Despite living in Britain for 22 months, I had yet to have a "proper" tea. This was just unacceptable to my wonderful, baker friend Amy, who redeemed her birthday coupon this past weekend with an afternoon at the Wolseley.
Now, going for tea in England is not just a hot kettle of Lipton, oh no. Having tea is an event of cultural significance, and the manner in which you take your tea a symbol of your social class. Ahhh, whatever, this is clearly about the cake (insert sarcastic comment about my class here).
The Wolseley, a darling little room off Picadilly Circus, is the "it" place for a proper tea in London. Led off with a glass of champagne (well, at least ours did), the warm pot of warm pot of Wolseley blend tea is accompanied by a three tiered tray of finger sandwiches, pastries and scones. Let's go row by row:
Sandwiches in Britain could have an entire chapter written about them, although it would be a dull one. They certainly do NOT believe in filling. In fact, it seems the thinner the layering in the sandwich the higher your class level, and THAT I do not get. Paper thin cucumber? Must be a princess. So, first floor contained five different crustless finger sandwiches - tarragon chicken was tasty. I ate them all in a matter of minutes.
I'll skip to the top level ... scones. It was in Cornwall (recall surfing trip here) where I was first introduced to clotted cream. As far as good things go, this stuff ranks up there with cheese - and - I - love - cheese. Warm raisin scones with cream and jam along side your tea is a treat. Add in the silver enamelled serving spoons and this really is all I would have needed for this tea to have been deemed a culinary success.
Yet, there was still the middle tray of petite sweets. Cookies, cakes, strawberry tortes, chocolate eclairs ... Num num. I can see why this tea tradition has stuck.
Ahh, the Bank Holiday. Those random days here and there when the UK closes for reasons unbeknownst to me, but provide the perfect excuse for a little adventure. This trip was devoted to the hunt of sun and sunsets, intermixed with with some delicious Greek food and girl time.
I've been yearning for a trip to the Greek islands for nearly 20 years now. Stories of friends sailing the Mediterranean, exploring foreign lands and foods, wind in their hair ... it was a dream worth holding on to. Finally my day has come. Destination: Santorini.
Our two story accommodation was perched on the side of a towering cliff with breathtaking views of the Caldera Bay, formed by the flooding of a huge volcanic crater thousands of years ago. Some think Atlantis is underwater there. Greeted with champagne, followed by Greek salad and an afternoon unwinding by the pool, the service was impeccable.
After viewing the first evening's sunset over an impressive bottle of local red wine and mousaka beyond expectations, the next day we opted to rent a car and drive down to the "Red Beach" at the southern tip of the island. Santorini is not that large and early in May was pleasantly uncrowded. After a short hike along side of the red pumice-like cliffs, we were nearly alone on a small black sand beach. Time to get the tan started! We had a delicious lunch of fresh grilled fish seaside before heading back to clean up and make our way to another town Oia, known for white-washed churches and the best sunsets in the world.
Each morning we started with breakfast on the patio overlooking the vast sea. Greek yoghurt with fruit and honey. Yum. Day two we explored another black sand beach near Perivolos. This area was a bit more established, with beachside restaurants and sun chairs set up with cushions and straw umbrellas. We lived the rough life, flipping from front to back, alternating between reading books and taking a nap. That evening, after strolling the numerous jewellery shops we enjoyed a delicious local Greek dinner at Nikolas Taverna in the main town of Thira. Ok, I did try the Ouzo. Not bad!
Day three: boat trip! The main excursion off Thira is to the two "burnt islands" in the bay. They are literally mountains of volcanic rock, and after a boat ride you get to hike around the larger, smelling the sulfuric gas leaving the Earth, and praying that baby doesn't decide to blow. It was better than it sounds. Second stop is at the hot springs, which are billed as warm, bubbling sea with healing qualities where you can spread the silt from the water on your skin ... that was not better than it sounds. The plunge you had to make from the boat into the frigid water was enough to stop your heart!
One of the more story-worthy points of the weekend was the trip back up to town from the port. The city is perched nearly 400m above sea level. To get down we took a cable car, but on the way up we rode donkeys! The fleet of Santorini donkeys has been carrying cargo up and down for centuries. All you do is hop on one, they know the route, hold on for dear life, hope they don't fight, and then hop off once you reach the top. What an experience!!! The local men running the operation looked straight out of history. {I'll leave out the part about my friend spraining her ankle coming off a donkey and the experiences with the local clinic}.
Of course there was much more in between - gyros, grape vines growing like wreaths on the ground, conversations with taxi drivers, hikes through villages stacked on top of each other, naked people, stray dogs and cats, new Greek sandals, and the comradery of my girls. Dream fulfilled.
I slowly wake to the chiming bells of the Duomo and make my way to a cafe nearby, ordering a machiatto I enjoy standing casually at the counter amidst others doing the same.
I have time, so after the shot I find a sunny seat in front of the cathedral and finish reading the last few pages of a book that's had a hold of me, intermittently lifting my eye to gaze at the varied people strolling by. There are men is sharp shiny suits smoking cigarettes and women in four inch stilettos riding bikes.
After some time, I confidently make my way (without a map) down the winding cobblestone pedestrian ways lined with shops - designer clothing, shoes, and gelatto. Upon meeting my colleague for lunch in the marble-floored, glass-domed galleria, I flawlessly execute the grab and hold right hand, right then left cheek kiss kiss (gone are the days of the awkward "left first? right first?" head bobs). I have a prosciutto pizza, a glass of Amarone, and the conversation is intellectual and productive. I'm tan, rested from a recent holiday, and its a good hair day.
I'm starting to get a handle on this. It wasn't a dream, but at moments real life is so good it feels like one.
Now, going for tea in England is not just a hot kettle of Lipton, oh no. Having tea is an event of cultural significance, and the manner in which you take your tea a symbol of your social class. Ahhh, whatever, this is clearly about the cake (insert sarcastic comment about my class here).
Sandwiches in Britain could have an entire chapter written about them, although it would be a dull one. They certainly do NOT believe in filling. In fact, it seems the thinner the layering in the sandwich the higher your class level, and THAT I do not get. Paper thin cucumber? Must be a princess. So, first floor contained five different crustless finger sandwiches - tarragon chicken was tasty. I ate them all in a matter of minutes.
