The other night Peter and I were wandering around The City - the equivalent, more or less, of NYC's Financial District. We ended up near Spitalfields Market, a big covered market that sells all kinds of produce. The area itself is where Jack the Ripper did some of his best work. I can't figure out if it's nice or trashy, since some streets had really beautiful, expensive homes on them and other streets directly opposite looked like total shitholes.
Peter used to work in the area, and we stopped by one of his favorite pubs. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that the woman who owns the pub spotted him right away and treated him like the prodigal son she never had.
We were starving, so she recommended a restaurant just down the street. I didn't have high hopes because I was in the mood for a fun, trendy place and I didn't see anything remotely fun or trendy.
Thankfully, I was wrong. We ended up having a great time in an awesome restaurant called St. John Bread and Wine, two doors down.
The interior was really spare yet somehow cozy. If they saw this horrible photograph that I took with my 0 megapixel phone camera, I'm sure they'd cringe in horror.
The fact that I considered my meal tasty is a testament to the chef, because I am a picky eater and I hate anything gamey or even mildly exotic. I really want to be, and should be, a vegetarian but my bloodlust for filet mignon rules that out. You'll understand, then, why I took one look at this menu that I smuggled out [and carefully shoved in my purse] and resigned myself to the breadsticks. Peter, on the other hand, was drooling like a big drooling thing over every single choice:
Jellied pig's head? Calf's brain? Smoked eel? Ox heart? Lamb tongues??????? What kind of sadistic animal killers are these people??? And who are the depraved freaks who eat this?
My husband, for one.
Since I didn't want to get thrown out and I was really loving the wine, I decided to keep my animal-rights views to myself. I did manage to find a dish of chickpeas, courgettes and creme fraiche that was so damn good - that with a dish of olives and another dish off the specials menu set me up quite nicely.
Meanwhile, Peter was frothing at the mouth.
We had the best dessert called a Summer Berry Jelly, which sounds like Jello gone bad, but it was intensely flavored and served with the most incredible handmade whipped cream ever. I finished the meal with a slab of outrageous blue cheese and was one very happy girl.
Turns out the place is a big hip artist hangout, too - so I was trendy without even knowing it.
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