefully, but she had a point: her pie baking in the Aga will for ever be the kitchen smell of childhood.
Mum's pie was made in a crazed, brown ceramic pot with a simple filling of chopped meat (always beef), onions and potatoes cooked in nothing more than water, with plenty of powdery white pepper and salt the only seasoning. Once cooked and cooled, a floppy disc of pastry would be fitted on top and the whole would be baked until golden. Whenever my brother and I came home for the first day of school holidays, it was this pie that was always waiting for us.
The soggy underneath of that crust was always the best bit by far. I have loved savoury dishes in pastry ever since. But as I inherited this meat and tattie pie from Mum, the one I would like to pass on is the extraordinary salmon in pastry with currants and ginger 8 , made famous by George Perry-Smith 9 , who served it at his legendary Hole In The Wall restaurant in Bath about 50 years ago.
Yes, it may be another dish from the past, but it remains unique as a perfectly flavoured dish and a highly intelligent recipe. For me, it will always feel thoroughly modern. 'In those days, the local butcher would deliver the meat to our London home.' Photograph: Courtesy Alexandra Shulman There are few dishes to which I have an emotional attachment, but spaghetti bolognese is family. As a young child, I would guzzle the dish as prepared by Gina, our Portuguese housekeeper.
In those days, the local butcher would deliver the meat to our London home and it would be put in the steel mincer clamped on the Formica-topped kitchen table before being cooked up into a sauce with industrial quantities of Sasso olive oil from a large tin. This would sit in a yellow casserole waiting for us to come home for lunch on Fridays, when we had a half-day at school. Starting the weekend with this delicious concoction was one of the high points of my week.
It was one of the first things I learned to cook as a teenager. I remember being told that you could judge whether spaghetti was cooked if it stuck on the ceiling, an activity that became a very enjoyable part of the cooking ritual. At that time, my bolognese was a basic concoction, whipped up quickly with a tin of tomatoes and a chopped onion and carrot, a state of affairs that changed only once I was married in my mid-30s.
My then husband, Paul 10 , who was a devotee of Italian cookery writer Marcella Hazan 11 , would insist on slavishly following her recipe, which included a cooking time of at least three and a half hours, and the addition of milk and nutmeg. His bolognese was a much more delicious sauce than the speedy variety I had made, and became a staple for the weekends when my stepchildren, Matthew and Emma, stayed. Now I make a hybrid version, often serving it on Christmas 12 Eve, when we are all maniacally wrapping.
As with dishing up roast chicken, I find it a soothing food that makes me feel that I am in the right place, particularly when I have been away from home. I try to make more than we need so that my son can heat it up for himself from the freezer when he wants, although it is never as good as when it is first made. More than 50 years on from my first spaghetti bolognese, the mixture of al dente strands of pasta and the nuggets of tomato-saturated meat remains a favourite cosy pleasure. 'Apart from a brief exotic phase of eating fondues, our diet was stubbornly local: Lancashire hotpot, Yorkshire pudding, Wensleydale cheese.' Photograph: Courtesy Blake Morrison Mine was a meat-and-two-veg childhood.
My mother, a doctor, had no time to experiment in the kitchen, and my father's only contribution was carving the Sunday roast. Pasta, pizza and curries had yet to enter the family consciousness. Apart from a brief exotic phase of eating fondues, our diet was stubbornly local: Lancashire hotpot, Yorkshire pudding, Wensleydale cheese.
Cooking for my own kids, I've tried to be more adventurous, but there's one childhood dish to which I keep returning: apple crumble. I associate it with winter afternoons logs burning in the hearth, rain beating on the windows and darkness already gathering on the lawn. It's made from bramleys and served with Bird's custard, and there's enough for second helpings or even thirds.
Thanks to the apples, it's a less guilt-inducing comfort pud than treacle tart or spotted dick. This year I've made it a lot. We had a glut of apples, and since we always do well for blackberries, I generally add them, too.
Most recipes recommend caster sugar, but I like the crunch of granulated and occasionally use brown. I also use oats as well as flour, and occasionally cinnamon, too. I serve it with cream or yoghurt, not custard. "Not crumble again," my wife will say, if I'm making dinner for friends, and she'll prepare some healthy alternative.
But it's always the crumble that goes. 'My grandmother, born in 1877, would make us arrowroot blancmange. It was terribly bland, but enormously soothing and comforting.' Photograph: Courtesy Fay Weldon My grandmother, born in 1877, who looked after my sister Jane and me when we were small, would make us arrowroot blancmange if we were poorly, quarrelsome or cold. It was terribly bland, but for some reason enormously soothing and comforting.
The blancmange was essentially thickened milk, slightly sweetened with sugar and flavoured with lemon rind, though Mrs Beeton 13 recommends two laurel leaves to a pint of milk. It was to be taken hot or cold. Arrowroot, a milled starch extracted from the roots of the South American Maranta arundinacea , is easier to digest than wheat or cornflour, and was a great favourite in Victorian and Edwardian nurseries.
Also, as a Wicca acquaintance tells me, arrowroot figured in the past in the spells of white witches and wizards "used in majickal recipes to heal a heart broken by one of Cupid's arrows", or "suitable as a powder to be sprinkled in the four corners of a nursery to protect the infant", or "for dusting your body to change your destiny". My grandmother might or might not have known about the spells, but she certainly saw arrowroot as some kind of healing entity, and we children felt what she felt. When we came from New Zealand to England at the end of the second world war I was 15 the nearest we could get to arrowroot blancmange was Instant Whip, which came in a cardboard packet in powder form, to be boiled up with water and milk powder.
It was sweet and hot and filling. My mother would make it for us in the single bedsitting room we lived in through the winter of 1946. She had to wait for the electricity to come on, so she could see what she was doing, and the gas gave enough heat for cooking.
We spent a lot of that winter in bed, just to keep warm. Then our luck changed. Oddly enough, I made apple pie the other day: apples from the garden (it's been a good year for apples), flaky pastry courtesy of Jus 'Rol and, by special request from my husband, Bird's custard from the yellow tin that's been around for ever.
Bird's custard reminds him of happy days in his childhood. I had all but forgotten the tricks of making it. It took ages getting the lumps out and the bright yellow skin as it cooled wasn't too nice.
But, once again, it soothed and filled. Next time I serve leg of lamb, I will make a sticky ruby sauce to go with it arrowroot blended into the drippings from the roasting pan to thicken, a teacup of good ruby port, some lamb stock, a dash of sweet soy sauce and serve the dish with any red wine more than four years old (the key to a good drinking wine) and I bet we will all remember how to feel warm and happy and safe. The New Countess 14 , by Fay Weldon 15 , is published by Head Of Zeus at 14.99. 'I was often given the job of pushing the leftover lamb through the hand-cranked mincer, which Mum had G-clamped firmly to the kitchen table.' Photograph: Courtesy Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall I have learned so much from cooking with my mum, ever since I could stand on a chair at the kitchen table.
But there is one family dish more of a ritual than a recipe that will stay with me for ever. Roast lamb was always my favourite Sunday lunch. I loved it for itself, and for the perfect roast potatoes that would come with it, and for Mum's delicious gravy, and for the rather exotic jars of mint sauce and redcurrant jelly that came to the table.
But, most of all, I loved it for the anticipation of the shepherd's pie that would invariably follow a few days later. I was often given the job of pushing the leftover lamb through the hand-cranked mincer, which Mum had G-clamped firmly to the kitchen table. A couple of sliced onions went through the mincer with the meat.
This mixture was then fried in a large pan, seasoned with Worcester sauce and a squirt from a tube of tomato pur e, made saucier by the addition of any leftover gravy (a rich, chocolatey jelly scooped out from the bottom of the gravy boat), then piled into a pie dish and topped with creamy mash. I fought with my sister over who got to make the curly swirls with a fork on top of the mash, which are crucial for getting maximum crisp brownness on the finished pie. When it came out of the oven, I loved how the sauce had bubbled up and burned a bit around the edges of the dish.
However big the pie was, the four of us could always finish it, then scrape every last scrap of crusty mash from the edges of the dish. The recipe I would like to pass on, meanwhile, is the hot fish sandwich. It's really easy to put together, and a brilliant way to make fish child-friendly; everyone-friendly, in fact.
You can use any fish fillets. I like to use freshly caught mackerel or black bream (or, better still, saithe 16 when we're on holiday in Scotland). You toss the fillets in seasoned flour, then dip them in beaten egg.
You can get fancy and crumb them, but I usually don't bother. The beaten egg keeps them well bound as they sizzle in the pan. Then it's on to a buttered bap or good soft bread.
Ketchup is allowed, but I think mayonnaise is better, especially if spiked with a sprinkling of capers and chopped gherkins. The buttered top goes on and the best sandwich in the world is complete. Everyone wants another one and Oscar, now 14, can usually manage a third. (In case anyone's still wondering, I'm the one in the centre of the photograph above.) John Humphrys (centre): 'Nutmeg was as likely to be found in working-class south Wales in those postwar years as snail porridge.' Photograph: Courtesy John Humphrys Reliable is probably the best word to describe my mother's cooking.
You always knew what you'd be getting. Half a century later, I can list what we had for dinner every day of every week. Note "dinner".
Lunch was for snooty southerners. And you also knew nothing would be wasted. If you have no fridge and shop every day, you buy only what is needed.
By nothing, I mean not even leftover crusts. Especially not them. They were the principal ingredient of my mother's signature bread pudding.
Anyone who is thinking Delia thoughts of bread and butter pudding, requiring lemon zest, eggs, grated nutmeg and a degree of culinary skill, should discard those thoughts. Nutmeg was as likely to be found in working-class south Wales in those postwar years as snail porridge. The same goes for the notion of "comfort food".
Food was fuel and filler. And bread pudding was God's own filler. My mother baked it whenever there was enough stale bread.
She soaked it for a day or two until it was mushy, added butter, milk and as many sultanas and as much sugar as rationing allowed, and mixed it. Then she put it in the oven and we waited through the long, salivating hours until smoke began to emerge (nothing was ever undercooked) and the oven door could be opened. There were risks attached to eating it.
It was so dense that if you dropped a spoonful on the kitchen floor it would behave like a spoonful of dark matter, crashing through the Earth's surface to the core of the planet. But there were rewards, too, which is why I've never tried cooking it for my own children. Their expectations are different.
They might expect nutmeg. 'When my mother became ill with cancer 20 years ago, she wrote the recipe down for me, and when I cook this dish, I always think of her.' Photograph: Courtesy Anthony Horowitz I never much liked Christmas when I was young. It went on too long. I ate too much.
And the house was filled with relatives, some of whom were truly disturbing. Two spinster aunts in particular spring to mind. For me, childhood's end came not with the realisation that there was no Father Christmas, but that my parents really didn't enjoy any of it at all, that they were only doing it for us.
And people were always dropping dead at Christmas. Both my parents died around that time, and I still have memories of telephone calls bringing dismal news into the tinsel and the paper chains. For all these reasons, my children have never had a proper Christmas.
I avoid the whole thing. We always go away for two weeks skiing or swimming from 15 December. They already tell me they feel deprived.
But when I was young, the high point of the entire season was my mother's turkey croquettes. Their deliciousness was quite out of proportion to the simplicity with which they were made, and my family is still mad about them now. They used turkey leftovers I'm sure we threw away much less food then than most families do these days.
Just as a leg of lamb would turn up again in a shepherd's pie, the turkey would reappear as rissoles, and in both cases, the afterthought as it were was a much bigger treat than the original dish. My brother, my sister and I used to fight over them. They were the ultimate comfort food and we simply couldn't get enough of them.
Because we were eating them around 28 or 29 December, they have always been associated, for me, with the end of the year. When my mother became ill with cancer 20 years ago, she wrote it down for me, and when I cook this dish, I always think of her. This is her recipe: Use between lb and lb leftover turkey.
Take about a quarter of a sweet onion chop it up as small as possible in a blender. Add the turkey and chop with the onion until it's small, but not a paste. In a saucepan, make a white sauce with 1oz of turkey fat and 1oz of flour.
Cook this for a few minutes, then add gravy from the turkey, or chicken stock, to make a thick cream sauce. Add the sauce to the turkey/onion mix to produce a stiff paste like wet pastry. Spread out on a plate, one or two inches thick.
Cover with clingfilm and leave to cool. Finally, shape the turkey into flat, circular lozenges about 2 in in diameter and in thick. Roll in flour, then in beaten egg.
Finally, roll in breadcrumbs. (Note: these should be natural white ones, not the nasty gold variety. My mother used Semmel breadcrumbs, available in any good Jewish deli.) Fry in oil. The rissoles are particularly delicious served with chilled tomato ketchup on the side.
The rich smell of wine and tomatoes and resinous herbs would permeate the house. Reaching up as far as my attic, it was a blast of purest comfort, a sign that Mum had a batch of pasta sauce on the go. The recipe originated with my mother's parents, who came from the tiny village of Bracelli in the basil- and rosemary-scented hills above La Spezia in Liguria, northern Italy.
As a child, I loathed the place, the flies, the whiskery "aunts" who'd pull up your skirt to check your underwear, the horrible dry cake and sweet wine you'd be coerced into having in dark little kitchens. Who knows where the recipe came from before then, or how it evolved. Only ever known as sugo, or "Mum's pasta sauce", it was a complicated procedure, and protean, too: no two batches were identical.
Two kinds of minced meat beef and pork, Italian sausage, finely chopped vegetables, tomatoes. Nearly a whole bottle of red wine. Lots of oil and the special northern Italian ingredient butter.
Herbs from the garden. It was done in stages, each set of ingredients having to seethe and marry together before the next was added. Little fragrant burps as the bubbles burst through the oil-slicked surface would scent the kitchen for hours afterwards.
Back then in Glasgow, the ingredients weren't easy to come by. We'd never heard of Waitrose, and Safeway only did parmesan in those footy little drums. So Mum would take me on a regular pilgrimage to Fazzi Bros 17 , down by the Clyde, then a brooding, uncolonised part of town.
The shop more of a warehouse for the city's restaurateurs was up a flight of stairs, an emporium as magical to me as Narnia. It was here that we'd find the parmigiano, hacked off huge wheels while Mum instructed them not to give her the "endy bits"; the proper olive oil, bought in huge, wonderfully decorated tins; the fat, fennelly sausages. The sugo was a weekly standby, a quick supper, divided into containers and squirrelled away in Mum's beloved chest freezer, a vast appliance in which you could have easily stashed several corpses.
It was also her way of getting vegetables into our typically veg-phobic Glaswegian household. I've taught both my children to make it, despite one saying he's going to live on salad when he leaves home and the other currently subsisting on granola and hummus. Because it takes so long to do, it's a way of spending delicious time together, of communicating over those fragrant burps.
I know it'll stand them in good stead.
To this day, it's the only thing in which I'll countenance the devil's weed that is celery.
References ^ Lyons (en.wikipedia.org) ^ More from the Guardian on Baking (www.theguardian.com) ^ Kitchen, by Nigella Lawson (www.guardianbookshop.co.uk) ^ Jerusalem (www.guardianbookshop.co.uk) ^ More from the Guardian on Pasta (www.theguardian.com) ^ my mum (en.wikipedia.org) ^ recent events (www.theguardian.com) ^ salmon in pastry with currants and ginger (www.matchingfoodandwine.com) ^ George Perry-Smith (en.wikipedia.org) ^ Paul (en.wikipedia.org) ^ Marcella Hazan (www.theguardian.com) ^ More from the Guardian on Christmas (www.theguardian.com) ^ Mrs Beeton (en.wikipedia.org) ^ The New Countess (www.guardianbookshop.co.uk) ^ More from the Guardian on Fay Weldon (www.theguardian.com) ^ saithe (en.wikipedia.org) ^ Fazzi Bros (www.fazzi-restaurant.co.uk) Continue reading
26, 2013 - JUPITER, Fla. -- LTBrazil.com launched its brand new website and online boutique featuring premier women's designer clothing as well as the finest high end apparel, accessories and resort wear. Clothes are elegant, unique and chic with an exotic Brazilian flair. Headquartered near the trendy fashion district of Worth Avenue, Palm Beach, LT Brazil showcases top Brazilian fashion designers such as Malagueta, Nana Kokaev, Linda de Morrer, Lanca Perfume, MOB, Triton, Index and more.
According to LT Brazil founder, Leila Tauil Kallop, LT Brazil caters to the sophisticated and stylish woman looking for chic, elegant and one-of-a-kind luxury designer pieces. Leila Tauil added, The LT Brazil woman doesn t have to worry about going to an event and wondering if she ll see the same dress she has on, on someone else. Our pieces are fresh and fun limited-run editions.
And new fashions are always arriving on the site. LT Brazil features the very finest in unique designer clothes for women including sun dresses, gowns, blouses, skirts, pants, shorts, jumpsuits, and accessories. Clothing ranges from chic cocktail dresses to everyday resort wear.
LT Brazil is an eclectic mix of elegant Palm Beach fashion with colorful, comfortable Brazilian flair, says Leila Tauil. The fabrics are rich and luxurious, yet fun, light and airy perfect for the south Florida climate which is very similar to that of Brazil. Many dresses and outfits can easily go from day to evening.
Leila Tauil concludes, We are dedicated to providing a simple and easy online shopping experience for the fashion savvy, sophisticated lady. We understand how important style, quality, and service are and strive for excellence in all three! For more information and to check out the unique clothes, visit http://www.ltbrazil.com/ 2 .
About LT Brazil Founded in 2012, LT Brazil is a high end online boutique featuring unique and chic women's designer clothing and the finest luxury women's apparel.
The site features resort wear, cocktail dresses, sun dresses, sexy skirts, breezy blouses, trendy jumpsuits and more from some of the hottest top designers in Brazil.
References ^ PRLog (Press Release) (www.prlog.org) ^ http://www.ltbrazil.com/ (www.ltbrazil.com) Continue reading