The conclusion was reached that there wasn’t much point in me driving with the family from the Isle of Wight back home to Yorkshire on Sunday, only to get on a train to London first thing Monday morning.
So it was that I found myself alone in Soho Sunday lunchtime wondering what to do with myself for the day. There is such a thing as too many options. The weather was too fine to contemplate the cinema or theatre, or even a gallery, and I was keen to stay on my feet as much as possible due to a camping related back injury.
I spotted Thom Yorke on Brewer Street and decided I’d make a new friend so followed him into a building I’d walked past a thousand times but had never been into (nor did I know what it was) which made sense when it turned out to be a health club. I am not familiar with the health-giving benefits of Soho. I spun on my heel and deposited myself back on the street, half-considering an attempt to AirDrop the great man the ticket link to the upcoming HOTS shows. Felt a bit seedy. Moved on.
On reflection it was an odd decision to have gone into town when what I wanted was a big walk. I scratched my head and decided what I also felt like was steak tartare, which I would eat while considering where my walk would take me. I lowered myself gingerly onto one of the torture devices that pass for benches outside a café on Old Compton Street, thinking a) this would be a good spot to watch the world go by and b) the generous discount available via the CODE app would make this a very reasonable lunch - and who doesn’t love eating raw meat at a knock-down price?
So I sat and I watched, and tried and failed not to silently judge the curious folk queuing up with their children to watch a musical about a suspected/known paedophile. And then the waiter appeared and before he could hand me the menu I stopped him and said “don’t worry I know what I want, please could I have the steak tartare?” Not a sentence I imagine Thom Yorke has ever uttered.
“Ah monsieur on Sunday we serve the brunch menu until 5pm, no tartare.”
This was a blow. Another argument against brunch, if one were needed. I ordered a pastis instead and considered my options. Live in the moment James, I said to myself, tucking my phone away and opening the thriller I was reading. I skimmed a paragraph, maybe two, before becoming distracted by the passing foot traffic and the growing queue for the musical. I realise you didn’t come here for my opinions on the ethically dubious practice of putting on a global mega-show cashing in on the work of a now-dead global mega-star that deftly skips over the manifold crimes of which they’ve been accused. I could make a pun but it’d never land.
So let’s return to what I ended up eating (because as you might have gathered I didn’t end up cooking much that day). I finished the pastis and beat it pretty quickly to a neighbouring establishment that miraculously did do a steak tartare, though by this point the wind had sort of left my sails and I didn’t enjoy it much.
I paid the bill and set off in the direction of Hyde Park. No sign of Thom Yorke anywhere. Probably still working out. I stopped by the church where my parents had married and sent the customary picture to the family group chat. No response. I carried on walking west until I reached Park Lane, where a march was underway in support of Palestine. I politely, sheepishly, made my way through the throng and out the other side into Hyde Park, just as the sun came out. It was monstrously hot all of a sudden.
I crossed the park, sweaty and flustered, and somehow fell into a pub just as the Manchester United v Arsenal game kicked off. Naturally the atmosphere was relaxed and jovial and I felt immediately at ease. Ten minutes later I left, quietly acknowledging that Sundays spent alone aren’t really the one, and headed back to the flat to watch about five hours of terrible golf and eat terrible takeaway tacos. Can’t win them all.
The previous evening we’d had dinner in the garden on the Isle of Wight. I barbecued a topside of beef, glazing it in a combination of soy, miso, yuzu juice, sesame oil and honey as it cooked. I can’t remember the measurements. Probably one for another time though you can’t go too far wrong - just remember that sesame oil has a low smoking point, so you don’t want to mess with it if you’re barbecuing over a ferocious heat.
The highlight, though, was the creamed sweetcorn with miso that accompanied it, the recipe for which is below. Hopefully normal-ish service will resume next week. It’s Rosie and my mother’s birthday on Sunday, so if I can’t come up with the goods for that then I might as well give up.
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