Brick Lane Beigel Bake: A Proper Bagel in Crumpet Territory

I know what you're thinking. A proper Jewish bakery in London? What? Quizzical faces all around, right? Believe it, folks. Enter Brick Lane Beigel Bake. Turns out, Shoreditch, where the spot is located, used to be a Jewish outpost in London. Who knew? Odd spelling aside (must be a Yiddish UK thing), I had to check it out.

Brick Lane Beigel Bake (don't pretend that isn't really fun to say) is situated in the middle of one of the most vibrant markets in the city, on Sundays at least. That's the day when Petticoat Market, both Old and New Spitalfields, Brick Lane and several other unnamed markets all spring to live within walking distance of each other, featuring plenty of good bargains, unusual finds, copious ethnic street food, and crowds of both artsy tourists and funky locals alike. And yet, in the middle of all this hustle and bustle, the unassuming Bake still has a queue out the door most of the time. It doesn't look like much from the outside, or the inside either for that matter, but something good must be going on to draw that kind of a crowd.

Bagel enthusiast with a healthy appetite and sense of curiosity that I am, I had to taste it for myself. Imagine my delight when I discovered not only is the Bake delicious, but reasonably priced and open 24 hours. Their salt beef is apparently the stuff of legend. I wouldn't know, not being a salt beef fan, but their smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel? To die for, at a bank-breaking pound sixty-five. Lunch for under two quid? Sign me up, mate.

Even after my taste treat rode around in my bag for an hour as I carted it home, this baby was delectable. Everything a bagel should be, in fact: eggshell-hard on the outside, chewy on the inside, with a thick schmear of real, rich cream cheese (none of that low-fat stuff for Brick Lane), and three, count 'em, three long slices of smoked salmon topping it all off. The verdict? This is one sandwich I'm more than happy to queue up for. Especially if I find some loose change in my pocket.

Fernando & Wells: the Perfect Flat White

now isn't that a thing of beauty? 

Sometimes, you just need a cup of coffee. But not just any cup of coffee. A proper, foamy, frothy, full-bodied, ceramic-mugged cup o' glory. Enter the flat white.

The flat white is the Down Under take on a cappucino, still using espresso as its base, but topped with microfoam instead of dry foam. Quick tutorial: microfoam is obtained by heating the milk to a lower temperature (typically 60-70 degrees Celsius), retaining fat and proteins in the milk which contribute to a silkier, sweeter flavor and thicker head than the large-bubbled, often tasteless dry foam often characteristic of a cheap cappu. In recent years, the flat white has gained popularity throughout the UK, and is often served with "latte art" on top, a design painted into the foam. And man, is it tasty.

A multitude of coffee shops (including that dreaded corporate giant, Starsucks) have started carrying the flat white recently, probably in keeping with the rise of sophisticated coffee bars in London. Being the coffee snob that I am, I had to have the best and the brightest, so I headed to Fernandez & Wells' espresso bar, a Soho institution touted as one of London's best cafes.

Now, given that I desperately sought a respite from gale-force winds and driving rain at the moment I found F&W, my perception of its majesty might be somewhat, shall we say, biased. But this place is pretty much all that an espresso bar should be. Menu items are listed in black marker on mirrors behind the bar, and the coffee selections are limited to the categories of beverage they offer (espresso, tea, drip) so customers in the know can request their style to order. An array of both hot and cold artisanal sandwiches and cakes were piled high along the blonde wood bar, accented nicely by a red countertop behind. Seating is provided by a bench across the opposite wall, with several industrial steel-style cafe tables and a few chairs scattered around. This tiny establishment can probably hold twenty people, max. In the rain, push to twenty-five. Humanity, after all.

And the coffee? Delicious. My flat white arrived with a charming swirly-heart on top which I hated to ruin by stirring in a spoonful of raw sugar. Lucky enough to snag a table, I cozied up with a book and my cup and sat happy as a little clam, enjoying my reading with one ear out for the playful banter of the black-and-white clad barristas, new-age folk music and the hum of conversation burbling in the background. Situated down a twee alleyway, this place is for those in the know, and the clientele reflected the funky flavor of Soho residents and frequenters.

All in all? A most excellent way to spend a rainy afternoon in London. My hour or so in Fernando & Wells must have been the most relaxing period of my entire London tenure. That is, until I had to battle the rest of the sodden public for a tube ride home.

A Proper Roast: The Adventure

I confess: I'm having an illicit love affair with Yorkshire pudding. For the uninitiated, Yorkshire pudding isn't a pudding at all, in either the British (dessert catch-all) or American (goopy gelatinous variety) sense. The closest Stateside comparison I can come up with is a popover: light, airy, biscuit-type thing that comes with the almighty Sunday Roast, assuming the roast is worth its salt. And this week, I needed me some Yorkshire pud-lovin'.

the little buggers themselves. Don't they look tasty? 

Thus inspired, I decided to partake in what I consider one of Britain's greatest inventions: the Sunday Roast. Touted as a taste of home for those far afield, an excellent hangover cure and an excuse to lounge all afternoon eating and drinking copious amounts of delectable fare over the Sunday paper, the Roast is a lovely tradition to enjoy, particularly on a cold and blustery Sunday afternoon or evening. Check and check for yesterday's weather, so I grabbed a friend and off we went in search of fabulous feasting.

Alas, not our destination. Better luck next time.

So we went. And we went. And we wandered all around Shoreditch in search of The Carpenter's Arms, an out-of-the-way hidey hole of a pub. My American companion and I are of the same mind: that tucked-away places tend to be of a higher calibre than those on the high street, and we haven't been disproven yet. The side effect, of course, of this mindset is that we spend a lot of time wandering around. But! But! We did find our destination without too much trouble, thanks in large part to my friend's blackberry and its mapping feature. God bless handheld computers. Sadly, our rejoicing was cut short by two thick chalk lines drawn through the roast portion of the chalkboard menu. Foiled, by golly.

But we would not be deterred! After all, this was a quest, and we were hungry. Very hungry. And cold. But not, it turns out, too much of either to wander around Shoreditch for somewhere in the neighborhood of another two hours before reaching our next destination: The Owl and the Pussycat.

Compliments of flickr. Hey, it was nighttime.

With our last ounces of strength and patience, we hoofed it up to the dimly-lit creatively decorated upstairs dining room, fully equipped with rough-hewn wooden tables and rockabilly wait staff and bar that balanced on the edge of funky and frumpy. Was it worth it? Oh, yeah. First, the bread basket. Do you know how rare is to find a bread basket at a London pub, particularly one with chewy granary bread and soft, spreadable butter? This was heaven on a little wooden plate, my friend. A generous pour of red wine (mediocre, but this is Britain, after all) soon arrived for me and a pint of something strong and tasty for my friend, and we were well on our way. Next: the main event. Let me sum it all up by saying I don't remember the last time I ate beef, but if I could have my choice of ways to break my moo-cow fast, this would be it all over again. And again. Our plates (or should I say, platters) arrived heaped with two thick-cut slabs of beef, tender enough to cut with a butter knife and perfectly rosy in the center, a modest pile of roasted root vegetables, duck-fat roasted potatoes and shredded red cabbage in wine, all swimming in dark, rich gravy and topped off with a Yorkshire pudding crown the size of my fist. Success, my friends. Ample success.

see, there they are again. With their buddy Mr. Beef. 

Because you can't have a proper Sunday roast without dessert, we opted to go soup-to-nuts on this one and pile more bounty into our already-bursting tummies. I went for the "lavender burnt cream with wholemeal shortbreads," hoping for something exciting and delicious. As I soon discovered, "burnt cream = creme brulee." Awesome. And it was. Oh, it was. Sweet, flowery, and slightly spicy, the lavender balanced out the creaminess perfectly, all topped off with that burnt sugar I could eat all day.

I'll be honest, the adventure wasn't cheap. I wouldn't be able to afford this sort of thing every week, particularly not on my current student's salary (snicker), but for a special occasion? Definitely worth the trek. And hey, Sunday is a special occasion, right?

The best part? We staggered out of the Owl and Pussycat, our bloated bellies leading the way, and turned left out the door. There, literally two minutes down the street, was our metro stop. The only thing better than cozying up for the evening with a fabulous feast? Toddling home to your bed afterward without wandering two hours to get there. Overall? A well-orchestrated evening, indeed.

Travel: the way I see it

this is London 

I'm afraid I've neglected you a bit, my dear blog followers. Truth be told, I haven't been doing anything particularly blog-worthy, just wandering around this beautiful city and taking it all in while I'm here to do so. As those who know me well have probably noticed, I'm not one for touristy stuff. When I was teaching photography on the Putney student travel group, I tried to instill one lesson in my students: don't take the same photographs as everyone else. Don't just walk blindly around, snapping shots of this monument, that church, the same famous picture of the same famous stuff that thousands of people have seen and photographed thousands of times before. You might as well stay home and buy the coffee table book. Save yourself the money, the foot aches, the jet lag. Why take a photo of a photo? That's empty, meaningless, and worthless. If you spend all your time in a place trying to capture The Sights, you'll miss it entirely.

and this is London 

As far as I'm concerned, if you're going to experience a new city by running around madly trying to get to every tourist attraction, tick all the Must Do's off your list, you're going to be so busy Doing It that you'll forget to appreciate where you are. You'll forget that this place, this new place you're just now discovering, is home to someone. Someone sees these sights everyday. Someone walks past the Eiffel tower on his way to work. Someone else nods hello at Big Ben on the bus every morning. Someone else forgets to look at the pyramids because he's late to pick up his kids from school. What do the locals see in this "new" city? What do they do? What "sights" do they appreciate? When you stop to look at the things the tourists miss, that's where you'll really see a city. That's when you'll really be there.

and this is London, too 

When I travel, I like to find the pulse of a place. The heartbeat. I like to find the local cafes, the out-of-the-way pubs, the little markets where grandmothers do their shopping on a Saturday morning. I like to see the garbage collectors, the men in business suits outside the bank, the kids getting home from school. Sure, I'll take in a museum or an art gallery. I'll snap the requisite photos of the Important Stuff, but I always try to find a new angle, a different approach. There's nothing wrong with appreciating the monuments, museums, or memorials for which a place has become famous. But don't stop there. Don't let that be all you see, all you do.

it's all London, because it's all real

 A photo of Big Ben isn't a memory. But getting lost because you tried to take the train there yourself instead of the guided tour? Eating a kebab from the little stand down the street because it looked good, not the four-star Lonely Planet-recommended chain pub on the High Street?  You'll remember the people you saw on the train ride, the way your heart leapt when you finally, finally reached your destination all of your own volition. You'll remember the way the kebab tasted, and your excitement at discovering this little place, standing in line with the construction workers who eat here every day. The scents. The sounds. The feelings. Those are worth remembering. Those are the reasons to travel. At least, those are mine.