The flight from Dubai to London really was horrific, reaffirming my desire never, ever to fly with British Airways ever again (and I really do try to refrain from slagging off actual companies on T.F.T.). The last four times I have flown with them, there has been some kind of issue. This time, aside from a delayed take-off (which may or may not have been their fault but I am going to assume it was, as everything always seems to be), it is to be assumed that the electrics failed in the cabin. I say ‘assumed’, as it was an overnight flight, I was hungover and passed out as soon as I was seated, but came to as we taxied to the stand at Heathrow, awaking to a gloomy cabin, T.V. screens not working and a man next to me moaning to the flight attendant like a pro. Turns out all the non-essential electrics, such as entertainment systems, lighting and the stuff to keep food warm (oh, yeah, dinner was cancelled apparently) all stopped working. The crew looked forlorn, meekly handing out compensation cards. I lost mine at baggage reclaim.
I didn't mind that much; all I cared about was quick and unmolested passage from the stand to St. James’ in Central London, where an early check-in and a shower at my hotel were hopefully awaiting. And sure enough, in some kind of record, I was off the dingy airplane, through immigration, baggage reclaim, onto the Heathrow Express and chatting to the doorman in the rain on the doorstep of the hotel in a little over two hours… now that has to be a record. There was more than enough time for a quick shower and change of undies and then straight back out.
It was, sadly, early. Like half-eight in the morning early, and I was shattered. However I was also ravenous, and that was a good thing as I was off to London Bridge to meet my good friend and one-time guest-blogger Ed, for breakfast back in the sky.
The last time I took a stroll through London Bridge Station it was a bit of a mess, in the last stages of a nightmare reconstruction to compliment the shininess of the London Bridge Quarter. A year or so later, the station is… still a mess, albeit with a little fewer ‘coming soon’ signs but now but chunks of boarded-up mystery that diverting confused tourists (lamentably, I am now one of them, a sheep in the shuffling hordes) into the direct fire of the last rush of commuters scurrying to work. I hate that London is no longer home.
Meeting Ed, we made our way to the building that would host us for breakfast. That building is the centrepiece of the London Bridge Quarter - The Shard. We ran to escape the spitting rain and of course into the wrong entrance of this tall, pointy lynchpin of Modern London, the entrance which will take you into the sad Shangri-La Hotel. The doorman, who should really be in a job away from human beings, gruffly pointed us outside and around to the door which would lead us to the high speed elevators that whisk hungry, jet-lagged people to the thirty-first floor, and Aqua Shard.
Aqua Shard is a big shiny void of a restaurant, offering all-day dining with unreal views of this wonderful city, which on this day, stretched out before us like an endless grey throw, almost ethereally, but tangible enough to make me miss London more, and more, and more. The dining room is brilliantly devoted almost entirely to this vista, with comfy but plain chairs and tables, light-fittings and occasional furniture that do not let you forget that you are about to pay premium prices but at the same time fall a thankful and distant second to the direction of your gaze, which will inevitably be trained through the sheer window, out to the city beyond.
Such was the allure of the magnificent view (and every table, including ones not in the window, are guaranteed one), that we neglected to review the breakfast menu. With Ed running out of time as he was working later, and the friendly waitress getting ever more edgy with the prospect of having to give us the lunch menu instead (or maybe even the afternoon tea menu, or dinner card), we quickly ordered two Full English Breakfasts.
For a couple of growing lads, this was an obvious choice really, a ray of sunshine in an otherwise pretentious menu consisting of pastries, baps and things only an idiot would order, like Lobster Benedict. In fairness, the dressed up names of some of the components of our full English would likely consign Ed and myself to the bulging ‘Aqua idiot’ file as well, but we were already having breakfast in a swanky little joint at the top of a swanky little tower in the newest swanky part of London, so, maybe we were doomed even before we sat down.
You know what, you couldn't really fault the (Cotwold Legbar) eggs, (Maynard’s Farm Treacle-cured) smoked streaky back bacon, (Cumberland) sausage, (Bermondsey salted) ricotta and (sourdough) toast, but I don't know, don't we all want some grubbiness with a full English? I mean, the tidiness of its presentation had me as smitten as did the view, but there were no baked beans (on the plate I mean, not as part of the view). I mean come on… did we lose a war since I moved to Dubai? And to this day I couldn't tell you what makes Cotswold Legbar eggs so special from the Al Jazira Poultry Farm L.L.C. brand I buy back here, not when they’re drowned under an inch of Heinz tomato sauce.
So we ordered coffee to wash it down with, of good enough quality to justify its extortionate price, and of course some fresh juice, but in hindsight a round of Breakfast Martinis to complement the enchanting breakfast was one of the better choices I made during those two drizzly days in London. Dinner that evening, at Flat Iron in Soho was Awesome with a capital ‘A’, but at the same time a comedy of errors, one that I may recount when I get my shit together with this blog, and there is more time to devote to the cause of stories that don't really show me in a good light.
I did enjoy this early morning martini, the yellow pansy garnish being the only calming thing about its sharp, grapefurit-laced tang. In many ways, the cocktail summed up the whole Aqua Shard experience - pricey, flowery-but-somewhat-serious, definitely decent, served up surrounded by glass and a damn good choice, if a somewhat guilty one. But hey, it had been a heavy twelve hours.
My belly was full of gin, and despite being somewhat full of food as well, it seemed to yearn more. I trudged back to the hotel, stopping to get a duffin and a fatty latte from Starbucks, consuming it in bed. My last phone call before a deep slumber was to confirm dinner plans. It was wonderful to be back home.
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