Friday, December 11/2009

London overground from West Hampstead to Hackney to Alexander and Flora's place where Dorothy is staying for Christmas. Off at Dalton and Kingsland and we walk south on Kingsland. It's rough and real in the way that Queensway used to be twenty years ago, shops spilling over into the street; fishmongers, butchers with whole chickens hanging, an outdoor market. Rather like Bethnal Green.



Alexander and Flora live in a square set back a couple of blocks west of Kingsland, a solid corner terrace house, formal and high-ceilinged on the ground flor (full of Alexander's pianos). Below stairs it's a different world, mostly enormous low-ceilinged kitchen with a long scrubbed wood table, all warmth and busyness. We have tea there and then leave A and F and their dogs and head up Kingsland.



The area is mainly Turkish, with turkish shops and signs. I recognise "eczane", the Turkish word for pharmacy, and we stop at another shop to look at Turkish spices. We're hoping to eat at a Turkish restaurant that flora has said is very good - a valuable opinion D points out, as F is a cordon bleu cook.



We stop first at a tiny pub which we share with the other non-Moslems on a street rather short on pubs. Most of the other drinkers are Caribbean in origin and clearly know each other, though they're friendly enough to us. I'm puzzled aby a sign on the door: PINTS ONLY SERVED DURING FOOTBALL MATCHES. But I want a pint now - why on earth should they object? Will I have to settle for a pint? But J returns with 2 pints of bitter and D's passion fruit drink (a request for soft drinks elicited a choice of orange, cranberry and mango, or passion fruit). The sign, of course, should read: ONLY PINTS SERVED DURING FOOTBALL MATCHES - a deterrent to cheap drinkers who might monopolise the telly.

There's intermittent entertainment from the Wurlitzer but lots of opportunity to talk in between. I get an old fashioned key for the loo (we keep it locked because of drugs - though J says the men's is open) but it's pretty peaceful, though not quiet. I step outside, pst the replica pages of newspaper featuring Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson, to answer a phone call from Jean.

Dinner at Mangal, the award winning Turkish restaurant, is amazing, in quantity as well as quality. We've asked for the dinner for 2 to be made for 3, but needn't have, although it does give D a bag to take home. There is a basket of pita and 3 platters - large round ones of meze (after which we're moderately full) and salads, as well as a giant oval one with a variety of lamb, beef and chicken, rice and bulgur. Delicious. It's a good thing we were there by seven, because business is non-stop. There's rarely an empty table for more than a couple of minutes.

We walk D back and hop a bus to Liverpool Street station where we get the Metropolitan home.