To brunch, with love

“He left me…” I cry.

“Bastard.” said the well meaning friend/parent/sibling.

The first and last time I received a Valentine’s Day anything was when I was 17. Since then I have been in several relationships and as they broke, Hallmark’s most nauseating “holiday” lost its romance for me. The annual appearance of red lingerie in shop windows and Menus for Two at restaurants fills me with irritation – for the stores, the chefs, but mostly for the men who broke my heart.

Each time a relationship ended I was in self-pity heaven and hating them just helped me continue feeling sorry for myself. J Krishnamurti said it best: “So what you are really saying is, ‘As long as you belong to me I love you but the moment you don’t I begin to hate you. As long as I can rely on you to satisfy my demands, sexual and otherwise, I love you, but the moment you cease to supply what I want I don’t like you.’”

Today I am giving up making them wrong. And what better way to bring them back into my happy memories than with a luscious brunch?

Read my blog for One Minute London where, in preparation for Valentine’s Day I revisit three restaurants (Providores, Dishoom & Workshop Coffee Co.) and three romances: http://www.oneminutelondon.com/blog-valentines-day/

Happy Valentine’s Day.

-p

 

Great expectations

I’ve often admonished my mother for putting people in boxes: He’s gay, must be artistic. She likes eating out, must be a foodie. He’s gujju, must be vegetarian.

I’m too harsh. I choose to ignore that maybe she needs these boxes to manage her expectations. Far too often we are told not to expect anything of anyone; apparently, we cause our own heartache by expecting the next person to behave a certain way.

I expect to be included in my childhood friend’s wedding. She expects the vows she made that day to stay true forever. My sister expects me to have answers to all her questions. I expect my new crush to notice me.

So what happens when this doesn’t happen? When a marriage ends in divorce; when siblings don’t stand up for each other just because they are related; when a star chef’s new menu doesn’t dazzle you. What then?

Nopi (for North of Piccadilly) has received only good reviews. Even those who hated it, loved it. I was SO excited about Sunday lunch at Ottolenghi’s new restaurant in Soho. Having spent many happy meals at his kitchen in Islington, I was glad for something closer to home. Gold lamps reflect brightly off the whitewashed and tiled walls, the furniture is simple and waiters, smiley… Nopi’s dining room is like summer.

I started with a North African breakfast dish – Shakshuka – poached eggs with red pepper and tomato (£8.50). The eggs were okay – the tomato was too tart and eggs not eggy enough for me. I moved on to a Kingfish carpaccio with a spice rub (£10). This is an oily fish and really did not need the generous drizzle of olive oil. I couldn’t finish this overpriced dish except for the salad and samphire decorating the plate. I was beginning to lose hope… and ordered a cocktail to help lift the spirits on my table. The grapefruit and lychee cooler with vodka, and mint was clearly the wrong choice. I paid £10 for what mostly tasted of grapefruit juice and lime.

This is not what I expected. I had all but lost hope and then saw burrata on the menu.  Burrata would have to be on my Top 3 cheese list, and Nopi serves it with blood orange and coriander (£12). This Israeli-born chef has single-handedly changed the way I eat vegetarian food – and this dish reminded me exactly why. Finally, a dish that is pitch perfect! Just as I started to smile at my plate again a surly manager asked me to put my camera away. I ordered dessert (sultana financiers with brandy cream (£6.50), but it was too late. Nopi had let me down.

Or did I let myself down by expecting so much from one meal? Should I want less? Concede more? I don’t know the answer yet. What I do know is that my sister’s expectations of me have made me a better sibling. Her expectations of what she wanted for herself have made her a stronger woman. My expectations from a friendship has given my friend the confidence to make demands of me. For now, I want to wait for those moments when not only does someone meet my expectations; they surpass them. I have great expectations.

-p

Mirror, mirror

The mornings before winter decided to ice London’s sidewalks I would walk to work. The highlight of my brisk 30-minute commute was pounding the sidewalk, drenched in the aroma of fresh coffee, outside Caffe l’Angolo Bianco. In the 18 months that I have sometimes walked down Crawford Street I never stopped for a cup. Until today.

The deli is no bigger than a largeish bedroom. Two counters and four round tables squeeze into one half of the room; a deli counter in the other half. The walls are lined with boxes of Panettone Verdi, Panettone Venezia, Il Panettone Bauli, Cantuccini alla Mandorla… in honour of Christmas. I ordered a cappuccino and a tomato-avocado-mozzarella sandwich and settled in for the morning.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that I was the only stranger in the room. The Italian owner knew everyone else. She asked after the gay couple’s sick dog; the soccer kid’s mum (out shopping while dad played dad); she asked the old man how he was coping after his wife’s death. For the first time that I can remember, a restaurant was more like a family’s living room and I, the gatecrasher to this party.

I order another cappuccino; I didn’t really want another but I also didn’t want to leave this family just yet. A gentle energy connected everyone in the deli and the temptation to be included was too sweet to ignore. A few more unwanted cappuccinos and several more interesting stories make me think of another party I’ve gatecrashed: London. I do a bloody good job of pretending to have settled in but no matter how well I know the streets, how much I love the X Factor, or how used to the weather I get, London will always be someone else’s city. Things changed a few months ago. The miracle of Facebook reconnected me with myself.

I found Shakha, Sailaja and Sree Lakshmi in London. Deepa, Sharmeen and Chanveen in the US. Shairi and Anuja in Bombay. They are mirrors I lost a long time ago. Today, when I stand before these mirrors they show me my reflection before life changed it, for better and for worse. I don’t just get to see what I want to see, but I see all that I am too scared, proud or hesitant to look for; the good, the bad, but especially the good.

London will never be home but through these friends from school a little bit of home is now with me in London. Being able to unhesitatingly ask a friend if she wants to meet “this evening” as opposed to “three weeks from Friday (if nothing else comes up)” is a joyous relief. And when I ask for an opinion, I know I will get nothing but kind honesty.

Its finally time to leave Caffe l’Angolo Bianco. Just as I reached for the door the lady of the house walked up to me and reached for my hand. She placed a cookie in my palm and said, “You will like it. Now come again, okay?”

-p

Shattered arrogance and a new dream man(?)

Last breakfast – for now. I wake up late and instead of joining Jai and Madison at their private residence for what will no doubt be a delicious breakfast I venture into Jardin Majorelle’s café. As I pick my way through the botanical paradise of rare cacti, yuccas and water lilies, not for the first time this trip have I felt overpowered by my surroundings. I was simply not prepared for the overwhelming contrasts of the African landscape, and on the train ride from Tangier to Marrakech as I watched the ocean and cliffs melt into deserts and palm forests I fell in love with the magic of Morocco. I have the privilege of being born and raised in the most magnificent country. With this privilege came an arrogance, and little did I know that I would have to travel 5,000 miles to have it knocked out of me.

The café is an oasis amidst the sauna that the rest of the city becomes between 10 am and 5pm; a bijou courtyard enveloped in ribbons of starched cotton and white bougainvillea.  Discreet sprays gently shower the diners with a cool mist and in just a few minutes I was relaxed and ready for breakfast. The omelette is stuffed with a creamy local goat’s cheese and is served with some khobz (a crusty, semolina Moroccan bread), an aubergine relish and roughly chopped salad. Everything is delicious and enchanting, even the ordinary orange tree ripe with juicy globes of golden fruit.

I am on holiday with Madison, Jai and Donna. We grew up in four different cities, are of different ages and at four different stages of our lives. We are as regular as extraordinary and as different as we are the same. I have not spent as much holiday with anyone else as I have with these three beautiful people. The confident American has a sense of humour and will not go out of her way to misunderstand what I am saying. The gay couple are loving and lovely. They gave me the space when I needed it, and forced me to spend the evening with them when I needed it more. I don’t have to wear mascara to breakfast or worry about how silly I sound when I giggle. Like all good girls we talk about love and sex as often as we please  and the words relationship, commitment and forever are not taboo. We can plan our next holiday without the fear of scaring someone off.  No question is too personal and no ego too fragile. It has never been easier to get along with a man (two men, actually).

Not for the first time Jai asked me, “Are you sure your dream man isn’t a gay man?” I have to say, I’m beginning to wonder…

-p

 

At home

It is only right that my first Table for ONE in New York is breakfast at Sarabeth’s: a meal that is fast becoming the favourite part of my day, at one of the City’s culinary institutions. I first dined here four years ago, and ever since then have craved their Fluffy French Toast ($16). All this time later, the breakfast doesn’t disappoint.

Sarabeth’s is a people-watcher’s paradise. I witnessed 3 birthdays, 2 anniversaries and tens of other celebrations. I forgot for a moment where I was until the guy sitting next to me at the counter asked me how I am (as everyone does in New York), and “Where is home?”

I think a lot about what it means to be ‘home’. Almost everyone in my everyday life is on their way to, or on their way from somewhere else. As am I.

• My childhood friend left India 20 years ago. She has a new life now but not a conversation goes by when she doesn’t reminisce about home.

• My colleague grew up in two countries and now lives in a third. It is always interesting asking him where home is.

• My Aussie friend hasn’t lived in his home country in nearly fifteen years and seems to finally be getting homesick.

• My sister has had to create a life 8,000 miles from everything and everyone she has ever known. And all this time, all she has wanted to do was go home.

“Home is where your heart is.” But what happens when your heart is in several places?

A giant part of my heart is in Bombay. It rests with my mother, and my two best friends Lina and Foram. An equally large piece of my heart is in Tifton because that is where my sister lives and my heart lives with her. My heart also lives in Hyderabad; home to my father and my happiest childhood. I suppose my heart is in London too, with me . And when I leave New York I know I will leave a piece of my heart behind.

Where is home then?

I don’t know yet, and for now it is OK that I don’t know. Until I do, to borrow from Maya Angelou, “I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.”
-p

Make a wish

Mount Street, in London’s Mayfair, is not for the weak of heart, or of wallet. When I read of a new delicatessen that promised to offer the best of what Mount Street’s celebrated (read: expensive) establishments serve, I couldn’t resist. From Annabel’s chocolate cake to Harry’s Bar pizzas, here was the promise of a new affordable option I prayed would not disappoint.

The original plan was to get there for brunch. But a big night out at Vertigo 42 (fabulous views, snooty service) and Viajante (still the best Skye Julep) ensured I didn’t get to the Mount Street Deli until well after lunch time. The Deli is heart-warming. It is teeny and packed with so much deliciousness that I couldn’t help but fall in love at first sight. The adorable waiter helped me choose my Roast Veg and Manchego Foccacia (£6) and settled me into one of their two tables outside. I sipped on the most perfect cappuccino (£2.80, second only to my favourite at Flat White in Soho) and lusted at Louboutin’s window across the street.

The Deli has been sent up for the Cipriani guys by Hannah Gutteridge. Her passion for food doesn’t show on her dress size, but is clearly evident in the food on display. I had to tell her how much I loved the sandwich. And she made me promise I would come back for more. I will.

One of the many joys of eating alone, I discover, is that I am not distracted by having to make conversation. Today I could eavesdrop in peace. The table next to me was occupied by a dashing American, an old Paul Newman in his 80s. He was on the phone to (I later find out), his 96-year old neighbour. He spent several minutes describing the menu to her in the hope that he could bring her something to eat. Just before giving up he said, “I think I may have to marry you Alice, you’re the only woman I know who doesn’t ever need anything!”

His corn chowder arrived and he said to the waiter, “I do hope this is delicious, then I will be a very, very satisfied man”.

Satisfaction. I have been thinking about this all week. At the moment I seem to be surrounded by people who don’t seem satisfied, in spite of having their “one wish” come true. There is the girl at the office who has been miserable at work for as long as I’ve known her. She was finally offered a dream job with a dream company and she could barely bring herself to crack a smile. Then there is this friend from home. For the 10 years she has spent in a loving relationship, she has yearned for her parents approval. And when that finally happened, all she could manage to say about the official meeting of the parents was “as well as could be expected”. And then there is Carrie Bradshaw who spent 94 TV episodes and one movie trying to get the man she loves to love her back. And now that he does, she chooses to shroud the stability of their love in a hideous caricature of TV and take-out.

What is it about our dreams coming true that scares us so much? The possibility that we won’t have something to work towards? The probability that we will never be satisfied, no matter how many wishes comes true? Or is it that we spend so much time wishing for something that we are afraid to admit that we may not want it anymore?

So for a New York minute, but only for the minute, I wonder if I should stop wishing for my dreams to come true? And then I remember this from an episode of One Tree Hill:

“Make a wish, place it in your heart, anything you want. Everything you want.

 Do you have it? Good. Now believe it can come true. You never know where the next miracle is gonna come from, the next smile, the next wish come true.
But if you believe it is right around the corner, and you open your heart and mind to the possibility of it, to the certainty of it…
…you just might get the thing your wishing for.
The world is full of magic. You just have to believe in it. So make your wish. Do you have it?
Good. Now believe in it. With all your heart.”

Go ahead, make your wish…

-p

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Baby steps

I was single for four years before I met the Ex. In between one story and the next I moved to London and for the first time was completely responsible for myself. To twist Spiderman’s words slightly, “with great responsibility came great loneliness”. Yes it was my choice; didn’t make it easier though, knowing it was your decision all the way.

When I first moved to London I had to force myself to go out on my own. My first solo trip to the cinema was a traumatic experience and I remember running home even before the end credits started rolling. I’ve come a long way from that trip to Odeon Swiss Cottage. In the last few years I’ve learnt to love the journey of discovering this vibrant city and myself. I used to love hanging out with myself. Just before I met the Ex my favourite Sunday activity used to be a Table for ONE at a lovely new restaurant. Then I met someone and there began a rosy life as a couple. I forgot what it was to spend time with myself and now find myself at the beginning of a long, solitary road I thought I had left behind forever.

I am not looking back. But trying to move forward is very, very hard. Encouraged by the overwhelming feedback to my first blog post and the Bank Holiday sunshine I walked into Hyde Park this morning. What a bad idea! In no time at all I found myself on the path my Ex and I used to frequent when we walked his dog. I am clearly not yet ready to reminisce. The Elephant Parade amuses me for a minute but I had to get out of there.

I needed to be somewhere safe, somewhere that was just mine. 30 minutes later I find myself at Flat White. The relief as I walk into the familiarity of this narrow coffee bar is obvious and I waste no time at all finding myself a seat. As I wait for the sexy barista to bring me my Flattie (£2.50) I put away my iPod, my book, the notebook with ideas for my blog posts, and the phone. I’m safe now and can deal with a cup-of-coffee worth of thoughts. I miss him immediately; I fight the urge to distract myself and instead let myself miss him. Baby steps.

-p