
Taking an "f" out of the caffe in his sister Priscilla and brother-in-law Antonio's Carluccio’s chain, Sir Terence Conran announced plans to open a string of British cafes based on his successful Albion formula: “Typical British caff food, nothing challenging or complicated, just straightforward hearty ingredients and recipes.” In a word, contrived.
What, I asked Matt Dessaix, the Australian barista standing behind the new Climpson & Sons espresso cart parked in front of Match Bar (see map) on London’s Margaret Street, has been the most challenging aspect of working outside on the pavement as opposed to inside the Climpson’s coffee shop (see Top 10 coffee shops in London) on Broadway Market? Enduring nasty weather? Breathing in the exhaust fumes? Making do without an endless supply of running water? Winning over a skeptical clientele unfamiliar with Climpson’s reputation as a leading roaster? Finding someone to watch the cart during toilet breaks?
No, the hardest part for the Sydney native has been pointing the way to Wimpole Street. He’s new to London, doesn’t know the area around Oxford Circus all that well and therefore finds it difficult to respond to recurring requests for directions.
Picture a one-armed South Bank street performer juggling pumpkins while being sprayed from the Thames by a naked Duke of Edinburgh skidding by on a jet ski and you can begin to appreciate my astonishment upon seeing an elegant, 30ish Knightsbridge woman walk out of the Jack O’Shea butcher shop without one of its incomparable pork belly baguette sandwiches in her possession. “Is that the queue?” she whined towards the single line of 5 or 6 punters ogling the platter of fat-glistening pork belly. She was outta there within seconds, sans un sandwich au poitrine du porc.
How, I wondered later, could anyone get so close to that sandwich yet walk away empty-handed? I tried my very best to put myself in her Christian Louboutins and soon felt a wave of sympathy splash over me: It wasn’t the 3-minute queue that put her off. Rather, it was the startling indifference of the scoundrels on it. My own misbehaviour, I would, if given the chance, assure her, was due less to bad manners than cowardice: I hated to think of the mean looks the other blokes would have shot at me had I, the first on the queue, let her pass ahead of me and therefore them, too. That was no moment to make like Mr Knightley.
Langer’s Deli in Los Angeles (see map) calls itself “the home of the world’s best pastrami.” It is.