Ripe London

Something's Brewing

You don't drink, don't smoke
What do you do
The subtle innuendos follow
There must be something inside
– Goody Two Shoes by Adam Ant

“Oh, go on, Jess.”

There was that little voice again.  The one on my right shoulder.  The one with the pitchfork.

This is how I found myself saying yes to coconut beer at Belgo Centraal this past weekend, despite the fact that I don’t really like beer.  Except for an odd Guinness phase circa 1999, I can’t remember the last time I had a pint.  It goes back to my thoughts on eating’s cheating.  As always, I’d rather eat my calories than drink them.

“Oh, go on, Jess.”

And then I did the unthinkable: I let someone choose for me.  And to my relief, the word was “coconut.”  I like coconut ice cream.  And coconut shakes.  Especially because they remind me of Koh Phangan.

This thing was sweet, piña-colada sweet (not my words).  I drank it slowly so that it stretched all the way across the roast cod and spinach mash, and then some.

Then the monk came to see if we wanted dessert.

“Oh, hold on, Jess.”

There was that other little voice.  The one that sometimes knows better.  The one that knew something extra tempting was just around the corner.

Belgo Centraal is at 50 Earlham Street, WC2H 9LJ. Oh, go on.

Full Circle

How come nobody ever told me how much I would like Amsterdam?  A cyclist's playground with the café culture of Paris, it’s altogether the most pleasant city I’ve been in so far. I was visiting Andrea, who thoughtfully art directed the photo of me with a syrup-filled flowerpot at a total tourist trap: The Pancake Bakery.  It was her idea, even though she admitted she hadn’t been in over two years – locals just don’t do this kind of thing. 

And these are nothing like my pancakes.  Each one comes out blanketing a dinner plate and is – dare I say it – shareable.  We ordered banana and apple, so I thought it was also time to revisit that old post.  Is dating different for the Dutch?  Andrea, still her fantastic self, is still single.  But she’s British, and she lived in New York before moving to Amsterdam.  She can’t figure out how dating works there.  I need to interview some Dutch dudes.  The Pancake Bakery is clearly not the right venue. 

Later that night, after a wonderful Thai dinner at Me Naam Naan, we meet two of Andrea’s male friends at Lime, a laid-back (if you don’t count the disco ball) cocktail bar.

Both Ben and Jerry (clearly not their real names) are polar opposites.  Ben is your typical towering Dutch prototype whose last girlfriend was a runway model.  Jerry is a self-proclaimed “Little Dutch” who wants to know how Ben got a runway model.  They’re so different, yet the only thing they're both taking home these days are those breathtakingly practical Dutch bikes.

        “So what are British men like?” asks Ben with a little mischievous glint in his eye. 
        “Well, it’s not really fair stereotyping,” I respond.
        “Oh, go on,” he enthuses, “Be narrow minded.”
        “Ok.  They have a good sense of humour,” I offer.

And then I launch into a summary of that old post, only to realise that what I wrote over two years ago is not really relevant.  Nobody can seem to figure out the (un)dating game – here, there, anywhere.  Maybe there's nothing to figure out after all.

We're a little like pancakes.  Triple-stacked or single layered, they’re all made of flour and eggs. Cultural differences aside, people are fundamentally the same – we all have the same fears and the same desire to be loved.  The unexpected touches are what keep things delicious.

A fine day in Amsterdam:
The Pancake Bakery is at Prinsengracht 191-A, 1015 DS
Me Naam Naan is at Koningsstraat 29, 1011 ET
Lime is at Zeedjik 104

Heart Art

The term “public displays of affection” has always been a curious one to me.  A friend of mine who shall remain nameless has picked Trafalgar Square as her post-date make-out spot.  I find this funny, both because she has chosen one of the most public spots in London and because it’s adjacent to the National Gallery and the National Dining Rooms, a restaurant The Observer once said was a top spot for conducting an affair—precisely because locals tend not to go there (a mistake given the fine food and service).  Moreover, I also think it’s funny that one would pre-mediate a make-out spot, otherwise that other often-heard term – “get a room” – would hardly exist.  To me, the hallmark of PDAs is that they grab you in transit.

Which is why the new Love exhibit at the National Gallery failed to grab me.  The works in themselves are all worth seeing, but to me the pre-meditated quality of it removes the essential nature of affection: spontaneity.

Exhibit A: see this couple here.  The picture’s a bit blurry, because I actually felt I was intruding by taking it and so did a very hasty job.  Definitely not your typical PDA, but who's to say?  These two were in public, yet whatever they have is entirely private – completely theirs alone. 

To me, part of the thrill of living in such a public place is finding your own bit of privacy within it.  Go see the Love exhibit, by all means, then sit awhile in the Café in the Crypt below St. Martin-in-the-Fields.  It can be surprisingly quiet on a Sunday.  Afternoon tea is not the glitzy show you’d get at the posh hotels, but that’s precisely what makes it so yours.

“Love” is at the National Gallery until the 5th October, and admission is free.  It’s just opposite The Café in the Crypt below St. Martin-in-the-Fields at the north-eastern corner of Trafalgar Square.  Embrace the view.