This afternoon, in an attempt to carry out research into Joe Strummer's homesick ode to north London wanderlust ('From Willesden to Cricklewood'), me and my mate Jim planned a cycle ride to NW10. We had high hopes: it wasn't raining, we sort of knew the way, and if things went wrong, we could always catch a train home from Cricklewood. However, after a few wrong turns and struggles to cross railway tracks and pedal the steep uphills, we got knackered about half way and gave up. We ended up stopping up in leafy West Hampstead instead. The lonely avenues of Willesden with its stout, mozzarella and eggs could wait.
So, West Hampstead, birthplace of Dusty Springfield (apparently). Looking around, we judged it was the ideal place to reside if your pastimes include dining out on decking and spending a decent sum of money doing so. As a rule of thumb the affluence of a London suburb can be guaged by assessing its fried chicken shop : dry cleaner ratio. Apparently what West Hampstead lacks in hot wings and onion rings it makes up for in dirty duvets and disheveled dinner jackets.
Surrounded by cappucino bars and parasoled patios, we were unsure how to cost-effectively replenish lost energy from our measly attempt at a bike ride. So we went to the nearest off-licence (the spacious Atlanta Food & Wine) to pick up a can of beer and sit down on a bench for a bit. After watching the gentle dog walkers and huffing joggers of West Hampstead afternoon go by for a bit, we decided to go for a snack at David's Deli.
Situated on the corner of West End Lane and Mill Lane, the verandahed David's Deli looked decent enough from the outside, so we stepped in. Seconds later, though, I sensed a bad omen. A girl in front of us bought a can of Rubicon and was charged a whopping one English pound. For a single can (small one). I almost keeled over.
I regained my composure though and stepped up to the counter. With no hesitation I ordered one of the medium sized lamb samosas which lay temptingly on a plate under the glass panel. 'Ok mate. Warmed up? Fancy some spaghetti bolognese too lads?' Enquired the hefty assistant, gesturing towards a chilled plate of pre-cooked pasta. It looked a bit gross.
'Just a samosa thanks, warm please.' I said, and gazed at my feet.
Ting! And out it popped from the microwave. The assistant turned round from the till and said, straight-faced; 'That'll be two pounds please mate.' For the second time, I almost had a heart attack. The most expensive single samosa in London? I had no choice but to pay though, so grudgingly coughed up.
Blimey, this samosa better be bl**dy good! I thought, as we went back to the bench to eat. Unfortunately though, this triangular parcel did not live up to its price tag, and literally crumbled under the pressure. Its fragile pastry fell apart at the slightest touch, leaving samosa innards strewn over me, my bag, and the pavement. When I did manage to take a tangible bite, I tasted a monotonous lamb filling lacking sufficient flavour and I certainly could not taste my £2 worth. A fail.
Still, nothing ventured nothing gained, and at least my heart was pumping for the cycle home. I wonder what old Joe would have made of it all.
David's Deli, West End Lane, West Hampstead, NW London
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