Part 41. Going Underground

Tube maps, tomato soup and hairy cats.

A recent survey has shown that if you put a like at the end of this you win the National Lottery.

Hi to you. No messing, let’s get straight into it.

So we had a new kitchen porter arranged for Saturdays, Cak Boy, and we were going to London for a few days.

Tricky Vicki was on security detail. This meant that if hundreds of hippies smashed the windows because we didn't have Detox Stir Fry on the menu, she would give them a ruddy good chinning. And then she would text us.

And so off we all went on holiday. It was a Tuesday, Lozza had already gone to London a day before with her boyfriend. Briggy was making her way to Tenby from York, which meant that by train she had to change at Manchester, big adventure.

Meanwhile, Bud was hoicking black sacks of washing to Northampton for his Mam to give her something to do for a week.

Oh yea, and Blackhead was practicing being an accountant and calculating how little to spend in the fancy Leeds clothes shops.

Donna and I pulled our little wheelie cases behind us to York train station, all set for our big trip to…….LONDON.

Yes London, the capital of Europe, the land of milk and honey, the home of shiny Michelin star restaurants. No place for us northern peasants, but we could surely hide in the crowds behind the sea of Bowler hats.

And when we arrived at Kings Cross station, it was heaving, how did anyone manage to get their head around this chaos. People jumped off the train and scattered in different directions, they knew exactly where they were going, and they were in a rush.

Now, we had booked a Travelodge which was around the Kings Cross area, so in our minds, we would step out of the station and it would be opposite us. But this wasn’t York, or Stockton on Tees, Kings Cross was a big area, we just didn't realise. So we started walking around the area around the station, just hoping that the hotel would appear.

This was early in 2007, smart phones didn't arrive to the UK until November that year, and even then they probably weren't equipped with maps. So we had to wade through the beggars and Big Mac wrappers asking people where the Travelodge was.

“Dunno mate.”

“Just behind Gray’s Inn Road mate.”

“Can you lend me a pound?”

“No idea, I don't live here.”

So, it was behind Gray’s Inn Road, not very helpful as we didn't know where that road was. But we carried on walking, and dodging those who walked through us because they knew where they were going. Those little cases felt like they were digging their heels in.

“Ah Donna, look, Gray’s Inn Road, it’s just there.” So we knew we needed to be behind that, and the booking stated, King’s Cross Road. Stupidly, we just assumed that King’s Cross Road would be next to Kings Cross station, that would be logical.

How did anyone find their way around this city?

So we found a turn and followed it behind the massive grimy buildings. We stood and looked around, nothing.

Then Donna spotted it, “There it is, down there.”

“No wonder we didn't see it, it’s not what we were expecting.” Donna and I expected something a bit smarter, this was London.

Anything from London is great.

We arrived and it wasn't too bad inside, it would do for a few days, it’s not like we we going to live in it forever.

It was three in the afternoon, our booking at The Mung Bean restaurant wasn't until 6pm, so plenty of time to unpack and get changed. So we did just that, emptied the suitcases and looked for our posh clothes so we could disguise ourselves. Well, that took all of ten minutes, so we had a little sleep, London had already tired us out.

And at 5pm we decided that we should set off for our restaurant appointment. Luckily, I had picked up a little paper tube map from the station to help us find our way around. We knew which station we had to be at, and on the map it was only about five centimetres away, we would probably be a little early, no problem.

We were excited for our meal at The Mung Bean, we had heard loads of positive comments about the place. Plus, it was nice to be on the other side of the bars for a change, tonight we would be the diners. Also, we were going to take notes, get some good ideas.

So we left the hotel and made our way back to Kings Cross station. Now, because it was 5pm, the place had turned into a war zone. Even more people were speeding through the station, as if they were on skates. And announcements were being shouted though the tannoy, which meant nothing but agitation to us.

But we found the underground and looked for the colour of the line we needed. Great, but first we needed a ticket, no Oyster back then.

“Hiya mate, is this the queue for a tube ticket?”

“Certainly is fella.”

There were about twenty people waiting to be served, see, good job we left early.

Finally we managed to grab a ticket, making sure it was a return. The guy prattled on about Zones and stuff, but we didn't understand what he meant.

He pointed us in the direction of the platform we needed and we joined the slipstream of people. It was so busy. It was awful.

Within minutes the tube train we needed arrived, people almost ran to get on it. “Quickly Donna, there must be a reason why they're all rushing.”

We jumped on and had to squeeze ourselves between people. The guy panting in my face had definitely scoffed a few garlic bread earlier that day.

We held on and waited for our stop, don’t forget, it was only five centimetres to go, according to the tube map.

At the next stop, nobody got off, but more people squeezed on. I couldn't see where Donna was anymore, but I could pick out some more aromas. A guy in a long overcoat to my left must have had a double helping of ashtrays for his lunch.

How did these people do this every day? It was horrible.

As the train pushed on, more people managed, somehow, to get onto this train, and I had made some new friends. Garlic Breath and Old Smokey were very close, like pressed against me close. I was uncomfortable, but they weren’t.

But wait, what happened, these weren't the London types I had expected to see.

Where were the rich people with their glasses of bubbly and caviar toasties?

As the train went further along its journey, people started getting off, going home for their tea probably. Garlic Breath and Old Smokey didn't say goodbye.

And there came a time when I could see Donna, she was further down the carriage now. So I walked over, “Why are you down here?”

“People just pushed me, there was nowhere to go. What time is it?”

I looked, it was 5:40pm, that went quickly. “How long do you think we have to go, we must be close,” Donna asked.

By now we could see diagrams on the side of the train, and we worked out that if we checked the name of the station we were at, then we could see how many stops we had left.

Oh no, we still had six stops to go. Five centimetres on that tube map must be the equivalent to an hour. Anyone who owns a restaurant knows that you do not turn up late for your booking at another restaurant, even a minute is bad.

We couldn't do much, apart from panic.

Would they give our table away? Would they tell us off? Would their concierge beat us around the heads as punishment?

We arrived at our station dead on 6pm. We had a fair idea of where the restaurant was, I had calculated, (Ha!) that it was a fifteen minute walk from the station. So if we rushed we would only be ten minutes late.

So we did, we almost ran, checking street names as we went.

“Everyone is going to stare at us when we walk in Donna.”

“Yes I know, they might even turn us away.”

“Jesus, we’re going to a posh vegetarian restaurant and we’re gonna look like losers. And I’m sweating now.”

Then Donna spotted it, there was a little sign on the door, we had arrived. Oh look, we were only ten minutes late. Maybe they wouldn't notice.

I pushed the door open, there was nobody there, no concierge, nobody. Just a cork board above a little wooden table with tatty flyers offering yoga retreats and reiki. Odd!

There were some stairs after the table, there was nowhere else to go so we assumed that we should go up the stairs.

Great, I was knackered.

When we arrived to the room above, we realised we were there. But nobody else was, nobody stared at us, nobody turned us away.

If you think we deserve three quid for going on about London, this is the button. Cheers.

We waited for a few minutes wondering what to do. Finally a young lad approached, he stared at the diary in front of him, and without looking at us he asked, “Have you got a booking?”

Strange, wasn’t he supposed to say good evening or ‘Welcome to The Mung Bean, you have arrived.’

“Yes we have, at 6pm, sorry we’re a bit late.”

He sighed, “We need the table back at eight.”

Wow, this lad had the charm of a sticky slug. It’s as if he hated us for being there. It’s as if he hated himself for being there.

“Yea no problem.” We had only been there for five minutes but we already knew we definitely didn't want to stay past eight o'clock anyway.

Then the slug gave us an option, accompanied with another deep sigh, “Do you want to be inside or outside?”

Oh the charm and generosity, Slug Boy was sweeping us off our feet.

The big room we were looking into was empty and cold, so we opted for outside.

Slug Boy pointed to some stairs, “Go down there.”

So we did as we were told and ended up in a little courtyard. There were some hedges around us and the tables and chairs were those metal patio types, you know the ones that feel as if they're made of tin foil.

There was a waitress in the corner, stroking a cat, but no other diners. We sat at a table and waited.

This was weird, we were expecting a restaurant, we were expecting tables to be set, some soft music in the background, waiting staff taking us to our tables, this was London, where was the magic?

The waitress came over and gave us some menus, she was friendlier, we liked her, but we didn't like the cat hairs on her hands.

We asked for some drinks and off she went, then Slug Boy arrived, “Would you like some drinks?”

“Errr, thanks, we’ve just ordered some.” He turned and went.

The drinks arrived, and as we looked through the menu more people started to arrive, Slug Boy picked up the pace. The waitress carried on stroking the cat.

Now, we ordered our food, but to be honest, the only dish we can remember was a tomato soup with some sort of garnish. And all we can recall is that when it arrived it was a bowl of tomato soup with something sprinkled on top, can’t remember what. And it didn't taste of much.

Then, one person took our finished starters away, and as the plates left the table it was immediately replaced with our main courses by someone behind us. Like, it was literally put in front of us straight away.

Now, you may be thinking that it’s good to have service that quick, but read on. When a starter is taken away from you, the kitchen is informed that your table is ready for the next course. So, the kitchen starts to plate up your main course, then someone collects it and brings it to your table.

So for it to arrive immediately after your first course meant that it must have already been plated and sat waiting to be transported to us.

NO! That wouldn't happen, this was London. If we did anything ever so slightly wrong, Jean and Jim would have it pasted all over Tripadvisor.

Imagine if Tricky Vicki took something to a table and she had a slight squint because the light was shining in her eyes. And at the same time one of the napkins was folded without right angles at the corners.

‘We went to Vanilla Black with high expectations, the waitress gave me an evil stare just because I was wearing a Primark cardy and the place was a shambles. Avoid!’

Slug Boy arrived and took our plates away, then he came back and asked if we would like desserts. The sparkling charm made us feel as if we’d known him for years.

We made up a little back story for Slug Boy**. He’d arrived to London to make his fortune and started by busking on Camden Bridge. His dream was to be spotted by a talent agent, get a record deal with EMI, and knock Robbie Williams off the number one spot. But while he waited for that to happen, he was working here to make a few quid, but the talent agent hadn’t spotted him yet and after six years he was becoming a tad impatient. And it was all our fault.

So we ordered desserts, can’t remember what they were, we ate them and waited for the bill. And while we waited we watched the other diners. We couldn't understand why everyone else was blown away by the place. There was a table in front of us, they looked like business types, suits and briefcases, they were muttering to each other about how good the food was. One of them had the same soup as us, when it was cleared he declared to the cat haired lady that it was superb. Eh?

An example of tomatoes which are usually needed to make soup.

So this was a fancy London vegetarian restaurant, this is where we came to gain some inspiration, this is what we had to aim for, we needed to be this good.

So all we needed to do was stop trying as hard, tell the team to stop trying as hard, and give Jim and Jean some watery soup. Easy.

Right, we’ve ran out of space, and your attention span just can't handle anymore. So next week we visit the meat restaurant which did some interesting vegetarian options, Sketch. Let us hope so, we needed some London fanciness to inspire us.

Thanks for reading, Donna and Andrew.

* The Mung Bean is not the real name of the restaurant we visited.

**Many years later we heard that Slug Boy got that record deal and toured the worlds great rock stadiums***.

***No he didn’t.