I feel cheated every time I walk through Hampstead Heath and don’t run into an A-lister. Not to deter from the beauty of the Heath but in January, all that the blisteringly cold air is good for is crippling a bad hangover. I was hanging hard after a work do and all I craved was novelty, and perhaps a cuddle in reassurance that everything was going to be all right.
I was with my four eyed companion, whom I’ll refer to under the pseudonym ‘Four Eyes’ for the duration of this diatribe. The reason behind the cloak and dagger is simply that he’s a whinging little bitch at the best of times, and the very thought of his reaction to me divulging his name causes me pain; it’s not like the weed’s well known or anything. For those select parties tickled with curiousity, he’s named after a species of native Australian lawn; the name itself is packed with heavy Aboriginal connotations. I’m surprised I know this. After all, I’m a product of the Australian schooling system, where Aboriginal culture’s mediated from teacher to student through a collection of finger paintings, arguably depicting Goanna tracks. Thinking back, my only secondary education of Aboriginal culture involved an absent minded English teacher chucking on a copy of ‘Rabbit Proof Fence’ before heading to the car park for a prolonged ciggy break. Usually with the hagged French teacher in a rusted blue Volkswagon; not much space for love.
I didn’t find out about the criminality of Australian culture until conducting a wiki search, and that was years later. At the time the internet was still finding itself and porn wasn’t readily available like it is today. So kids like me had no real call to use the internet since there wasn’t much call for idol searching online.
Back to the Heath.
Four Eyes and I spent the day crudding up our shoes whilst walking through former paths, since transformed by the elements into pools of black mud. We snapped some pictures and pleasantly greeted passers by; none of them, not even their dogs near celebrity status.
We walked through Kentish Town and into Camden searching for a light drink and if possible some decent grub. We were of the right mindset walking into Camden. Our cameras (DLSR and iPhone) were out and at the ready to catch whatever bestial performance we’d happen upon. @glumscenes received a stellar image via Instagram of a fountain forming a moat around a mountain of chocolate wrappers, nero coffee containers and moldy bread with used tissues and bile serving as mortar. The hill of human filth was vile to the eyes, but I’m thankful for the rain and cool climate of the day that limited the profile of potential odours.
As we approached Regent Park we stumbled upon a chalkboard sign; ‘Wine Bar’ written upon it, in thin white, italic capitals. Unbeknownst to us at the time, the establishment we’d entered was a restaurant of the Gordon Ramsay conglomerate. My first experience with Gordon Ramsay was on free to air Canadian television. I was stowed away in meagre accommodation in the middle of Buttfuck, Saskatchewan during a never ending blizzard that the locals called winter. The only thing that grows in such temperatures is bitterness and the suicide rate, and since I’m still here I should point out that it was there, in that small room, that I incubated, harvested and nurtured my unfathomable contempt for the North American accent.
Nothing thawed my heart more than watching ‘Hell’s Kitchen’, where a British chef is shown constantly losing his shit at foolhardy American chefs, often making them cry.
I’ve liked Gordon Ramsay for a long time.
The York and Albany has a recently developed their annexed side room into a cheeky little wine bar with an open kitchen type thingy going on. Our idea was to grab a bottle of red–perhaps some Charcruterie–and chill with a view of Regent Park while the dismal sun faded further into the famous London cloudscape. But the interior of this place…
The first drop was a bottle of Château des Oliviers–Reserve Des Châteauneuf–Du–Pape 2008. No decanter needed for this bad boy, just the look on Four Eyes face. He looked like a doe-eyed Japanese anime character, only the expression humorously magnified on account of his prescription. I felt the same way, but I wasn’t visibly gushing.
The Charcuterie came moments before the wine. There are a number of simple tells, indicating a good choice of restaurant. When your wait staff are able to identify all the meats on a charcruterie selection, it shows they care.What was seen to that point indicated that the staff were well educated and took their job seriously. Of course, I didn’t notice then to what extent.
Four Eyes noticed too. We had a long back and forth in our little sanctuary, revisiting the topic every so often throughout the night. With one year left in London for me, there was a lot of dreamy talk about travel and what of London we hadn’t seen.
A bottle in, I made the joke that I’d booked the place out especially for Four Eyes’ birthday. On a Monday night, even the best places don’t get much foot traffic. ‘Twas a good joke until a mother and her litter came in and ruined it. I believe I snarled at the time.
One of our main interactions was with an Italian named Max. Of course, this was not his full name. Maximillion found that many people in London expressed difficulty pronouncing his name coherently. The English counterpart somehow always managed to discard the latter portion of the name (million); probably a subconscious effort to block an unsavoury reminder of insurmountable money problems. Maximillion often made jokes regarding language barriers, of which he’d receive nervous laughter in response. But as a student of economics and possessing a firm knowledge of the rent prices in London… Needless to say he knew better. To make things easier, Max shortened his handle years ago. Though, it was mainly to rid himself of the sullen looks he received when meeting British people.
Will came into the piece early on, when we were enquiring about a nearby chalkboard, highlighting British wine. Will’s the head chef down that way, and we talked and talked about his passions for local produce and sourcing quality. Will had recently come across Cobble Lane Cured Meats up in Stoke Newington. I know I’m not doing the pork ribs justice in description, but imagine this; 4-5 hours on 150 degree heat, affectionately marinated in a mixture of pear vinegar, cider, ginger, apple, and a touch of cardamom. This is a vague and distant memory in the haze of the Napa Valley First Press Chardonnay chapter of the evening. It was our second bottle by Max’s recommendation and with 4 servings of the ribs… Life was good.
By the time we hit the Château Siaurac–Lalande de Pomerol 2009 Bordeaux – decantered by the knowledgable Italian – we found ourselves doubling over the wine bar food menu in an uncontrollable, inexhaustible execution of gluttony. Our lips stained red, our bellies at the point of bursting, our insatiable appetites were eventually conquered.
Will swore he’d double his efforts with the ribs, should we return. He saw potential where I could not; they were the best servings of pork I’d ever had. Of course we’d return. That much was assured. What concerned us was the company we’d bring. To this date we’ve been running mock invite lists. It plays on my mind, and will continue to do so until we get it right.
In the interim, I’ve been doing my own explorations of this vast and disturbing city. Each one finished with a few bottles of wine and Charcruterie around town. All delicious, but none exceptional in light of our original binge. Of course, it never hurts to try.
Four Eyes and I remain friends to this day.
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