Yesterday was Saturday and I began the morning with a trip to the West Hampstead farmer’s market, there to get bread, ravioli and whatever else looked good. I forgot both bread and ravioli and instead returned with a broad selection of berries, vegetables and yoghurts. One punnet of raspberries in a virtuously recyclable cardboard container got completely squashed so I ate them, just as a phone call arrived from the Gentleman Friend who had met someone near King’s Cross and now proposed lunch at Kiln, a Thai restaurant. So I dashed down to Leicester Square (on the way sitting next to two teenagers with the most impenetrable Yorkshire accent I have heard, even in Yorkshire – I could barely understand one word in twenty) and met him there. It’s a very small counter-seating sort of place, so typically London-uncomfortable, and on this day made even more uncomfortable by the open fires blasting from behind the counter (I pitied the cooks). I wonder how bar seats became so popular in restaurants. I suppose they take up less space than ordinary chairs, but being short I find them profoundly uncomfortable and undignified.
The food, however, was good, thanks to the few-years-old trend towards big flavours and high heat. A raw beef larb and langoustines with mint and nam pla was light and delicious, and were followed by claypot noodles and grilled mackerel which were also very good, though perhaps less exciting. We then went to Gelupo for ice cream. This is in a formerly grimy and glum, now just glum, alleyway in Soho, and was our favourite place for ice cream in London. It is still excellent, and my ricotta, chocolate and pepper cone was yummy. Then we wandered through Soho and Mayfair to arrive at Fenwick’s, the most manageable department store, to see if there was anything in the summer sales – nothing. It used to be a good place to look; small, never crowded, and with a decent selection, but felt rather bland this time; moreover, I am still not used to thinking in pounds so felt expensive.
Next we strolled up to Marylebone High Street and popped into La Fromagerie for some breathtakingly expensive produce. LF maintains its trick of nearly causing one’s heart to seize upon being presented with the bill for a pat of butter and a handful of tomatoes.
Onwards to Regent’s Park where the Gentleman Friend showed me St John’s Lodge, a beautiful tucked away little garden tucked away that relatively few know about. It was filled with purple flowers, and was beautiful. Then a bus back to the house, where we watched France defeat Argentina and Uruguay defeat Portugal, both satisfying results (for me). Although on principle I normally support non-Europeans over Europeans, the Argentinians might as well be European, and France was a pleasure to watch.
Then a couple of episodes of Atlanta accompanied by La Fromagerie’s cherry and apple pies, and to bed.