I was left contemplating this yesterday afternoon as I strolled back to the office over Southwark Bridge. It was an absolutely gorgeous day, full of bright sunshine for the first time in weeks. The sky was that wonderful, watery blue you only get in winter; as if a painter didn't get quite enough colour on his brush before he dabbed it in the water, then dragged it across paper. The bulk of St. Paul's loomed to my left, sparkling in its newly renovated cleanliness. And I was in the kind of satisfied, happy mood that comes from a productive morning of work followed by an excellent lunch with good company.
The lunch was a throwback to what I used to do: wine and dine reporters. But Tony and I have both moved on, me to my marketing role and him to a senior editor's role in which he's running publications, rather than writing them. We hadn't caught up in ages, and it was a real delight to share job news, talk about the industry and catch up on each other'
s lives.I enjoy the company of most reporters (after all, it remains the profession of my heart, if not reality), but I've always had a particularly soft spot Tony. We're not close, we don't see each other often, but he's always been one of my journalistic favourites. And then, after nearly five years of knowing each other, we stumbled on a rather significant shared fact. Tony spent a year of his time at university in America, studying at ... Northwestern. All these years I've been connecting with a fellow alumnus, and didn't know it. Suddenly I wasn't sitting across the table from a colleague any more, I was indulging in shared memory with a fellow Wildcat.
And thus, after an even more delightful lunch than expected, I found myself pondering the nature of friendship and human attraction. What is it that allows us to recognise kindred spirits? Is there some subtle sense that allows us to pick up common experiences, beliefs and tastes before we actually start discovering the facts? Are we naturally programmed against diversity, and if so, how does that harm us?
Heavy thoughts for a Wednesday afternoon. And perhaps questions to which I might have had more answers had my "Intro to Psychology" class at Northwestern not been in the spring quarter at 1 in the afternoon during a year with particularly clement weather. I'm afraid I learned more about the workings of the outfield at Wrigley Field that year than the workings of the inner brain.
But one thing I do know, that has been proven time and time again: The crucible of Northwestern forges people I like, even when I don't know we've been through the same fire.
RESTAURANT REVIEW: ROAST
I wouldn't be true to the "foodie" spirit of this blog if I didn't give a nod to the restaurant where all this warm hearted discovery took place.
Roast is one of London's more beautiful dining rooms: a Victorian glass house on an upper floor hanging over the bustle of Southwark's Borough Market. While the architecture of the glass enclosure is decidedly historic, the furnishings of the room are starkly modern, with wooden floors and crisp white tablecloths gleaming under the sun. (And even in gloom, with this much glass around you it's a marvellously light and airy space.)
The food is, as per the name, almost entirely roasted meat. Roast chicken with bread sauce, roast pork with glistening crackling, Aberdeen angus fillets, roast fish. Vegetables are all a la carte and seem to be an afterthought as much as a side dish. Despite the modern decor, we're talking English food at its most traditional. This was my second time to Roast and both outings have been enjoyable. Amongst the starters are salmon and oysters, and the desserts include rhubarb crumble and steamed puddings. There's an invisible but cocooning Union Jack wrapped proudly above this place.
My one criticism of Roast would be price. This is not a place that does well on Ellen's value for money scale. Three courses with one glass of wine is going to set you back £55, minimum. I know I'm paying for the quality of the bird, but there is something in me that balks at paying the same price for an unadorned roast bird that you'd pay in another restaurant for a complicated dish with multiple ingredients and copious prep time behind it. Simple certainly doesn't mean cheap, and here simple mixes with elegance to yield a pricey treat. Best saved for expense account lunches. Which, from the looks of the dining room, was how everyone there was paying. While we all, do doubt, have fantasies of the perfect local pub, that would serve exactly this food for £20 a head. We can dream, can't we?
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