It's become apparent that London brings out the greed in me. This is by no means a bad thing; I love reading up on all the latest places to eat and drink in preparation for my visit, but it leaves me with a lengthy list that I have to somehow schedule in to fit with my other plans. More often than not, things don't quite work in my favour and I go home dreaming of the stuff I've missed out on.
My latest venture to the capital took a more laid back approach. Arriving early, we were able to go for breakfast - it was 11, so could probably be classed as brunch - and after our recent Peruvian feast (see my Senor Ceviche post), The Chap and I had been craving more; hello Andina in Shoreditch! Martin Morales, the main man behind Ceviche in Soho, has just opened his second restaurant, focussing on delivering healthy, Andean cuisine all day long. Inspired by the traditional 'picanterias' in Peru, Andina has that social-eating, open-kitchen, popular dishes kind of vibe, with visually attractive interiors to match its beautiful food. It’s a sanctuary from the 'dirty burger' trend, its quinoa burgers here, and menus are graced with heaps of superfoods and smoothies.
If that wasn't enough we shared a Lengua De Suegra (which I'd spotted on Tweat Up's best breakfast in London list); puffed up Peruvian filo pastry with a dulce de leche filling. Bliss.
A spot of Carnaby Street window shopping, then it was about time for a late lunch - perhaps drunch? Anyway, Foxcroft & Ginger on Berwick Street was our venue of choice, and at just after 3pm it was still crazy busy. Perched next to a pommel horse - yes, you heard correctly - we waited until a table became free. Three of us squeezed round a two-seater, not that we minded, and ordered off of the all day brunch menu; it was a double brunch kind of day.
I went for the naughtiest thing imaginable (please don't judge me); two massive pieces of French toast with banana, bacon, walnuts, mascarpone and drizzled with syrup. It’s a rare occasion that I leave the daintiest morsel of food on my plate, but this defeated me. A strange combination, but one you must try. With a constant flow of customers, F&G is clearly a popular choice amongst Londoners, and whilst they may have cocked up our order – which led to a delay – they rectified it with a free slice of cake. If they hadn't have said anything, we really wouldn't have noticed, but who turns down free cake?!
I went for the naughtiest thing imaginable (please don't judge me); two massive pieces of French toast with banana, bacon, walnuts, mascarpone and drizzled with syrup. It’s a rare occasion that I leave the daintiest morsel of food on my plate, but this defeated me. A strange combination, but one you must try. With a constant flow of customers, F&G is clearly a popular choice amongst Londoners, and whilst they may have cocked up our order – which led to a delay – they rectified it with a free slice of cake. If they hadn't have said anything, we really wouldn't have noticed, but who turns down free cake?!
As darkness descended, drinks were needed, so we pottered to Mayfair to meet up with The-slightly-sozzled-Chap at The Running Horse (mentioned in a previous London post). Rumour had it that their 'race-y' cocktail bar, The Whip, was open upstairs, and with Cheltenham Festival fast approaching it seemed only right to go and check it out. Mint green racing stripes decorate the walls alongside jockey silks and traditional equine paintings, and the vintage leather chairs and velvet sofas are a luxurious touch. It’s quiet when we arrive, 6pm is hardly prime cocktail time, but the 'feel' of the place is excellent nonetheless. It’s dim lighting makes it feel exclusive, smooth tunes infuse the atmosphere, chatty staff make you feel at home, and the menu is succinct; all drinks - with names like Frankel's Fizz and Final Furlong - are a tenner each, no faffing.Juleps are the signature sip; a mint and bourbon based drink, famed for its popularity at the Kentucky Derby where over 120,000 are drank over just a couple of days. Served in traditional pewter tins, and taking up half of the cocktail menu, The Whip are championing a Julep revival. I opted for the house favourite, a julep made with a blend of Chase Rhubarb Vodka and Williams GB gin. Having to bury my nose into the sprigs of mint sticking out of the top in order to drink it, it attacks the senses; smell, taste, and there's something quite nice about the feel of the ice told tin in your hand. With seriously good booze behind the bar, inventive mixes, swish settings, and a central location; this is a place I could see myself visiting again and again. My bets are that The Whip is going to be big, so get galloping over there before you're queuing at the door.
The next morning saw a stroll to Columbia Road's flower market in East London. A lovely chilled out Sunday thing to do, you might think, but it's so popular with both locals and tourists, that you have to wrestle your way down the street, trying to avoid being poked in the eye by the mahoosive bunch of flowers that the guy in front of you is nursing. That said, I like the flurry of browsers, photographers, foodies, dog walkers, hungover folks inhaling carbs, posho's quaffing coffee; you get the works. Lily Vanilli's bakery is what drew us here (see my previous cake inspired post), though as we had lunch plans already, we couldn't gorge ourselves on cake like we did last time we visited. A simple - but bloody amazing - slice of sourdough toast it was instead; topped with courgettes, mushrooms, red onion and cheese, then strewn with a few stems of watercress to add freshness and a mustardy tang. Breakfast should be like this more often. 
Hawksmoor was our eating agenda for the day; a previous winner in the Observer Food Monthly Awards 'Best Sunday Lunch' category, it was also a runner up in 2012 for best restaurant, and voted the 'Best Place to Drink' in 2013. It had a lot to live up to. We opted for the Seven Dials branch, a short walk away from Covent Garden, as the building - which was formerly a brewery - looked stunning. It's a dark, unassuming entrance; you take your coats off and leave it with the staff to put in the cloakroom; there's nothing but a desk and a set of stairs. Down you go, and you find yourself in an unexpectedly large space; a long bar lined with stools, not a single one empty, high speakeasy style tables – it was standing room only - tables dotted right round the edge, seating two to four, then loads more tables, the kitchen, and wine room through a set of doors. They've crammed as many people as possible in here, which is fine if you like that kind of buzzy ambience, but I wouldn't suggest this as a place for an 'intimate dinner for two'. Fortunately, this is the kind of thing we like about coming to London; our usual Sunday roasts involve serene country pubs, where the most noise comes from a dog sat under the table, begging for a mere crumb of his owner's yorkie pud.
An apéritif? Oh go on then, we were on 'holiday' after all. I had a Garden Party; White Port, Redcurrant Campari and Prosecco, stirred with cucumber. Apparently this drink was created accidentally, through using sparkling wine in a Negroni instead of gin. The bartender should make mistakes more often if this is anything to go by. Anyway, Hawksmoor's got beef - and lots of it – there’s a variety of cuts and weights you can choose from, but it's got to be a roast on a Sunday. A thick piece, flushing pink in the middle, came sat on top of the veg; a huge Yorkshire pudding masquerading as a bowl to house the crispy potatoes; roasted onion and garlic, a nice addition, and some glistening gravy. We asked the sommelier to suggest a wine within our budget to go with the food, to which he picked Château de Ricaud, Cadillac Côtes de Bordeaux 2010; a well structured Cabernet Sauvignon/Merlot blend, with lots of juicy dark fruits and velvety tannins; a great match. 
Dessert was a toughie; salted caramel always leads me astray, but this time I stayed strong and chose a buttermilk pannacotta with poached rhubarb and spicy ginger-bread biscuits. With the silky pannacotta flecked with vanilla, and the luminous pink stems, it felt pretty girly. The Chap had a manlier banana and bourbon tart; ice cream and lashings of toffee sauce - job done.
Having to move to the next notch on my belt, it was definitely home time. Another successful, weight-gaining, liver-pickling, London trip. I look forward to our next encounter, but I best make sure I'm hungry.
