Another lovely day in the village. A school down the hill held an international food festival to launch their new cookbook so we thought we'd check it out. The grand church hall was filled with the smell of offerings from around the world: boxes of fresh sushi, bubbling post of African stews, Persian curries and the ubiquitous falafel. For the most part the stalls were run by well-meaning and enthusiastic parents, but Starbucks and Carluccio's had also got in on the act. While the crowds flocked to sample the wares of the independents, tumbleweed blew lightly across the trestle tables of the multinationals.
A rare night out tonight to see a Brit flick at the Everyman. Love that place (though my bank account does not). There's nothing quite like the challenge of eking out a large glass of wine until the credits roll. The film was pretty good, but being somewhere other than our sofa on a Saturday night was brilliant. To offset the astronomical cost of the cinema we decided to forgo dinner and instead joined the permanent queue at the crepe van outside the King William pub. Rain or shine, the little white van does a roaring trade. Two young, chiselled French guys in white aprons flip and spread and deliver to the hungry hoards while they natter to each other non-stop. Not a bad way to bring your rusty language skills up to scratch, actually, and as in the bakery up the road, many of the English customers deliver their orders in fluent French. So Hampstead. The crepes themselves were divine - fresh, hot and surprisingly light in spite of the generous bubbling filling. We wandered slowly home, ignoring each other's dripping cheese and errant ratatouille, pausing only to marvel at the prices in the estate agent's windows. If we're ever going to afford a decent sized home we'll have to cut down on visits to the Everyman.
A rare night out tonight to see a Brit flick at the Everyman. Love that place (though my bank account does not). There's nothing quite like the challenge of eking out a large glass of wine until the credits roll. The film was pretty good, but being somewhere other than our sofa on a Saturday night was brilliant. To offset the astronomical cost of the cinema we decided to forgo dinner and instead joined the permanent queue at the crepe van outside the King William pub. Rain or shine, the little white van does a roaring trade. Two young, chiselled French guys in white aprons flip and spread and deliver to the hungry hoards while they natter to each other non-stop. Not a bad way to bring your rusty language skills up to scratch, actually, and as in the bakery up the road, many of the English customers deliver their orders in fluent French. So Hampstead. The crepes themselves were divine - fresh, hot and surprisingly light in spite of the generous bubbling filling. We wandered slowly home, ignoring each other's dripping cheese and errant ratatouille, pausing only to marvel at the prices in the estate agent's windows. If we're ever going to afford a decent sized home we'll have to cut down on visits to the Everyman.
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