londoner Archives - Hello Farrah

At the Tabl: Gizzi Erskine & The Inksiders

Posted on February 28, 2016 by Farrah Kelly

Late to the trend party as ever, I’ve been pining after going to a supper club. I’m the sort of person who loves the social side of food- bonding over carving a roast or tasting a forkful of your friend’s dish is the most important part of any meal- and supper clubs are that bit more personal than your typical eat-out experience. Unfortunately, I’m also the sort of person who will have something on my ‘I must do that’ list for months, so despite it being on my radar for a good long while, I’d never got round to going to one.

Until, that is, I was invited by the very lovely Tazz along to a Tabl event. Tabl is all about making dining experiences more fun, more personal, and more social. Their website, tabl.com, is a litany of cool one-night-only pop ups, home kitchen supper clubs, and innovative food + something special mash ups. To say I jumped at the chance is to massively overstate the grace I had in accepting her invite.

So that’s how I found myself flying solo in the private dining room of Tramshed, Shoreditch, for a tattoo-inspired menu and discussion with The Inksiders and food-hero Gizzi Erskine.

Long tables lay in the centre of the dining room, with people milling around holding glasses of Brighton Gin. I knew nobody. Recognising Erin, IslandBell, from Twitter, I walked over and shyly interrupted her and her friend’s chat to introduce myself. Erin and Charlie were so sweet, and immediately accepted me as part of their evening as we got chatting about the towns we had in common and our shared love of Gizzi Erskine’s books.

Welcome drinks swigged, it was time to take our seats. Seeing a gap in the crowd surrounding Gizzi, Erin took us to meet her, we were greeted with hugs like old friends and asked to join her at the table so we could all keep chatting. As I was shaking off my fangirl, a hand tapped my shoulder. Lydia, a girl I haven’t seen for years, was right there in front of me. We freaked out, sat down together, and the meal began.

Simultaneously in reunion and making-friends mode, I chatted an laughed and swapped Twitters and took photos all night. Each dish was designed to be carved out for groups, a glowing convivial spirit of carving roast chicken and sharing out plates of salad, pouring drinks for people I hadn’t met yet. If this sounds gushing, then that’s as accurate as I could be. I loved it.

Between mains and dessert (pure salted caramel fondue with cakes for dipping- the most heart-eyes-emoji dish I’ve ever seen), there was a Q&A with Gizzi and Mo, a renowned tattoo artist. They chatted about the ink and food industries, fielding questions from the crowd as we swigged wine. Though I’m no tattoo afficianado, you could really get a feel for their passion and expertise.

Dessert rounded up and with plans to meet all four of the girls I got chatting to again, I tottered off back home feeling incredibly connected to London. Without really trying, I’d found myself alone in an awesome restaurant with food by a chef I love, met new friends and found old ones, discovered a new way of entertaining that I’m dying to do again and left full and happy. This was more social, more dinner-round-mine than any restaurant I’ve ever been to. I’m already scouring Tabl for the next opportunity to arrive alone at a dinner party and leave with new friends and a stomach full of great food.

PS- if anyone wants to hit up a supper club, shout and I will 100% come with you!

Pizza Union, King’s Cross

Posted on August 16, 2015 by Farrah Kelly

Since my fella moved in with me, I’ve had fewer excuses to hang out with his flatmates- three girls who truly appreciate a glass of rose and a lip sync battle.

And considering I owed Sally an overdue congratulations on her snazzy new job, I took her out for dinner at Pizza Union, King’s Cross to catch up and pig out.

Friends had raved to me about their other outposts, so I was looking forward to giving them a whirl myself. It has a distinct uber-cool school canteen vibe, topped with gorgeous mixed tiles that were oh-so-Instagrammable.

Good pizza should be quick, simple, and pack a punch of flavour. The menu at Pizza Union might look brief, but this is as it should be. Venetian Pizzarias don’t stack their menus high- Pizza Hut does. With fewer, more focused options, you can practically guarantee that thought and love has gone into your choice.

I had the Manzo- tomato and cheese base (how else?), beef, chilli and rocket.

Damn. The base was crispy, cooked to perfection in their mosaic pizza oven, with the toppings generously scooped on. Fresh, filling and moreish, the pizza took me near on an hour to eat while other Pizza Unionists were whipping in and out with their speedy pizzas in no time. I like to savour my meal, okay? Plus I was side snacking on a big cuppa olives and popped chilli nuts.

Pizza Union was the perfect setting for a catch up- relaxed enough to unwind after a day in the office, fun enough to not feel shy giving out great big belly laughs, and with enough early 2000 hits to have a little sing along between pizza bites. Despite the crowds we all seemed to be getting quick and happy service, an oddity in the London fast casual scene.

Dessert was dolce- Sally had coconut and I had salted caramel with peanut. When we both shirked the nutella option the waiter seemed agog- urging us to try his favourite- but despite his best intentions we stuck to our guns and can happily report the Caramello and Coco versions are worth a recommendations too. Sweet filling wrapped in a sweetened dough ring- quite a heavy but undeniably tasty end to the meal.

I’ll be coming back to Pizza Union- King’s Cross is my gateway to the North and I pass through pretty regularly. I can now sack off the Pret dinners to take on the train and get a decent, superfast (they mean it when they say superfast, our bums had barely hit out chairs before our buzzer went wild) pizzas from here. Bellisimo.

Pizza Union, Pentonville Road King’s Cross.

Living in London: Lessons

Posted on June 14, 2014 by Farrah Kelly

It’s a recurring theme in my life, this whole startled-at-how-much-time-has-passed thing (evidence 1, 2, 3), and it’s time for another bout of wonder/panic/sheer disbelief. I’ve been living in London for twelve whole months. I cannot believe how quickly the time has gone, and how much has changed in such a busy year.

To commemorate My First London Anniversary, I thought I’d do a Twelve Things I’ve Learnt in London, one for each month.

1. Yes, all of those people will fit onto that tube carriage.

You don’t know the meaning of the word cramped until the Northern line is delayed (which it is, btw. Without a doubt.) and there’s several hundred people itching to get to work on time. Every nook and cranny of that carriage will soon be filled with humans and their bloody fold-up bikes. Someone will be shouting “CAN YOU MOVE DOWN PLEASE”- which despite being totally reasonable, will ignite a flair of passive aggressive shuffling so potent I’m surprised the train doesn’t spontaneously combust. Also, tube strikes.

2. You’re going to become unbearably impatient

Ten minutes is a fair amount of time to wait for a train, right? Wrong. That is an outrageous amount of time, and if you don’t angry-tweet TFL right now then you’re a weakling.

3. All the choice in the world, and you’ll still go to Wahaca

There are approximately seven million restaurants in London. I live in a really small South London town called Southfields, and we have, off the top of my head, 25 decent restaurants within walking distance. In Huddersfield, to get to a good restaurant you had to get a bus and then train to Leeds. There are amazing restaurants on every corner in London. Despite this, whenever I’m hungry, I invariably end up in Wahaca. It’s like they’re a giant burrito-shaped magnet and I’m a willing iron filing looking for tequila cocktails and nachos.

4. A coffee order can be seventeen words long before you sound like an idiot.

In the north, you have two choices of coffee; black or milky. If you order anything with more than two words, or anything that ends in the letter “o”, you’re automatically in the Dick club. This does not exist in London. You can legitimately order a “soy decaf double shot grande mocha latte with a pump of hazlenut syrup” without even blushing.

5. London is gorgeous.

6. Big cities are overwhelming.

If you’re having a bad day, London sucks. Not too long ago, I received some bad news, and the rest of the day felt like the entire city was trying to trip me up. There’s too many people, you’re in the wrong flow of traffic, everything is expensive, you left your Oyster card on the bus and you’ve just been called a bitch for not having a lighter for some random dude’s cigarette. It’s busy, uncaring and cruel. I wanted nothing more than to get on a train and fling myself two hundred miles up north and settle down in a nice silent field somewhere and burst out into tears. That, or punch the next guy who screams “EVENING STANDAAAAAARD” in my ear. Bad moods don’t bode well in big cities.

7. You’re in the centre of the universe

London is scientifically the centre of the universe. Or at least, that’s what the news would have you believe. I’m not saying this is a good thing- the other day when the Shard was precautionarily evacuated, BBC news spent as much time going into to detail about the Shard not being on fire as it did on, oh I dunno, the crisis in the Middle East, kidnapped Nigerian school girls and the Ukraine. It’d be slightly more understandable if the Shard actually was on fire (which it wasn’t). Slightly.

8. The power of invisibility

Look like shit? That’s fine! Everywhere you go you’re going to be able to blend right into a swarm of people. Nobody will ever notice the mismatched shoes and/or last night’s makeup.

9. It’s changed my views on almost everything.

I’ve always considered myself a pretty open minded person, but living in London really opened my eyes. The causes I was blind to, the people I’d never heard. I’ve blogged some of it (Blog Alpha), but some of it has simply come from seeing comedy gigs like Aamer Rahman or Bridget Christie, or talking to Big Issue vendors, or drunken night bus rambling.

10. London never gets old.

The novelty of gliding past St Pauls on a bus never gets old. Watching street artists spray onto the walls of Brick Lane never gets old. Climbing the stairs out of the tube station to be met head on with Big Ben never gets old.

11. I live for live entertainment.

My interest in going to gigs peaked in the early 2000s to see Kate Nash smash up a piano in a Cockney accent. My interest in comedy, poetry, theatre and talks, however, is flying high and facilitated by London’s vibrant everything scene. Whether it’s empty poetry gigs or West End musicals, I cannot get enough of it all.

12. I can now spot a tourist a mile off.

I’m not one of those Londoners who thinks that tourists are demons sent from hell to trip me up with suitcases on my way to work. Nope, I’m the kind of Londoner who feels insanely smug at having any level of insider knowledge. Once, when the District Line was down (it always is, btw), I spent about half an hour giving detailed travel instructions to groups of confused tourists and it made me feel like I was the Queen of the Underground.

What have you learnt since living in London (…if anything)? Here’s to the second year, now please mind the gap.

When London breaks

Posted on February 7, 2014 by Farrah Kelly

You know how when it snows, everyone gets ready to make those “Southern pansy” jokes? The ones about how oop North, we rally through full force gales, shimmy over snow drifts and pick our way through the perilous icy peaks to get to the mines, but when a single snowflake lands outside Buckingham Palace, every Londoner goes into a full-scale meltdown as though they’d never seen the sky deposit such an unearthly matter on their beloved city before, and as a result they spend all day blankly refusing to go to work?

Yeah. I used to make those.

I lived on the edge of the Pennines for a year, where, in winter, it was safer to sit on your bum and slide one mile down the ice-covered road into oncoming traffic than to risk breaking your back by walking down said hill- and I still never missed my bus. I used to slide to college, voluntarily or otherwise, every day with only a few complaints and a twisted ankle. I felt my perils were just a simple part of winter, and coping with it was a simple job of getting on with your life despite external forces.

I used to look at Londoners, whimpering over the weather forecast, and think that they were pathetic. That was then. That was before I experienced The TFL Tube Strike.

I’m not sure if you noticed (…) but London just had a public transport freak out. I don’t pretend to be an expert on the situation, so do your fact-finding elsewhere, but I do know that for two days, it messed with my head.

The night before the strike, I’d been pretty smug. Meh, I thought, ignoring all warnings, this will just be another thing that Londoners meltdown about. Oop Norf, we rally through full force gales to get t’werk…(cont.). That was before what should have been an hour and a half round trip took me SIX AND A HALF HOURS.

I saw five people crying. I saw three arguments. I saw queues of one hundred people trying to bustle onto a single decker bus. I was in Waterloo East when it had to be evacuated and I was in gridlocked traffic for so long that I gave up and decided to walk the remaining stretch in the windy drizzle. I was on the only central-bound train from Clapham that thoughtful strangers decided to fart on. And you know the worst bit? I didn’t even have it that bad.

I’ve got a new found respect for Londoners. I used to think that the transport-drama headlines were hyperbolic, and simply proof that people were softer down south. But having experienced just a taste of what it’s like to be in a crowd of one thousand lost and late commuters, I sort of get it now. Because back home, when there’s a transport crisis, we’re not battling with crowds of hundreds of people who are getting in your way, or knocking you over to get on the bus. And there’s certainly no one farting into your handbag.