In Berlin

It's exactly a year since I moved to Berlin. I think that makes it time to start writing again. Now that the boring FOB observations are out of the way (so much meat, graffiti, trees, space... customer service is a bit rude isn't it... flats are gorgeous, but hard to find... no one rushes anywhere... bicycles are great... cake is amazing...), time to start life in Berlin.

Breakfast: The new dinner

Sorely overlooked as a meal, I predict breakfast is due a massive revival.

Even if not, it should be. A work day is an entirely different thing when preceded with in a cafe with friends, a long black and a slice of crispy, melty, light, fluffy banana bread. I didn't even think I liked banana bread until this arrived dusted with cinnamon and icing sugar.

Then, then, you can walk into work slowly, with time to spare, while you smile serenely at the blur of couriers, commuters and taxis... and still be the first person in the office. (Spare your colleagues the smug smile though.)

Suddenly your life is not just home-work-home. It's home-cafe-kiss-kiss-coffee-food-chats-iknowi'llbelatebuti'llhaveanothercoffeeanyway-chats-kiss-kiss-relaxedwalktowork-work-home. It's even possible to remain awake while you work and [gasp] even enjoy your day. 


For the past few weeks a few of us have been systematically ticking off all of Time Out's favourite cafes in Soho. It was their idea. I thought they were crazy and snoozed my way through the first few, laughing while Michael dragged himself out of bed to go for breakfast at this stupid hour. Then one morning I finally managed to drag myself out of bed too (OK, Michael did, by my feet) and I at last discovered the joy of being awake before a large proportion of the world, and having quality time with friends before work.


Another reason communal breakfast is good: there's no booze. (So far.) This means that all conversations are carried out in an entirely sober fashion and the risk of embarrassing yourself in public diminishes dramatically. 


Cappucino in Foxcroft and Ginger (my favourite so far, not necessarily for the atmosphere, but for getting both the food and the coffee so absolutely spot on, a delicate balancing act that few get right).

Fresh, warm pomegranate muffins in Kaffeine.

Crunchy homemade muesli and fresh fruit, made with love at warm, bustly Lantana.

Crispy croissant and hearty cappucino (I see a face too) at Tapped and Packed (called only 26 outside). Liked the homely jars sitting on the table and tacky souvenir spoons on every saucer.

Bright sunshine on a leafy latte outside The Espresso Room on Great Ormond Street. The first petit dejeuner of the year en plein air. 

Beautiful scrambled eggs wolfed down feverishly after an ill-advised 'night before' at Milk Bar, the original Antipodean cafe I believe (after its sister Flat White). Myself and my friend Julie involuntarily screamed with joy when they arrived causing the cafe lady to laugh at us somewhat.

And these were accompanied by a rather splendid piece of macchiato art (which tasted just as splendid). Those lovely Ozzies and NZers have given London a gift of great coffee and cafes for which we should be truly grateful. Banish all thoughts of Castlemaine 4X and crocodile wrestling, it's coffee-induced happiness that they should be remembered for. I'm writing this from Berlin and can assure you that London is blessed with an unbeatable coffee culture. Berlin is full of wonderful cafes but it's baffling me how they can get the coffee so wrong, so often. A few years ago I probably wouldn't have noticed but I now know that the coffee bit of my tongue has been royally spoiled by London.

Wilton's must be mentioned (again) here. By far my favourite place to be on a Sunday morning. 

Even if they did spell my name wrong.

Then, from nowhere, just as I was about to move to Berlin and leave all this behind, came a surprise trip to the Wolseley. I had been boring everyone for ages about this place, having the name in my head somehow, and thinking it was a London institution for hundreds of years. In fact it only opened in 2003. And my am I glad it did. What a suitably regal and elegant end to our little breakfast club, a very kind treat from our friends Julie and Karl, who will be very much missed. Julie's face was priceless when her haggis came out swimming in brown sauce. 'Yelp' is the only word that can describe the sound that came out of her mouth. It seems the subtle flavours of this English staple aren't quite appreciated by French palates.

Doesn't that just warm your soul? Looking again at all of them, I feel I am one of the luckiest people alive. Yep, it doesn't take much. A cup of good coffee and a crispy croissant and I'm happy. I leave you with the most sensible advertising message I've seen in a long time, put up by students on the route of on of my post-breakfast walks to work.

Paddington Street Gardens: A secret spot to sit and sip

It's Thursday. You've worked Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, you still find yourself working. What to do? Why a little lunchtime drinking trip to the park methinks.

Paddington Street Gardens is a little hidden gem that's perfect for reminding yourself there's a world out there. Me and Michael decided Thursday was a suitable day for our boozy plan. It felt quite wrong, until I realised I am not 16 anymore, and in fact perfectly entitled to do such a thing. Only now it's better, because I can do it with artisan bread, prosciutto, sushi rolls and small bottles of wine from Waitrose.

It's the little pleasures.

Wicklow Way: Worth waiting for

On a trip home a couple of months ago I was reminded how beautiful Ireland can be when the weather's behaving itself.

This is the Guinness Lake. So-called some say because it looks like a pint of the black stuff, while the rest say it's because the stunning house nestled beside it is owned by the Guinness family. It seems alcohol is good for you after all.

Sigh. And if this wasn't reason enough to move back to Dublin immediately, my mum's cooking surely is.

All the same, I arrived back to London to be greeted by another Jamie Oliver iPhone App Special (Thai green curry this time) from Michael, so I really can't complain.

Blogs, bloggers, Christmas and copious amounts of wine

From time to time you can't help but ask yourself why it is that you do a blog. Recognition? Reassurance? Boredom? For me, it was a lot about reminding myself why I live in London. It can be all too much sometimes with long working hours, nose-to-nose tube journeys and constant police sirens signalling fresh nastiness in the area. It helps to force yourself to sit and think about what it is exactly that makes this such a great city. Why do this in public? Recognition? Reassurance? Boredom? I'm not sure.


Anyway I don't think I qualify as 'doing a blog' exactly, having given up after a few short months. A couple of months ago, my laptop was stolen and I just couldn't be bothered anymore, took it like a sign for a fresh offline start. But yesterday I was very kindly invited to the London food bloggers' Christmas lunch by the lovely Uyen from Fernandez & Leluu (thank you!). Chatting to some of the faces behind names like the London Foodie, Maison Cupcake, Hungry in London, Miss Immy's London and Grubworm gave me the impetus to start again. Fascinating listening to them talk about why they blog, and keep blogging, and to hear that so many of them seem to be in entirely unrelated professions, like banking and law. Strange. But then I thought maybe it's the creative outlet they need - or just that they have the spare cash to keep eating out in nice places. Amazing to find out they were real people too. People say the internet breeds loners but the 50 friendly and really quite normal people who stepped out from behind their computer screens on Sunday would beg to differ.

Lunch was at The Ship in Wandsworth, a pub I'm happy to have trekked across London to discover. While the walk across a roundabout and through McDs drive-through was a bit worrying, it turned out to be a lovely, warm, welcoming pub. Huge and sat right next to the river. The food was suitably suitable for the discerning palates of 50 hungry foodies. Was thinking they must have been nervous about inviting such digitally-promiscuous food bloggers, but if they were they needn't have been.

A surprise amuse-bouche (crab cake I think) was followed by a gorgeous ham hock terrine with black pudding, kumquat jam and celeriac ribbons, then duck artfully poised on the plate like something out of the Krypton factor (with Yorkshire pudding, brought out when plate envy took hold), a surprise cheese plate then turned up, followed by Christmas pudding which, though feeling stuffed as a Christmas turkey by this stage, would have been rude not to eat.

All the while, an endless supply of wine, artfully teamed with each dish kept sloshing its way into my glass. Finished with orange Madeira dessert wine. Oh god there was a bloody mary at the beginning too wasn't there? It was a long afternoon. But food aside, the highlight had to be a swarm of starlings that performed aerial cloud tricks over the river out the back. They looked like a shoal of fish swishing around an invisible sky shark, totally mesmerising.

They even spelled out Happy Christmas for us... or was that one bloody mary too many...

Amarino: Gelato likea mamma used to make

After a dinner at a vegan restaurant it's only natural that your thoughts turn immediately to food. I mean, it's tasty and all but a plate of broccoli, carrots and brown rice just doesn't quite do it. We decided ice cream was our only saviour and luckily, the finest gelato place Soho could muster arose from the fog to greet our sugar-starved eyes. 

Amorino.

To my wonderment, the ice-cream man said I could put as many flavours as I wanted in my little copa. He became my best friend, ever. I was so excited my hands are a bit wobbly taking the picture, but below you will see I managed to squish in four. It was £3.20, which is enough for one and a half Magnum Temptations in fairness. But far far better. 

Blackberry, biscuit, coffee and chocolate. You had to be there to really understand how good these were, but rest assured we were left standing on the street drinking the dregs from the cups like winos from a gin bottle.

People: Lone London rangers

Saw both men in the same day. Felt poignant but not entirely sure why.

 

Wilton Way Coffee Shop: Caffeine, cake and cosiness

Can there be anything better than this sight...

accompanied by this...

together with a lazy Sunday afternoon?

Wilton Way coffee shop near London Fields is a gorgeous thing. (Are all good things in London called Wilton's?) It manages to get everything right. Woody but not too woody, cool but not to cool, busy but usually not too full. The coffee is fantastic too. It's owned by the Climpson's people I think, but the quality of the coffee seems to be better in Wilton's. I only live a few streets away but I actually want to move to nearer this place because it adds such a nice neighbourhood feel to the area. Then there's the wacky second hand shop next door that's always good for a browse (although I never quite want to buy anything - except the old photo albums, but can't quite justify £20 a go).

Even though I don't go very often it's just nice knowing it's there. A little pricey but worth it to feel completely at home, in the company of good coffee and food.

Aubin & Wills Cinema: Pull up a foot rest and enjoy the show

Cinema doesn't get more comfy than this.

In the usual weekly bid to escape the dreaded Sunday feeling, we took ourselves off to the new Aubin and Wills cinema in Redchurch Street to see The Illusionist. It's along the lines of the Electric Cinema in Portobello, but less of the leather and more of the living room. Comfy couches, cushions, foot rests, even blankets for the knees. Nice. I can personally recommend seat A5, front row, dead centre. Basically, you're in the movie yourself. And of course, as in every good living room, there are wine coolers beside every chair.

Which of course makes you buy a bottle of wine. Rose in our case (rosay, not sure how to make an accent). The toilets are like something out of a horror movie, but apart from that, Aubin and Wills is now firmly added to our cinemas of choice list. Along with the Rio, the Electric and that amazing massive cinema in Chelsea that I think is a Curzon. Oh and that Cineroleum thing that I need to go to while it's there.

Yes and the film was great too. An artpiece more than anything, so beautiful. And sad. But mainly beautiful.

Megafaun: Megamusicians, megabeardy, megabrilliant

A.ma.zing. I've been having long, serious conversations with myself to find out if this really is the case, or if it was the two and a half pints of coke I'd drunk, but I am thinking that this may well have been the best gig I have ever been to. One of those nights where you wonder how you can possibly walk into an air-conditioned lobby the next morning, and let the lift doors close behind you. There's a life out there to be lived, hands to be clapped, feet to be stomped.

Such are the cruel temptations of live music.

My own incredible profundity aside, however, Megafaun are truly one of the best bands you could hope to see live. Dry the River supported and I had actually quite liked these young spindly minstrels (the singer had a strong voice, was suitably riddled with nervous ticks and, though a few parent/forest/bible references too many, his lyrics were lovely and clever). But when the musical equivalent of the Marx Brothers came on, the anguished singer/songwriter act suddenly looked really quite silly. These guys had no time for maudlin. They stood there like they had just walked into your bedroom and wanted to get you out of bed with a tune. Didn't care what you thought, just gave you their hearts on a plate and let you make what you will of it. Made me crave America, where men are men and you are who you are and if you want to sit and tell a stranger on the train about your divorce and your hernia operation, then you do, and that's that.

They started with some kind of weird but mind-blowing prog-folk thing, long, with gratuitous one-note guitar solos. Sounds odd but really worked, started slow then built and built until suddenly you found your heart had stopped. Up to this point you think they're an intense bunch of musos who take their art very seriously indeed. Until they open their mouths. (And the great thing is they're all as vocal as one another.) They chatted about shoes, hats, the Slaughtered Lamb occult light... actually I can't remember what else but I remember laughing a lot. None of them seemed to have any ego at all, just a willingness to have a laugh and play some tunes.

They finished by unplugging their instruments and huddling at the front singing gospel songs, so that no matter where you were in the room you felt like you were round the campfire with a few mates. At one point I thought we might never leave the room again because none of us would let them stop playing. Me and Michael went up to them like schoolchildren afterwards telling them how much we loved them, we couldn't help ourselves. Phil Cook the banjo player said with a massive grin on his face, "we're just friends having fun", and actually you'd believe him.