|The Wells Tavern|
A London friend and I realised last week that since I’d moved up to the city, we hadn’t once had lunch together. When I lived in the country I came up about once a month and we’d take in an art exhibition (with an MA in History of Art she’s had the uphill struggle for many years to educate me on the subject). Then there followed a long lunch where we’d sort out each other’s problems, as well as cure all the ills of the world (Ok, possibly not the latter).
We had great plans to make yesterday’s lunch an epic one. We’d start with cocktails on the roof of Shoreditch House. A visit to an exhibition was briefly mentioned but disgarded: we needed to TALK. Talk with lubrication.
Yesterday morning I woke up feeling very groggy. I hadn’t slept a wink. My tummy was aching from the small op I’d had on Saturday. I kept thinking about the warnings I’d got from the consultant to ‘take it easy’. The weather forecast for London was +30C and the thought of a crowded steaming tube up to EC1 filled me with dread. (As I write this the rain is beating down my office window – what a difference a day makes in London).
As befits a good friend, she understood, and instead booked us a table locally at Wells Tavern, just a skip and a hop away in Hampstead.
It took me much longer to walk into the village than usual, and when I arrived the heat had got into each crevice of my body. When the barman asked what I’d like to drink, the only thing I could think of was an old-fashioned Spritzer. I can’t remember when I last had one, but boy did it taste good! Sitting and waiting for my friend on one of the tables outside, on the shady side of the pub, I began to feel somewhat normal again.
|An arty picture of my drink – thanks to Instagram.|
|The bar was empty – everyone was enjoying the sunshine outside.|
|I forgot to take a picture of the food, so here’s the menu instead. (Not good enough, I know.)|
One thing is for sure: I will not let a year pass before we have a proper lunch again!