Flaneur

The Art of Tea

There’s an art to tea making. It’s really involved, you know. And if I’d been paying proper attention, I’d probably be able to talk you through it all. But to be honest, both times I’ve encountered it I’ve been so mesmerised by the beauty of the various receptacles, tools and gestures, so captivated and transported by the aromas and subtle flavours, that I can’t remember a thing about what order things happened in or why.

If you’re interested to find out, I daresay there are plentiful resources online and in dusty bookshops that will explain it all in authoritative tones that completely contradict one another.

But if, like me, you’d first like to experience the pleasure of the receiving end of it, courtesy of an expert’s hands, then hie thee hence to that paragon of gustatory ambience the London Review of Books Cakeshop. I took these photos there whilst imbibing.

I could probably write a whole piece just on the choice of teas (don’t think I won’t!) without the elaborate process itself, but first I just wanted to draw you in with the sense of it. Details later. Besides, I think I’ll need to get one of the masters to talk me through it all again while I take notes lest I get it all wrong.

But look at it! How beautiful. Hand bound by virgins in spicily fragrant exotic lands, I’m sure. Well, that’s what I’m allowing to infuse me while I breathe those heady vapours. Wouldn’t you?

There are other sacred spaces for tea, of course. I found one just up the road from my place in Prague while living there, and more recently was introduced to the most extraordinary place of all, in the high street of Falmouth. I know! Who’d have thought it?

It’s a beautiful space, though. Entirely devoted to rare teas, and with a long table taking up half the space where the teas are served all day from antique pots. Even the teas are antique; or perhaps vintage is the word. I bought some 1996 vintage Mughai 8582 Puerh from a centuries old tree, to enjoy back here in London, but the truth is, without the pots and a clear recollection of how to make it correctly I’m loathe to spoil it. Besides, the packaging is chic on its own.

I’ll go back and take a camera next time, and interview the owners. Theirs is a fascinating tale of obsession and personal renaissance. In the meantime my own personal obsessions will be limited to warming the pot and sourcing unbleached teabags.

But seriously, take some time one afternoon soon, and enjoy the leisurely tea ritual at the LRB Cakeshop in Bury Place, just opposite the British Museum, where I pressed my nose to a window to observe my first genuine tea ceremony almost a quarter century ago. I’ll be searching out a wider variety of tea possibilities and hideaways over the next couple of months, and I’ll share the wider wares of said cakeshop, too. It’s all happening in Bloomsbury, I tell you. At a dignified pace, of course…

 

    London Review Cake Shop, 14 Bury Place, London, WC1A 2JL     020 7269 9030

 

Out of office reply

Inspiration. Where is it when you want it? I’ve checked down the back of the sofa, drained the coffee pot in case it’s at the bottom and come to the conclusion that it’s nowhere in the flat. Must be out there, then. Grab my shoes and jacket, and maybe have a shave: it’ll be nice to be presentable for once when I meet her.

Yes, the sun’s out, and parks and cafes are beckoning. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. We’ll rendezvous, order refreshments and I’ll lay my tools upon the table.

They’re on my mind at the moment, as I’m hoping to get my office back to delightfully portable dimensions again. It’s all got a bit slow and clunky, a bit heavy on the shoulder. Time for a review, I think.

When I rebelled against default lifestyles, you see, I dreamt of being responsive, not idle. Ok, I did factor a certain idleness index into the schedule, but essentially I wanted to be open to life, company and new ideas, and to share or keep hold of them. I wanted to have the right tools on me to do that wherever I felt I should be.

I did rather well to start with, and felt quite pleased with myself. However, technology has seriously advanced in the last decade, so while the ways and means have advanced and widened a little, the possibilities for sharing have expanded exponentially, as has the speed of doing so.

So I might have a little look at the equipment possibilities open to the modern flaneur as we amble around the next little lot of haunts and cafes. Feel free to share ideas or quality tool suggestions as we go! It’s all about the experience, isn’t it? Ask Hendrix.

The Art of Coffee

Beyond the art of making a good cup of coffee, there’s actually the art of making a good cup to put it in. I was exploring (ok, strolling around) the Brunswick Centre collecting some photos and impressions for a little series I’d like to share with you about this part of town, and I chanced upon this amazing construction.

Yes, it’s an installation of designer espresso cups. Really.

It was quite lovely, even if it did take up half the restaurant it was in. I’d be happy to share the name of the restaurant so you could go and see it for yourself – it’s well worth it – but when I returned a couple of days later to shoot it with a different lens, I found it gone, so it was clearly a temporary installation. Carpe diem, hodie adsit cras, and all that.

I think it was to celebrate Illy’s 75th birthday. Their main celebrations will be in Trieste, where their Hungarian founder made his home, but there are clearly bits and pieces going on here in London (and in Venice and Berlin, I now learn). My moles tell me that while Lavazza, Segafredo and other Italian coffee companies keep the best stuff for the home market and sell us the rest, Illy’s coffee is the same wherever you drink it. True? Hard to judge with all the other variables such as regional water, choice of milk, capability of barristas, but it does seem to be fairly consistent.

Anyway, back to the cups. They’ve had various artists over the years design cups for them, and this installation is testament to that. Some of these editions can be pretty pricey – I was put off buying a recent release by the heat – but if you can indulge, they do actually rise in value as soon as each edition is discontinued. In fact, the first set, designed by Matteo Thun back in ’91 now sell for over $4000… Yeah, I know; but come on, what could be better than art that wakes you up every day?

PS - I'll buy you an Illy coffee in Bloomsbury if you can guess who designed the 'Alien' cup!

There, that's better

Biased, irregular, unreliable, inconsistent: all the things you've come to expect from the lifestyle that is Flaneur, as it bimbles aimlessly about the cafes and impromptu hangouts of Europe whilst purporting to review the spaces and experiences it stumbles into. This format will do for the moment, won't it? The banner will probably be revised in due course, but the rest is probably in place enough now to get going with some fresh reviews. And what reviews they will be! Probably.

There's lots to catch up on in mainland Europe, and now Mademoiselle Fate has dumped my sorry arse back in London for a bit we might as well stretch out and enjoy it here too, no? Lots of new nooks and crannies to explore with a view to hiding from the press gangs of industry.

Bookshops such as Treadwells and The London Review of Books; cafes as diverse as Patisserie Valerie, Scooterworks, Waterloo Station and The Foundling Musem; secret garden hideaways like St George's Gardens and The Calthorpe Project. You're in my world now. Let's kick back a little.

I'll start posting the new stuff over the coming days and weeks - please do feel free to suggest places you feel I should visit. And if you're in London and want to join me in the slow lane, let's pull over together, and you can share your views here too. 

yours at leisure

Flaneur  x

Catching up

Well, the constant attention to Facebook has meant I've neglected my blogs and website over the last few months, so I'm just putting that to rights now. After all, there's only so much you can say in a status update...
 
I'm presently writing up the reviews of the cafes most recently visited and photographed, and then I'm on a mission to find the best hangouts in London. Please feel free to suggest places you think I should check out!

And I promise, once I've got some new content to put up, I'll sort out the design of this page!

Facebook? Not the interweb notworking thingy?

Well, there you have it: a link to the facebook page. How terribly à la mode. I really shall have to sort out the design of this organ toot sweet, shan't I?

Please do not adjust your aesthetics

...a normal sense of taste will be restored soon! I know, I know; the layout's gone all funny, all the old posts look like they've been typeset by a half-arsed drunk (they were, but they did look better at the time) and there's some jetsetting bird on the banner. Fear not. All will be well. 
 
I'm just finally getting round to properly putting together a more pleasing and relevant 'look' for the blog before getting stuck in to some of the overdue articles, reviews and expostulations I've been promising all these months, and there may be quite a lot of jiggery pokery required. Colours may change. Layouts may vary. Contents may differ from advertised. 
 
So do please bear with me, and I'll see if I can make this page look somewhat more comme il faut in the very near future. When I start to get close, I will ask for your feedback! Pip pip. 

A Christmas retreat

Flaneur is not a title to be earned; perish the thought. Neither bestowed: it is where one steps free of meritocracies of all description. It is completely up to you if you wish to wrap yourself in the mantle. Flaneur is a philosophy, an approach to life that is there for the adoption thereof. A state of mind become a state of Grace.

Thus it is that I find myself at repose in the cardiac wing of a reputable Cornish hospital. As the solar pendulum swings back into action, and the protestants of all faiths fight for their right to work and shop and consume on Sunday, squeeze a few more productive days in after our extended Christmas weekend to finance the binge and desperate year-long commitments in its very opening seconds, I am lying back listening to music, being waited on hand, foot and heart. The year can swing on ahead of me;  I’ll give the sun a head start. The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. 

So how is this retreat facility? Well, remarkably good so far. I eschewed their exclusive pick up chauffeur service (how many of those dreadful stretch limos of conventional establishments wheel you in and out supine and disregard traffic lights in your priority passage? Even Silver Service required one to stand up and walk occasionally) for a beautifully sunny drive with a good friend through the greens, greys and golds of Kernow. Very nice. We booked in at a nearby ‘Care Facility’ and they phoned ahead to notify the hospital of our imminent arrival.

I was feeling a bit dicky by the time we arrived, so imagine my delight at finding a bed awaiting me (all mod cons - uppy downy stuff in all directions and wheels should we need to go anywhere - no walking here!) and efficient staff surrounding me to find out all about me and devise the perfect (laid back) program for my time here, after which they delighted in stacking me full of drugs. Flan-tastic! Injections, pills, sprays, you name it. I was down and out quicker than Huxley in Paris or London. The offer of opiates was very thoughtful, I felt, and made me feel quite wistful for our golden age, but the 21st century fare was in full effect at the time, and while I certainly don’t believe one can have too much of any good thing, flavours should be savoured, and I settle back to do so.

Rat poison would never have occurred to me as a passport to a good time, I freely admit, but then sushi, rump steak, truffles and aromatic pipe tobacco must all have had good marketing in their day. I believe it’s often a very mild effect, but personally I was in a dreamy haze for hours. The trinitrate sublingual spray was a stunner though; that kicked the trip off. No pussyfooting here! Slam, bang, no vision, no hearing, head down, valves open - welcome to your repose! Goodnight Vienna. The label should read “L’Hotel Repose welcomes you and invites you to lie back, relax and enjoy your stay! We would encourage you to avoid driving, operating heavy machinery or making plans of any sort. Thank you, and have a nice trip.”

I even dabbled with pure oxygen, to the tune of two four foot tanks of it. Not bad, but only a mild euphoric payback for the overall discomfort of the mask. Nothing further gained by dropping the third cylinder on my head, either, though this may not have been a planned delivery; more to do with attempting to squeeze an attractive girl into the lift with us. Laudable intentions, and flaneur in its own British ‘Carry On’ kind of way. Ding dong!

The whole point of this retreat is to do nothing. Inertia has its own momentum here. Idle pleasures such as dreaming, musing, reading, eating, watching the extraordinary skills of the highly qualified staff going about their business. Unlike those who profess to enjoy hard work because they can sit and watch it for hours, I must confess that I even prefer watching it in small doses, so I’ve spent much of my time on the dreaming, reading and laying doing nothing side of the bed. Nonetheless, exciting activities are on offer. So far I’ve had a photo taken of the inside of my torso - not your everyday retreat fare - a brief tour of the facility in a wheelchair (no walking!) and at the invitation of an attractive young lady went for a brief jim-jam jog on a treadmill wired up to all kinds of caboodle to provide absorbing and helpful information on the intimate workings of yours truly. Actually this turned out to be very brief indeed, as the package lost its lustre with the advent of the required activity; back to bed, more drugs, stick with what works.

As you will no doubt have surmised, traditional attractions such as massage, steam, sauna, swimming and ‘leisure’ sports and activities are rejected in favour of lethargy and drugs; think of it as a theme hotel. An essential one, though, in my most humble opinion; after all, where else can you travel to for this kind of experience? India? California? Not somewhere your chauffeur will get you to in minutes. It’s not home, but it’s close to it.

So what about the food? Well, it’s not bad, but hardly West End. Think the better end of school dinners. Again, it helps to think of it as a theme resort. I should mention that the girls all wear uniforms... Also that while the coffee is truly terrible - one might almost suspect them of using that foul instant stuff from jars - the tea is rather good in a hale, traditional way, and I was thoroughly charmed by the trifle, mince pies and clotted cream on the coronary ward menu, brought right to the bedside, naturally. No need to sit up, my dear.

Besides, half the fun of the time here is having one’s friends sneak in treasures from the outside world, as with any retreat. Some clever distraction and one stealth accomplice scored a chocolate bar and cheese and onion crisps from their very own shop on a corridor far away. Result! On the other side of the coin, one friend brought me fruit (yes, including grapes). Irony aside, I think one can take these themes too far.

On a more philosophical note, all this serves to remind that one Flans where one can. State of mind, state of Grace. Productivity and consumption are killing us and our world. Your bulging paycheck pays for the interest on our governments’ bad debts over decades, leaves some for some baubles and high pressure, well organised leisure designed to return you to work slightly more productive, and the rest is desperately thrown at fraudulent financiers in the hope of keeping a roof over your head. Yes, they are all fraudulent; if only you knew how mortgages really worked. We are truly killing ourselves to live. Time was, when slaves were housed and fed and given Sundays off. Work is the curse of the strolling classes.

So it occurs to me that perhaps the most heretical, rebellious thing to do is nothing. You cannot smash the system: you are the system. Why smash yourself? Sounds like work already. Why not just slow the fuck down? Find idle moments in the least likely places and stretch out a little; get comfortable. Less is more, people. Before you know it you’ll be enjoying it and thinking deeply heretical thoughts. Fellow flaneurs are already smiling and nodding, while readers uninitiated in the ways of the flan will be thinking this is all idealistic tosh that just doesn’t work in the ‘real’ world... aren’t you? Don’t give it another thought! After all, you don’t have time. And worry thyself not: I can’t be arsed to evangelise. Equally pointless protestant hard work, as far as I’m concerned. I write when I fancy about whatever I fancy. But I will say this: any nurse in my hotel wanting to pay somewhat over half their entire paycheck towards a 2 bed local flat, would need to stay alive for several hundred years, even if the interest never rose above 4%. Even with all the contraptions to prolong life in this establishment, I don’t see that happening, so how absurd do things have to get before this world begins to be ‘unreal’?

Ah - a goodnight cup of Ovaltine and some stolen chocolate. Perfect end to the day. Turned up the headphones, and quite randomly (iGod is the DJ) Journey sing “Be good to yourself (nobody else will)”, and the guitar swells to mask the chap in the bed opposite shouting “Hello!” with every breath. Must ask him tomorrow which drugs he recommends.

---------------

Epilogue: Some flaneurs unaware of the intricate illusions of our present society may worry that they are financing my stay here - let me assure them they are not. When I was registered as a chattel of the state shortly after birth, a bond was created in my name. You have one too, I don’t doubt. UK PLC invested, borrowed and traded against my future worth to the nation, my likely productivity, tax revenue, and outside chance of inventing something very valuable - as they did with you too - and my stay here, in theory is billed to that fund.

I say in theory, because, of course, there’s no true allocation of funds, no transparency of accounting, no real accountability, in fact. Just great big xx accounts from which everyone double dips as long as there’s something in there. It’s a great way of hiding malpractice, fraud and incompetence. All you need is the keys to the account...

But don’t tell all the outraged anti-flaneurs out there. I love the idea of their fuming about supporting my ‘lifestyle’ and then busting their arses cramming themselves onto cattle trucks toward their horrid open plan cubicles to go and dutifully, desperately do it some more. It really isn’t my lifestyle they need to worry about...

Sheer Poetry

 

There was a time when poets were rockstars. Hell, there was a time when rockstars were rockstars. Pete Doherty? Give over. Now, Byron had a track record. Partying and eating life all day, writing from midnight (and remember how good that writing was), and a true outlaw and exile with at least two capital offences under his belt (or below it). Mad, bad and dangerous to know (yes, the phrase was originally coined to describe him). But who cares about poetry these days? Well, The Poetry Society, at least. And their café. Where better for a flaneur to spend some hours? Surrounded by poetry, on the walls, on the bookshelves, on the menu board – even the lampshades. And just so you know it’s not incarcerated in the dust of long gone glory days, there are contemporary newspaper clippings on the noticeboard about poets and poetry in the news.

The furnishings are simple and quality. Square wood, clean space. (With publisher’s names inlaid into the sides of the tables – did they pay for them? Somehow it works) But the surroundings change regularly, so again, there’s a sense of currency and flow; nothing is left to ossify. Last time I was here there were framed copies of National Anthems everywhere, provided by each nation, most on embassy notepaper, some with melody notes attached. This time there are photographic portraits of poets, each in an environment important to them or one of their poems. Each sitter has provided a piece of relevant poetry in their own hand to accompany the image. It’s a stimulating environment.

For whom? Well, mainly poets and writers. I should explain: the café is situated in Betterton street, which is in the heart of Covent Garden, running between Endell Street and Drury Lane, so you'd expect it to be absolutely teeming with tourists and passing trade in here. Betterton Street. Yes, Bette – no it’s off Endell Street – no, on the left as you’re going down towards Long Acre – you missed it? Ah, understandable; the street sign’s high up. Yes, really, it’s down there – just keep going, I know you can’t see the café yet – yes, it looks just like a residential only street, but keep going – you see all that foliage? If you almost walk past it, but look back across the street to the left – yes! That’s it, hidden there behind the shrubs.

I know, I know, it doesn’t look like a café, what with the frosted glass and all…. How were you ever supposed to find it? Ah….!  Cunning, eh? If ever you want to escape in the eye of the West End storm… Years ago when I first started coming here, I was a card carrying member of the Poetry Society (naturellement) and would present said card at the counter when I came to the café. The intention must have been to make the café exclusive, a place for poets. I suspect they've now relaxed the membership rule because they've realised that only poets and writers know it's here. I have friends who I’ve talked in by mobile who still can’t find it on their own. If that sounds somewhat elitist or up it’s own dorsal cavity, then worry thyself not: there’s a café Nero on the corner of Long Acre – you’ll see it across to your left a hundred yards after you miss Betterton street.

Me? I love it here. It's relaxed, but there's a sense of purpose. People come here to meet, to write, to talk, to listen to performances and to give them. Even when they read, there is a sense of intent. Interesting people come here; readers, creative thinkers. Like the Coffee Gallery in its Museum Street heyday, you can expect to overhear conversations truly worth eavesdropping. If you want to listen more overtly, head downstairs of an evening. There are readings from well-known poets some nights and an open mic evening on a Tuesday if you fancy contributing to the cultural exchange. The readings are popular; there’s always a real buzz in the evenings and the space is busy. Seats are at a premium. A real atmosphere without the blackguard’s recourse to muzak.

Enough of the flair – what of the fare? Well, it’s all good. The coffee is great, whether filter or macchiato. There is a choice of real teas sold by the pot, and plenty of quality infusions for the herbal gerbils. I love coming here to read and listen and sink pot after pot of Assam and Darjheeling. And the food is good. Today's special is aubergine, courgette, olive and tomato pasta. Looks great (I'm on cappuccino and brownies today) and at £5.95 it's fairly well priced for Covent Garden.

They have a small kitchen here, but it's very efficiently utilised. And they're licensed, so there’s plenty of choice of poison: spirits, wine, bottled beers. And at the time of writing this, one can smoke. How the new legislation will affect that, I don't know. I can't imagine animated arguments with poets without whisky, black coffee and cigarettes…  But if daytime Covent Garden has been quite animated enough for you already and you’re actually looking for some peaceful refuge, the sofas in the corners downstairs here are the place to hide away. One of the very few places where it is possible to meet a friend for a quiet or sensitive conversation in Central London, the downstairs is usually pretty empty during the day.

Incidentally, it’s also where the loos are – worth keeping in mind at the busier times. All that Earl Grey could have you doubled over waiting on the stairs waiting for a gap in a reading or performance so you can scramble through the crowd to the back of the room.  Not so much a café as an outpost. A hideaway for cultural revolutionaries. And God, we need places like this. If I might proselytise in my own blog for a moment - Poetry, music, art - it needs to be cool, it still needs to be sexy, it still needs to make participants feel part of a special society, an exciting subculture very much valued by the parent culture that embraces it even while it challenges and necessarily unsettles it. A place where heated conversation lit by eyes and minds of fire can still seduce the young and not-so-young from the path of the ProperJob. Stalin was a poet, you know. A good one. And a good enough singer to have gone pro. How might the world have been different if he had?

Tour et Taxis, Brussels

 

So I’ve finished the shoot, and I think it’s gone ok. I’ve now been awake something like 36 hours and the pressure is off. I begin to relax and realise three things: I’m cold, I’m very tired, and I should have gone to the loo before I left the building. The chap I was photographing today said I should check out a place up the road that had a café and it seems like a good place to start for all three reasons; plus once I’m ensconced I can figure out what to do now with the 7 hours remaining before my Eurostar back to London. He says it’s quite an important building so I should recognise it when I see it, but will I? Holy crap, surely not this place?! 

It’s called Tour et Taxis, so I thought it might be some cutesy folkesy place that used to be a coach and taxi station, but clearly not. Apparently the name comes from one of those ‘sonically bastardised over time’ things and the site was, if I’m not mistaken, the hub of all communication for Europe a few hundred years ago. Cool venue – glad I found this one – now; how do I get in? There’s a tiny subway under the iron railings that border the building all the way along the pavement side of it – it’s easy to miss. I almost wonder if I’ve got it wrong and I’m trespassing. I cross to the building itself and find the way in, and have the same impression again. It opens up into this multi-storey open galleried hall – however long ago this was built it’s impressive. Ah – at last! In almost ironic contrast to this brick grandeur, there’s a portable coffee bar with two beautiful damsels serving coffee in takeaway cardboard cups. Why? Because there’s nowhere to sit. Or is there? could I…? I make a brief exploratory foray into my dusty archives of French and ascertain that I’m actually perfectly free to sit across the hall with my coffee… on the chaise longue in the gallery. Ya kidding, right? This would never happen in jolly old England. 

So I have to report, this must be in the top five places for any self-respecting flaneur in Belgium. Sat on a magenta velvet chaise longue, with my cardboard cup of coffee on a glass table upon a suspended glass floor above centuries old stone and brick flooring, surrounded by wooden geodetic sculptures and leather armchairs and the collected history of Belgium.  Despite the imposing setting, the whole thing was so laid back, no-one came to hurry me along, or tell me I couldn’t take pictures, or even check if I’d finished my coffee.

Which, by the way, was superb, notwithstanding the cup. I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke indoors, but somehow that would have completed the experience: watching the occasional visitors wandering around exploring their history whilst taking my time over various legal drugs relaxing into indolence at very hub of European communication.  I could tell you about the exhibitions, the galleries, the restaurants and opportunities for consumerism, all of which were first rate, but really, just go and get a coffee and sit awhile; if you’re open to appreciation of a moment in time and space there is art enough here in a paper cup to absorb you for a long while.