The Ally Pally Farmers Market is setting up
Set on the lower slopes of Ally Pally Park, this is the place to go to buy traditional locally sourced authentic Morroccan olives, tapinades, harissa, Cappucino, and all manner of similar made up names of stuff designed to relieve the Crouch Endians and Muswell Hillites of their cash
It does, however, have one stall worth visiting. Bokit'la. This is a stall selling Bokits (a sort of French Carribean Pasty but a millions times better than the hideous drain-tasting Cornish monstrosity.) Lovely thin fresh dough, fried and filled with beautifully spiced chicken, fish or veg with lovely fresh salad and a generous serving of hot sauce (strength 1 - 4. I of course insisted on 5).
It is run by very handsome dudes as below
and I consider it the best street food I have ever had, and I've had a few I can tell you. Isn't locally sourced food marvellous!
Anyway, on I hobble to Crouch End and struggle to find a coffee shop that has not been infected by a) children, or b) this latest awful fad, in particular popularised by this chain:
Now don't get me wrong. I've been in some of these and it's all very nice, but they do insist in serving coffee the French way, ie in fecking BOWLS
Now I understand why the French have their coffee in bowls: they indulge in that most quintessentially French but completely disgusting habit of dunking your morning croissant in the coffee. Hence the bowl, to allow for more dunking capacity than a cup. The result of course is this.
A filthy messy sludge in a bowl. Why anyone thinks such a ridiculous fad would catch on here, I have no idea, but of course North Londoners seem to lap it up. Literally.
Anyway, we found this place
and without really thinking, I sat at the first available little table, which had rather low seats a bit like this
and as I lowered myself down with my stick in one hand and the other on the little table, said table tipped over, and I managed to grab onto a passing waiter, a passing punter, and the ridiculously low light fitting. My wife also lunged over and grabbed me, and the whole ensemble gradually slipped to the floor, in an embarrassing slow motion tableau vivant.
Amid concerned enquiries as to my well being, I employed my trusty wince and we moved to a more stable table.
Very good coffee AND a cup with a handle - a bloody miracle.
On the way home passed an Artisan Bakers...
Picture of an artisan baker making an artisan baguette
...and an Artisan Dentist...
Honestly Miriam, he's MARVELLOUS and so authentic...
...and a genuine Artisan Coffee Shoppe which was packed out with smug, bearded gits with little Max strapped to their fronts
where they - not a word of a lie - were serving coffee in BASINS
Someone pass me an Artisan sickbag
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