pumpkinstrokemarrow

Following an interesting report in 'Private Eye', we though we would go and take a peek at the Bermondsey crack house, which turned out to tastefully housed in what looked rather like a repurposed electricity substation and disguised by the addition of an entirely ordinary family car.

In the course of our expedition we passed two rather grand looking Catholic churches, the particularly grand one at dock head (http://www.dockhead.com/index.html), but both, unusually for Catholic churches, firmly shut. But then, it was both lunch time and Bermondsey, not that far from the badlands of Peckham.

Lunch at the Tower Bridge Café ( http://www.lepontdelatour.co.uk/ ), a rather splendid conversion job in a former warehouse or some such. Smart décor and smart service from genuine Frenchies. No eastern Europeans here, not front of house at least. BH very happy with her dressed Dorset crab, rather liking having the thing reduced to little piles of meat, rather than having to fight one's way through a whole lot of body armour. I had a grilled mackerel; not as good as a fresh grilled mackeral - caught that morning sort of thing - but not bad for a restaurant and nicely presented. Washed down with a rather expensive but rather good bottle of Sancerre - a wine on which in these low beer days I am becoming keen. Two nifty deserts: English rhubarb tart for me and a floating island for BH, something with which she was familiar with from recipe books but with which she had never been up close and personal.

Best bread I have had in a restaurant for a long time. Thin diagonal slices of white flute, not charged despite our having two goes at it.

I was also very impressed in these nannified days to be offered a rather posh selection of cigars along with the coffee, and I was assured that I could smoke one on the terrace. I was not so sure, with none of the then present occupants of the terrace appearing to be smokers. Plus I thought it a bad day to resume the habit. Maybe I will fall on the next occasion.

As one might expect in a new conversion job, there was a nicely equipped DT. But I entirely failed to manage the entry protocol, mistaking the large buttons which were supposed to be used to warn the thing of one's approach in a wheel chair and which I mistook for door handles. I had to be warned off the ladies toilet.

After lunch we inspected the creek (fomerly Bermondsey dock, of the dock head aforementioned) first noticed late on the afternoon of around March 13th when it looked very forbidding and Dickensian. In yesterday's bright sunlight it seemed much more benign, not Dickensian at all. Although it did turn out to be a rather Dickensian area with sundry streets and schools named for him or his books. Not to mention Marshalsea itself.