On the Town: Princi

Exiting the tube station at Piccadilly Circus doing my best to manage the hordes of tourists drawn to the bright flashing lights on a busy Saturday night, I had my sites set on Chinatown. It was clear in my mind that after perusing the choices of different Asian cuisines, I would do some exploring on foot while I made up my mind which restaurant tickled my fancy. Knowing me, I would most likely land at a dodgey looking Vietnamese place, order some Pho and/or spicy noodle dish, then polish off a red bean bun from a street vendor on my way back to the tube. My night, however, went in a decidedly different direction.

Given the choice my palate tends to direct me towards things Japanese, Vietnamese, or curries. These flavors are both my favorite and those I am the most experienced with. In turn I tend to have certain expectations in the flavor and how I judge the quality of a dish compared to one I have had previously elsewhere. This being said, I enjoy nearly every type of cuisine from around the world when done correctly but have a less refined palate for other national styles. Italian is one of them. An al dente risotto, light Neapolitan pizza, or tangy pasta primavera are all truly delicious dishes, but they would have to be seriously impressive to lure me away from the aromas coming from the Asian district. Princi managed this feat.

Looking through the windows at the crowds of people, walking in the door and witnessing the spread that lay before: it was all over. What drew me in was a number of subtle signs that usually lead to good food. I tried not to gape at the thirty-odd feet of clear glass that separated me from dozens on choices ranging from pistachio custards to brick over pizzas (more on that later) and stewing eggplant. This isn't mentioning the other half of the items that I couldn't even identify, further demonstrating my partial ignorance of Italian fair. Conflicted with so many choices available and being notoriously indecisive when it comes to situations like this with numerous options at hand (usually a long process of narrowing down the contenders, since I want everything), I quickly decided on a compromise: one thing safe, one thing new.

After only a few minutes of 'window shopping,' a server stopped by my part of the counter. Leaning in, I pointed down and asked, "what's this?" I didn't understand most of what she said partially due to the chatter from the numerous customers (standing room only) and partially to her noticeable Italian accent. Both of these facts are a sign of good things to come. Regardless of her exact response to my query, I simply said, "I'll take one." After plating one of the tomato-topped rolls, we proceeded down the counter for my second selection. "Some of this as well," I said pointing to one of the assorted sides. Two plates: £4.60. After queuing a few minutes to get a table to stand at, I dove into the first of my two selections.

Called 'greche,' it was a simple seasoned dough littered with green olives throughout, topped with sliced tomatoes then baked in wood oven (another plus). On appearances, one would expect the lack of more fillings to leave the dish bland and dry. It was neither. The olive-only filling stood on its own while the dough was moist on the inside and still had the charred bread crust, most likely thanks to the oven. I wanted more tomatoes but that is just my personal taste. My second dish was my safe selection. Side salad of marinated ham, olives, tomatoes, artichokes, mushrooms, and cheese. One look and you know it is gonna be good. Salty ham chunks surrounded by the umami of the mushrooms, and even more salty olives. Specifically what cheese was used is unclear, but the tender bite paired well with the pork as well as the tomatoes. Apart from the two liters of water I needed to dilute all the sodium I had just consumed, the wood oven, Italian staff, packed tables, and simple presentation all delivered on the promise they had made to me when they first caught my eye: this food will be good. Needless to say Princi merits numerous future visits where I can spend more time on properly interrogating more of their selections and hopefully broadening my Italian palate.

The UK Transition

So here I am across the pond for the first time at somewhat of a loss for what exactly to expect. Truth be told, the first few days went considerably smoother than I had imagined. I got no sleep on the flight over (as expected) which was NOT delayed despite recent terror threats as well as the altogether unsurprising snow flurries that whipped through Copenhagen around the time of my connecting flight. Even going through customs and my route from Heathrowe to the hotel seemed to plan itself as if I had commuted in London before. For the most part things are peachy: great people, lovely atmosphere, and I even like my room despite not having a tv and regressing back to a bed the size of a large shoe. Enrollment and course registrations played out as many would expect who have gone through the process before: a small tree's worth of forms and sheets, redundant meetings, meaningless errors due to lack of interdepartmental communication, and hours of queuing (it is London after all). In all, the first week of settling in went by so surprisingly smooth and comfortable I am left with a bit of a sense of unease about the whole situation. This ominous feeling stems from the undeniable fact that nothing truly went wrong. Not horribly wrong, not somewhat unsettling, not even marginally wobbly. Nothing. After years of experiences when it is generally understood and even expected that whenever this many people and agents are involved in a coordinated effort, in this case getting myself and scores of other students enrolled in the university and settled in, that something inevitably will falter and cause headaches. But not this time (yet...).

So rather than spending my time cleaning up some form of clerical error, I have a measurable sense of calm that I am sure is disproportionate to the amount of work that went into finalizing all of the logistics of my transfer. Even as I navigate around much of London town for the first time untested in the European life style, I can't suppress the feeling that I have been here before, that the city was expecting me, that I almost could belong here. Even the unprecedented snow makes me feel reminiscent. But I get ahead of myself. This is not a claim that I conquered London in a single week, but that one expects the first few days to be either hectic or a week long endorphin high due to the novelty of the situation. My week in contrast has been pleasant and relaxed like visiting an old friend except for one major frustration that will continue to be an issue everyday until a solution can be found: what to eat for dinner.

Don't get me wrong, the food and restaurants around London are great and will constitute their own specific consideration and exploration in due time. The issue here is simply monetary in that I still operate on a college budget and can not afford to drop five pound a night on dinner. It adds up quick. The simple solution is to carry on preparing my own dinner as I have been for quite some time, but then there's the rub. I had spent the past few years slowly building up a respectable collection of kitchen tools and cookware which are now sorely missed sitting alone and unused back in the states. It's not like I could pack my cast iron skillet or my spice rack, so it all had to remain behind. Similarly I can not justify buying everything anew when it will end up staying here when my term is up in a few months. The solution it seems is a 'band aid' fix: beg, borrow, and deal to fill in the blanks. Even with some help from a few friends who lend/share some of their hardware with me, there were still some essentials that had to be purchased as they are items that any cook can not do without. Basic pantry items, a utility knife, 16cm saucepan, wooden spoon, and a coffee press.

So it's back to basics, again. Armed with a limited supply of the bare essentials and a shared kitchen, I must recommit to stretching every dollar, or pound rather, without expanding my waist line. And so help me there will be flavor, there will be curry, and there will be ale on cask.