… And Processed Cheese

I have this group of women friends that I, well, sort of worship. I knew them from college. We all worked together on the daily newspaper.

It only recently occured to me that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t actually friends with them.

Maybe it was that friend-ish-ness, where you later see yourself in a photo with them and realize: Weird, I am standing next to them, but not with them.

(Of course, we’ve all re-connected on Facebook and I am reliving that feeling again.)

This is true insecurity. That sudden feeling that one might not be what one believed all along.

When I was in London, working at the Warrington, I had a case of lucky ignorance. I had no idea that I was foisting myself upon a pack of wonderful and unsuspecting people that I now call friends. I was so sure that anyone would want to be friends with me that it didn’t occur to me for a minute that they wouldn’t. Or that the social norms of British tradition had been well trampled upon in my quest to join their table. Even in my awful yellow shirt.

The outcome, however, was wonderful. My British (some French, some South African, some Australian, but all Londoners) friends took me for who I was, because I was guileless. Ignorant is the other word for that, you know.

But when I feel AWARE, that’s when I suddenly find myself stumbling… and overthinking everything.

Like with this wonderful posse of writer-friends from my past who have reconvened. I am anxious to make someone happy to see me, yet, I keep missing the bus altogether.

Which is to Say…

Life is awkward and messy. Especially when overly processed.

Cheese is the same way.

You might also like:

1. Cubicle Days
2. Singapore Sweethearts
3. Weekends are for Lovers

Here’s a brief version of the story of how I met Tim and Peter… I’m thinking about them today.

I was working at the Warrington Hotel in London, which isn’t a hotel, but an epic pub in Maida Vale. Now owned by Gordon Ramsay.

It was autumn of 2004, and we’d only just arrived in London. I was still an ignoramus of British culture. I had no idea I shouldn’t be friendly to the people I was slinging drinks to. American cretin I was. I hadn’t read Kate Fox’s ultimately useful anthropolgy “Watching the English” from where I learned, eventually, that my job was to take money, pour beer without head exactly to the top of the glass, and agree/complain about the weather. Full stop.

So, I was discombobulated while working at the pub.

Smiling was NOT working, and neither was small talk.

Being American (during the Bush second term, natch) was full on FAIL.

Additionally, I had an extremely efficient yet apparently-annoying habit of making two or three customers’ drinks at the same time… a standard practice in American bars, but a practice that was the highest level of rudeness to the British highly-developed sense of queuing. To the untrained eye, it APPEARED to be a mob of people swarming around the 30 foot bar, all staring at me with 10 pound notes in their fingers. But every sweating man with loosened tie there knew which one of them arrived first, second, third, and so on. Harrumphing commenced if I accidentally turned my back while making a Pimms and soda and served someone out of order.

Sigh… The first few months meant a rough bartender’s adjustment.

So, me and my acid-yellow bar shirt were having a rollicking evening one Friday when a handsome, smiling face ordered two pints of lager.

Smiling? Hmmm.. Ahhh,yes. The accent. Decidedly NOT British. His partner hovered behind him. Handsome too. Too handsome to be British too. Gay and not cranky Brits! OK!

In Which I Make My Move

During the “pick up the glasses and empty ashtrays” portion of the evening, I found the boys again at their table. Fearlessly, I plonked myself down, undoubtedly savagely regarding the weather as “just fine and why is everybody complaining?” ha HAH! Even though blinded by the glare of my shirt, Tim and Peter were undoubtedly rendered helpless by my wit!

And that was the beginning of my — and soon, Colin’s  –  love affair with Tim and Peter. We adored dinner and drinking time with them, visited them in their country “estate” when they moved out of Maida Vale. We hottubbed and shared Indian food (not at the same time… eww-yyuck); grocery shopped (Peter elevates to an art form) and once watched in gleeful horror as an over-served man tumbled head over keester while leaning on a table that wasn’t there.

We shared our Thanks-mas-Hanukkah-Kwanz-Giving dinners with them and other friends.

I even accidentally flashed them at their wedding, certainly sealing their gay marital bonds even more securely.

Well, now Tim and Peter live FAR away in Singapore, and even with technology like Facebook and Skype, there are some distance and circumstances that can’t compensate for the snuggle-lovely warmth of close-friendship maintained over beer-soaked marble.

Miss you boys.

No related posts.

Here’s a new, non-regular segment for you that perhaps will help me cope with the grieving process of no longer living in London: English Things I Miss, subtitle, Though Not Necessarily So Much That I Would Move Back to the God-Forsaken Land of Clouds and Complaining.

First English Thing I Miss:
The Toast Rack
It might seem random that I would say “toast rack” as my first choice in things to miss from Over There. But consider the simplicity of this device and the sheer madness that it is still in use.

The Toast Rack is exactly what you think it is, for anyone who has never been to England. It’s a toast holder. You can see from the image that it is doing its job, with a fairly simple design.

I can attest, from our travels to many Bed and Breakfasts, that the toast rack is still widely used by British people. They want their toast orderly, I gather, they want it in triangular shapes, and they want it stone cold.

Our good friend Sarah from Maida Vale explained to me the reasoning for the toast rack. “It’s to keep the toast from going all soggy! If you stack the toast, the condensation gives you a soggy mess!” I pondered the alternative–toast crumbs covering my shirt–but I didn’t mention it. I’d like to keep Sarah as a friend.

Sarah admits she herself does not use a toast rack. Instead, she has invented a highly-elaborate system for cooling that involves leaning two pieces of toast against each other in teepee formation. Once you have mastered the balance of bread, this system can be used during the dangerous “condensation phase” of cooling. Once it has passed, you must then quickly butter and shove the toast down during the remnants of the “warm phase.”

However there are flaws. This technique does not allow Sarah to enjoy only one slice of bread, ever, or to have her toast in neat triangles (cutting time might use up the last of warm phase). So that might explain why her version hasn’t caught on.

I never owned a toast rack, but I admire the idea of it. The toast rack and the solid cold, hockey-puck like bread you eat from it is a symbol of the British people’s unwavering fortitude and dedication to tradition. Over here, Colin and I just waited 8 weeks or something for an expensive Kitchen Aid toaster to get delivered. I don’t know why. But the toaster does have a fancy “warming” button! I haven’t asked Colin, for fear he might beat me with the toaster, but what the hell is that for? Isn’t the toaster supposed to warm the toast?

I am not sure, but I am sure that I would be a better, stronger, more resilient person if I stopped whining, ate my toast cold and organized, off a rack and complained about the weather instead.

You might also like:

1. Full English Breakfast
2. My Mazda Obsession… Part 2

Occasionally, when I am just drifting off to sleep, or while I am in savansa at yoga class, I have a sudden flash from my memory. It’s a sensory flash, like a living photograph.

Lately those flashes have been of London, of my home around Maida Vale,
and of the color of the sky and the light there.

Biddulph Road in Maida Vale. The light took what space it could between the cloudy expanse of days and made the most of it, especially in the short days of winter.

You might also like:

1. Reading “Out of a Clear Sky”
2. Christmas Trees in London
3. London Snow 2007

I am running back today, to London, for a quick breath.

I am looking for my feet and for my friends. For the tiny space of quiet in the corners, and the for the push of the people against my shoulders.

I am ready for the dampness and ready for the attention I need to pay the details demanding.

The march of doorways, the march of wrought iron, the sway of bus tops, the nick of treetops.

It’s been a month less than a year and I am dressed in walking shoes and layers, quieting down for the long airplane journey, ready for another journey home.

Everyday’s an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines.
And each town looks the same to me
The movies and the factories
And every stranger’s face I see
Reminds me that I long to be …

No related posts.

Or… Hello, lovely Idlewild, so long dodgy Truscott Arms…

Somewhere between the time Gordon Ramsay circled the Warrington last autumn in his 4×4 and this week’s first big test match at Lord’s, the Ruby Group of London has SOMEHOW managed to buy, close, gut, decorate, and re-open the council-housing hangout Truscott Arms on Shirland Road as the gorgeous Idlewild.

It isn’t a miracle. It is just planning.

The Idlewild menu is British , with a range from Neal’s Yard cheeses to Nettle Soup. It’s available at socialable hours (usual lunch and dinner hours, and on Sundays you can eat from noon to nine), and the look of the place is elegant, (unlike the newest shade added to Dulux’s “Colours that Don’t Go”: Skiddaw Purple).

In fact, Idlewild breathes sociability, with the doors cast open wide and the staff helpful and charming when you stop in.

Meanwhile, back at the Roundabout…. there’s a new dartboard. And look! We’ve found all the old Truscott Arms kids, too! Ah, it’s good to see the youth of today emulating the ways of their elders: smoking, sucking back Sambuca and whinging about everything around the beer-soaked bar. Now, the Warrington! That’s what a boozer should be!

Yeah, it’s true… the day of the traditional boozer is passing. And whilst I enjoy the good old British tradition of the empty-stomach swill-up on a warm evening, what I am really glad for, most nights, is a proper meal. Serve it with a truly great beer (looking forward to the selection of bitters and Belgians the Warrington will have on offer after this week) and you are close to achieving Nirvana. If only that idiot in the corner would stop smoking.

So whilst you are patiently waiting for a taste of Ramsay’s pig cheeks — due to Grade II listed building delays, the Olympics might be sooner — then keep it in the neighbourhood and see what Idlewild, on Shirland Road, has going for it.

Psst… I’ll let you in on a secret the French have been keeping from you: you can drink more and longer, if you would only eat! Eat isn’t cheating.

The idiot who said that? The half-dead, single guy, smoking in the corner.

You might also like:

1. Gordon Ramsay Eats the Warrington
2. Why Gordon Ramsay Buying the Warrington is Good… And Bad
3. Maida Vale is our Local

At a pub, I learned the English are hard to get to know.

But once you know them, it’s hard to let them go. And they don’t let go easy. They are like old dogs. Completely faithful. But they probably won’t leap up when you come in.

In a pub I learned how beautiful cigarette smoke is, filtered in the late afternoon sunlight, or swirling around an old geezer’s face, as he grips a warm bitter. He licked the paper of that cigarette himself. I watched him tuck the tobacco in with his thumb.

In a pub, I learned that some people don’t live in their homes. They only exist there, alone and bored. Lonely and sad, making noodles for one. At their local pub, they have friends and there is always someone to drink with.

If I lived in London, I lived in a pub. If I drank in London, I bought one for the guys at the bar, and one for the barmaid serving me.

If I lived in London, I was happier in the pub with no music. I was honored when the governor himself served me, and wiped the bar up with a towel after the pint dribbled. I was glad because the doors were propped open 9 months of the year, the air blowing through, and dogs lay content and miserable all at once at the feet of their wobbly people.

The pub is home for anyone who is British, however temporary. I had one of my own, in Maida Vale, but there are plenty of pubs to go around. Everywhere you go. One for you and one for everybody.

There must be, because a pub is home.

No related posts.

If you must leave someplace, you should leave it sad to go.

After we left our Randolph Avenue flat, we were desperate to stay in Maida Vale. It isn’t the best place in London, just as any single person isn’t the best person in the world.

No. Just like a person, every nook of London has something charming and warm, someplace worth nuzzling. If you’ve made that place your own, you get attached, no matter how gritty or posh.

Maida Vale is our local.

It’s where our halal, Soloman Supermarket, is.

It’s where, at the Starbucks, I wrote two books.

It’s where the recreation ground is, the one where I played tennis and made friends with Fiona.

It’s where Leslie and his dog Thomas walk everyday, and we stop and chat.

It’s where Frances and I found each other.

It’s where we found another Canadian Colin, whom we like very much.

It’s where we ran into the Bannermans on their way out, Steve drenched in sweat from his cycle commute.

It’s where Tim and Peter lived on Elgin, and cooked for us, before they got married and moved to the country (not in that order).

It’s where we lived, practically, with Soren for a year, who loved the Cubs and Wisconsin and one very long hallway and who helped us moved twice, and called Trivial Pursuit: “T.P.”

It’s where our London friends are, on Lauderdale, Essendine, Castellain, and Widley Roads, and Sutherland Avenue, Warrington Crescent.

It’s where we met Penny, on the first day, who got me the job at the Warrington.

It’s where I found my feet, and learned to appreciate a cloudy sky.

It’s where we lost a baby, and Colin lost a job, and where we drank with our neighbours, who all walked home the day the bombs exploded.

It’s where bowling became something done on a green,and al fresco parties were held on the rooftoop.

It’s where foxes were our neighbours and horses trotted past our morning windows.

It’s where we discovered how the question “You alright, mate?” could be a greeting.

It’s where we drank too much and ate many packets of crisps for supper.

Maida Vale is our local. No blue plaques to mark the places where we’ve been. Too busy, too many others to remember and deal with and forget again.

Anyway, we’ll know we’ve been here.

No related posts.

God, it’s gorgeous right now in Maida Vale… I just glanced down Clifton Gardens one afternoon and, suddenly, every tree is in leaf and the air is full of the smell of hyacinths in bloom.

Ahhh, spring… a time for freshness, renewal, of kicking open doors, shaking out rugs, polishing windowpanes, letting in the light.

Meanwhile back at the roundabout … Ramsay Holdings’ poor, ignored Warrington, with the same beer-soaked carpet. The same dilapitated picnic tables. The same chained-up restaurant, windows tarped over. The sad dart board with its stuffing oozing out.

An odd sort of time warp that is draining the poor life out of Miss Thing right now. Increased drink and snack prices; a revolving door of trial staff members; a string of formerly barred customers and stragglers from the closed Truscott Arms breaking glasses and raising the volume and aggression level; and the latest round of confused Ben’s Thai customers, still lost.

It’s true, I know, that the execution of change — and all great ideas — never happens quickly. Impatience is the primary cause of stunted growth, I believe. There is something to be said, however, for attending to passion and feeding a flame. Once the locals were mildly convinced (and it did take some time and genuine enthusiam on our part) that although John Brandon could never be replaced, the Warrington would have a good life ahead, it was time to strike. Opening in April or May would have done that.

Now, as we Ramsay minions stare openly into the face of No-Plan-Land, I can begin to feel myself — and my colleagues — tiring, losing hope. We were in for the long haul, but with little support from the head office and the man himself, I can see us all starting to sink from exhaustion.

When one customer last night asked about the delay in the restaurant opening, I repeated, again for the thousandth time, with a worn but hopeful smile, the story of planning permission and listed building status. “We hope it’ll be ready by the end of the summer.”

“So,” he said, grinning gleefully, “looks like your boss didn’t plan things too well.”

I didn’t respond. My plastered on smile didn’t move. I just shrugged. I couldn’t help myself. Was it true? Probably.

He turned to his friends and said, “You hear that guys? Gordon Ramsay’s %ucked it up! Haha!”

I would have argued. I always do. But we were swamped and understaffed, chasing ourselves coming and going. When we weren’t explaining where Ben’s Thai had gone, we were schpeeling about where the new restaurant (opening in April!) had gone, or where Martin had gone. Soon we’d be explaining about Justin, too.

I left it at that and didn’t worry. My boss is a divisive character. You can’t convince everyone you meet to like Man United, the New York Yankees or the Dallas Cowboys.

I’ll go back to treading water better, on Sunday evening. For now, I’m going to barbeque with my friend’s in the sun, in Maida Vale. And if anyone asks me anything about the Warrington, my response will be: “Get me another drink, will you?”

You might also like:

1. Warrington Days
2. In Love with the Warrington
3. Gordon Ramsay Eats the Warrington

For those still looking for Maida Vale’s favourite Thai restaurant, Ben’s Thai, formerly of the Warrington Hotel, don’t worry, it hasn’t gone far.

Under the new name, Dang at Ben’s Thai, Dang and her clan have moved above another pub, the Robert Browning, on Clifton Road. This gritty old man’s boozer, situated on a properly posh throughfare, can only be improved upon with the addition of W9′s most beloved Thai family.

And if you are wondering about the menu, have no fear. Colin and I ate there the other night. The duck spring rolls were just as crispy; the panang just as creamy and the pad thai as sweet and sour with the right spicy kick as ever. In fact, we think the cooks have stepped up their game even, probably not harmed one bit by a beautifully refitted kitchen.

The dining room, by the way, is gorgeous with its lemongrass-green walls and homage to lovely Mrs. Barrett Browning. Be warned, however, that it is only half the size of the old Waz space, with absolutely no smoking in the building at all (except the woks, of course). This means bookings will become even more vital as this place gets its feet under it. Prices are still as reasonable as ever.

Dang at Ben’s Thai on Clifton Road… Yeah, it’s moved, but it hasn’t changed so much. You still have to pass through unsavory pub sort to get to, as one customer called, “a great cheap feed.”

Dang at Ben’s Thai
15 Clifton Road
Above the Robert Browning
London W9 1SY
Phone: 020 72663134

You might also like:

1. Anyone Seen Ben’s Thai???
2. Christmas Trees in London
3. Glad day in London.