Borough Market

In order to begin chutney making in style, I decided to pay a visit to Borough Market. Technically speaking I could easily have bought the necessary ingredients from Sainsburys, but I felt that this option lacked glamour. Besides, I’d heard so many eulogies on this wondrous open air market, it was time to see for myself.

Borough market is situated just south of London Bridge, in the Southwark neighborhood. It is a venerable market, some say dating back to Roman times. Where legend ends and history begins is hard to tell but given the market’s location, nudging up to the river Thames, it is not surprising that it has been a thriving center of commerce for hundreds of years. Today it doubles as both a wholesale and retail market, the former open during the wee hours of morning when only those dedicated and industrious chefs are mad enough to be awake. The retail market however is clearly geared towards a more leisurely bunch, open in the middle of the day and boasting not only produce, meat, and dairy, but also Spanish tapas, artisan coffee, fine wines, posh cheeses, and a plethora of other delectables to tempt the wondering foodie.

 
As I entered the market, I shoved my hands firmly into my coat pockets. “Now look,” I said to myself, “don’t even think about buying anything frivolous. You’re here for a kilo of apples, one onion, and a cup of Monmouth Coffee, for research purposes, naturally.” (Before leaving Whidbey Island and my beloved UBCC coffee, I had done serious research on where to find the best caffeinated brew in London. The answer was clear: Monmouth Coffee Company had, by most accounts, the most beautiful beans in town.

They certainly had an eye for aesthetics, I reflected, standing in the slow moving coffee queue. Doors flung wide, the interior boasted a beautiful layout in rich brown hues. The center of the room was taken up by two long communal tables and in the middle of each were several enormous pots of jams. The tables themselves were littered with crumbs, coffee cups, and papers, and surrounded by customers, chatting, reading, and sipping away.  Pastries jostled for space on a counter at the back, baristas moved rhythmically through the motions of packing, pouring, and steaming milk, while chalk boards behind them romantically depicted the journey of beans from tree to cup.  The scene was admirably constructed and shamelessly alluring. More importantly, I decided, taking a reverent sip off a double short americano (called a “long black” in London lingo), the coffee itself was exquisite. Monmouth, for all its hype, certainly delivered the goods. 

After coffee I wandered wide-eyed around the market, fighting the urge to buy everything in sight. There was a stall selling unctuous olive oils, there was a chocolate shop (I couldn’t resist buying just one bar—silken, midnight-black 85% cacao content).  On one corner a handsome, ruddy cheeked guy was ladling sangria into plastic cups for his customers, two fashionably dressed young women who looked as though they’d already had a few too many, despite the early hour. Overcoming the urge to join these ladies in a midday tipple, I wandered off only to find myself in front of an equally distressing pork pie stand. Panic was beginning to settle in as I scanned the market, desperate to get away from temptation. How easy it would have been to spend half a month’s rent on pork pie, chocolate, and premium Italian olive oil!

 

I withdrew to the relative safety of the produce area, took a few deep breaths and bought my apples and onion. Done. Now all I needed was to make a dash for the exit without any mishaps.  On the way out I was halted by a whiff of something smokey and slightly spicy . . . . chorizo rolls: a soft, floury bap encasing a chunk of hot chorizo sausage, piquillo peppers, arugula, and a drizzle of olive oil, £ 3.50.

It was lunch time after all. Couldn’t argue with that.