Weekends, I have come to realise, are much like the buses
that stop outside the gym and whizz my tired legs the 10 minutes up the road to
my front door, the sofa with a well needed cup of tea. Not only because they
are, after a week filled with Legs Bums and Tums induced torture (I am sure
that bandana wearing demon-woman is trying to kill me), a very welcome break
for said legs, bum and tum, but because no matter how many weeks you laze about
in the park with a magazine and a bag of tortilla chips all on your tod, the
excitement, and the visitors (like the proverbial bus) all seem to come at
once.
This weekend, was one of those excitement filled ones, with a house full of guests and time to do whatever the hell we wanted. Yup, bustling for attention was not just one visitor, not two, not even three, but FOUR suitcase toting sightseers, all after a bit of big-smoke glamour and, as is my custom, serious amounts of time spent sipping on cocktails and stuffing our faces.
The first through the door, a fully-subscribed member of my
VIP guest-list, brunch companion of choice (as you can read here), was my
boyfriend. The second was my mum. The third my Mum’s friend, affectionately
referred to as ‘Auntie Kim’ (much to said boyfriend’s confusion), and the
fourth my best buddie from uni who, when not sunbathing at her swimming pool in
Dubai, is gallivanting around the world living the glamorous life of an air
hostess. Yes. Very different people. Very different ideas; a sentiment summed
up by the speed at which my boyfriend, the rose between four thorns, of course;
escaped to the relative safety of the pub, football and some male company on
Saturday night...
But, despite spending most of the weekend wishing I was
Bernard with his time-travelling watch; I absolutely bloody love having
visitors. Not just because I have someone to partake in my sharing bag of
Doritos, but because it is the very best excuse to go to, and for the most
part, eat at, some of my favourite spots in this wonderful city. Breakfast,
lunch, dinner, (not forgetting any elevenses, afternoon tea or midnight feasts
in between), I am suffering from a crippling addiction to seeking out hidden, remarkable
little places that are dishing up the most amazing, exciting food (and
cocktails/wines/G&Ts, of course) across the capital. I spend most of my
time researching the next street-food sensation or scanning the Cheap-eats
section of the Time Out website (this addiction, like most, is certainly not
good for my bank-balance), endlessly searching for the next place to send my
taste buds wild and entertain anybody willing enough to be my dining partner.
This weekend was no exception; it all began with, of course,
a poacher hash and bubblegum mascarpone rich brunch at my old favourite M1lk, before moving on for creamy banana milkshakes and sour cherry
studded, buttery custard tarts at cycle-mad cafe, Look Mum no Hands. This cafe-cum-bike shop, where the slate grey
wheels and shining metal spokes of a myriad of racing bikes queuing up to be
cured of their ailments in the onsite worshop, contrast strikingly with frothy,
bright pink crepe paper pop-poms and polka dot bunting that hang from the
ceiling; is, much like M1lk, forever busy. There is a lot to be said for a good
queue, in my book.
So if you, like me, can bear the bustle for a table in a
queue of lycra clad cyclists and scrunchie-sporting Shorditch trendies, this is
a wickedly unique place to partake in a bit of weekend chillaxing. And despite
being much too scared to jump on any bike that is not a Borris and confined to
the borders of Hyde Park myself, it is one of my favourite spots for a quick
coffee from the Square Mile Coffee Roasters, or lunch from their tantalising
selection of fresh, colourful salads and golden pies and pasties. The perfect
place to watch the Tour de France, you say? Well, funny you should mention it;
starting from Saturday they have a big screen which will be broadcasting the
whole shebang. Spot on.
Next up, after an afternoon of getting lost in between neon jelly
shoes and crochet crop tops in Primark and getting caught up in a very rainy
Gay Pride parade, was another very foodie destination- dinner at one of my very
favourite spots in Central London; Soho’s favourite Lebanese outpost, YallaYalla.
A tiny cafe of houmous and halloumi filled heaven, this is,
yet again, a queuing hotspot (how very English...), offering only just enough
velvet cushioned benches to seat around 18 hungry diners. But it is worth the
wait, and the squeeze; just get a bottle of Lebanese Rosé (who knew??) and
drink from tumblers in the neon signed, sex shop strewn alleyway outside. Which
is incidentally how I like to partake in all aperitifs. Not dodgy at all...*
But anyway, once you get inside, this place is the business.
Yup, with overflowing plates of smoky, pomegranate strewn baba ganoush and
creamy hummus crowned with the richest of lamb schwarma, teamed with charred,
freshly rolled pitta and crunchy, neon pink pickles, the food more than makes
up for the slightly shifty location. Follow with crispy balls of cumin rich
falafel, vibrant fattoush spiked with sharp red wine vinegar, fragrant sumac
and strewn with crispy pitta, golden halloumi with the saltiest black olives
and the very best, garlic heavy, homemade Lebanese sausages fried with fresh
tomatoes and torn flat leaf parsley, and you will be glad you stuck out the moments
of unintentional eye contact as customers of the shop advertising ‘models
upstairs’ go on their merry, if sheepish, way. The pitta, soft and steaming,
arrives in drones, as the food (if turning up slightly sporadically, and often
missing a few dishes) fills the tiny room with wafts of coriander, mint and harrisa.
It is easy to over-order; the plates are small, but the lamb stuffed, fried pittas
drizzled with pomegranate molasses and hunks of chilli rich, paprika coated
fried potato make for a seriously filling meal.
We chose two dishes each, and had just enough room to sample
the delectable ‘Damascus milk pudding’, a fragrant bowl of rose scented pannacotta-like
jelly; sweet, creamy and crowned with jewel like pomegranate seeds in a bright
red syrup. Not my boyfriends favourite, he tried it twice and on each occasion
did a rather accurate impression of the Churchill dog having a pessimistic
moment (Oh nooo, Oh no, no!), but it was a hit with the girls, if being a
little teeny bit sickly. Maybe it had something to do with the pink...
Full, happy and slightly delirious from all that pitta, the
(extremely reasonable) bill was paid and we too skipped down the unassuming
little lane and into the throngs of drag queens and rainbow flags of the West
End. Delicious, just keep tabs on what you order so you don’t end up shelling
out for fattoush or falafel that never made it up the dumbwaiter and onto your
table...
*(If all else fails, they have another branch just off
Oxford Street...)
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