Storms of White Stars and Emerald Fire
Even though I did not leave London, I suspect I will always remember yesterday as the Iberian New Year’s Eve.
The theme began in the afternoon when friends dragged me to the Golborne Road to initiate me into the pleasures of to Patisserie Lisboa. Renowned in London’s Lisboa for offering cakes as good as you would find in Lisboa itself, our visit was obviously blessed by one of the Portuguese speaking saints, as you can usually only get a seat if you are willing to queue in the doorway a glacial age. Inside the simple café, your eyes cannot help but gaze in awe at the counter filled with exuberant Portuguese wedding and baptism cakes, sugar sculptures and a glorious assortment of pastries.
Normally picking something to try would have been an incredible child-in-a-sweetshop dilemma. However, with Surreal Girl – a recent returnee from Lisbon – extolling the virtues of Pastel De Nata, the choice was easy and the right one. My giddy aunt! It was good. To call the Pastel De Nata I ate a custard tart would invite prosecution under the Trades Description Act 1968. To call it heavenly would be massively underselling it. Combined with a decent coffee and the good-natured buzz of the manly Angolan and Portuguese crowd, it was nothing short of a peak experience. When you are sick, being able to enjoy food becomes a life-affirming treasure.
After spoiling my taste buds, we flowed towards Ladbroke Grove to pick up provisions at a small Spanish shop called Fuente. There was something charming about struggling to orientate in an establishment that made no concession to the English language. Tins of smoked paprika adorned with the images of obscure saints, dozens of different jars of white asparagus, more types of chorizo than I ever knew existed and wall of olive oils as complex in the choices it offered any wine list made browsing the shelves a joy in itself.
By early evening a feast of olives, anchovy fillets and cuttlefish in their own ink, sweet potato tortilla and assorted treats was laid out on the table to be followed by fabulous paella. Given everything was being cooked by a Franco-Spanish gourmand, it was possibly fitting that the drink of the evening was Kir Royale made with a decent Penedès cava.
As the midnight fireworks went up from the millionaire mansions across the water, exploding in glorious storms of white stars and emerald fire, I knew I was lucky.
Last year I greeted the chimes of the New Year with such pain I honestly did not care whether I lived or died in the coming 12 months. Now, I raise a glass to the future with a mayfly rage and passion in my soul.
The theme began in the afternoon when friends dragged me to the Golborne Road to initiate me into the pleasures of to Patisserie Lisboa. Renowned in London’s Lisboa for offering cakes as good as you would find in Lisboa itself, our visit was obviously blessed by one of the Portuguese speaking saints, as you can usually only get a seat if you are willing to queue in the doorway a glacial age. Inside the simple café, your eyes cannot help but gaze in awe at the counter filled with exuberant Portuguese wedding and baptism cakes, sugar sculptures and a glorious assortment of pastries.
Normally picking something to try would have been an incredible child-in-a-sweetshop dilemma. However, with Surreal Girl – a recent returnee from Lisbon – extolling the virtues of Pastel De Nata, the choice was easy and the right one. My giddy aunt! It was good. To call the Pastel De Nata I ate a custard tart would invite prosecution under the Trades Description Act 1968. To call it heavenly would be massively underselling it. Combined with a decent coffee and the good-natured buzz of the manly Angolan and Portuguese crowd, it was nothing short of a peak experience. When you are sick, being able to enjoy food becomes a life-affirming treasure.
After spoiling my taste buds, we flowed towards Ladbroke Grove to pick up provisions at a small Spanish shop called Fuente. There was something charming about struggling to orientate in an establishment that made no concession to the English language. Tins of smoked paprika adorned with the images of obscure saints, dozens of different jars of white asparagus, more types of chorizo than I ever knew existed and wall of olive oils as complex in the choices it offered any wine list made browsing the shelves a joy in itself.
By early evening a feast of olives, anchovy fillets and cuttlefish in their own ink, sweet potato tortilla and assorted treats was laid out on the table to be followed by fabulous paella. Given everything was being cooked by a Franco-Spanish gourmand, it was possibly fitting that the drink of the evening was Kir Royale made with a decent Penedès cava.
As the midnight fireworks went up from the millionaire mansions across the water, exploding in glorious storms of white stars and emerald fire, I knew I was lucky.
Last year I greeted the chimes of the New Year with such pain I honestly did not care whether I lived or died in the coming 12 months. Now, I raise a glass to the future with a mayfly rage and passion in my soul.
Labels: Golborne Road, New Year’s Eve, Pastel De Nata
5 Comments:
what a lovely post...so glad you had a wonderful night! Happy New Year...
Everything that happens to you sounds so beautiful, even when it's tragic. You're a French movie.
What an excellent start to the new year. It all sounds very exotic to me. I was just sitting her thinking of a fried chicken sandwich I had a couple of days ago at a chain restaurant that caters mostly to rednecks and heavy smokers. I’m sort of embarrassed about it now, but not so much that I won’t go back for more. Sadly, almost every food item you mentioned is off limits to me now. I’ve been struck down, or more accurately, my menu options have been struck down by gout. Among others, shellfish, crustaceans, beef and beef sauces and a host of my favorite vegetables, all gone forever. As an added Karmic twist, it seems the only meat products that I can eat are overcooked chicken and rendered hamburger meat. It’s a good thing I like chicken, or as we refer to it in these parts, “yard bird.”
You've missed your calling as a food critic. Glad to see you back.
Cheers to new beginnings, David!
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