How to Lunch Like a Hampstead Receptionist
Follow me as I take you on a tour of some of the more budget-friendly lunch options in the village
For a year I worked as a receptionist at a Hampstead law firm. I wouldn’t go so far as to characterise the work as soul destroying but it would be fair to say that most of my tasks were menial. I tried justifying it to myself. Like TV’s Alan Sugar and Chabuddy G who both sold electrical goods from the back of a van before building empires, I’d start from the bottom. I learned the valuable lesson that without a fast kettle the corporate machine would grind to a halt. Without me running to Tesco for milk in the time it takes to brew a cup of tea, the solicitors couldn’t do their important work, which made my work important too. Foundational perhaps. At twenty-six I had finally entered the workforce on the path to becoming a lawyer: a respectable career that ranks third in the Indian hierarchy of professions, after medicine and engineering. My salary was insufficient to pay rent in London (although a heavily subsidised trip to the Algarve did soften the blow), so I moved out of my flat in Crouch Hill to stay with my mum. I would wake up early, run for the tube, and climb the hill from Finchley Road station up to the heights of yuppy, yummy mummy Hampstead. There was something satisfying about the newfound structure work had brought to my life. By ten thirty I’d be craving a Ginger & White cappuccino and a croissant from Paul. If I was feeling continental, I might even dip the croissant in the coffee. It’s not that I didn’t get along with my colleagues. Many of them became friends. But I couldn’t bear to stay in the office during my lunch hour. The others would eat together around the small table in the kitchen before returning to their desks, but I’d take the full hour and go for a walk, usually through the Heath.
Monday: With a KFC wrap around the back of the Royal Free
I had seen an ad for it plastered around the IMAX in Waterloo. A crunchy chicken wrap with the caption: ‘IT’S SO EASY TO SWITCH YOUR WRAP PROVIDER’ in red caps. KFC’s marketers were acutely aware of how for Londoners, fried chicken is as much a priority as broadband speed. Priced deliberately at £1.98, KFC had undercut the McDonalds Wrap of the Day by a penny.
Besides, the Hampstead McDonalds had closed down years ago to the delight of those residents who felt that the presence of a fast-food chain in the village maligned the character of the high street and brought litter problems. There is, however, a takeaway KFC if you walk down Rosslyn Hill towards Belsize Park.
I was saving money to move to Mexico to ‘pursue [my] passion for literature,’ as the firm-wide email announcing my resignation read, so lunch for under two quid appealed. I’d sit on a bench around the back of the Royal Free, that imposing concrete block where my mum ‘has friends,’ as she would put it: a euphemism for her routine procedures in the otolaryngology ward. On several occasions, my lunch hour coincided with her appointment time, and I would eat my lunch knowing she was inside that great tower with a camera peering down her throat as sweet chilli or barbecue sauce ran down mine.
Tuesday: Converting crypto currency to M&S pasta salads
Over a dinner of eggy pork over rice in Chinatown, a friend convinced me to apply for a 2% cashback Crypto.com debit card. The card was red and made of steel, with a logo that looks like a stormtrooper, although I think it’s supposed to be a lion. The only drawback was that to get the rewards, you had to hold £300 of Crypto.com Coin for six months. And during that time the coin tanked. Rather than cashing out for a fee, I converted the balance to a £200 M&S voucher that I printed out and kept folded in my wallet. For a month I used the voucher for lunch.
I liked to change up my walks to invite a touch of diversity to my day. Sometimes I’d walk up Heath Street past Whitestone Pond, where that St George’s flag stands, reminding me of who this land really belongs to, though a bit of spirited nationalism around the World Cup never hurt anyone. I’d enter the Heath and follow the path all the way round and re-enter the village at the Overground station near the M&S Foodhall.
The plan was to get as many lunches as possible out of the voucher, so often I’d hunt for the yellow stickers. Once I found a dressed crab for less than three pounds. I ate it with a crusty baguette. The crab was a little sickly: too creamy and pungent. I discovered that I liked M&S’s pasta salads, especially the penne with cooked smoked salmon. Their couscous with cranberries and chickpeas was tasty and mixed well with their pot of saucy garlic and paprika prawns.
At the self-service checkout, I would scan my voucher and the receipt would state my remaining balance. It was a fun game seeing how little I could spend to get a decent lunch. After choosing something from M&S, sometimes I’d pass by the newsagents, using metal coins to buy a cold Ribena and a packet of Cheetos. The artificial flavours complimented my healthy crypto lunches, making them more exciting, at least chemically speaking.
Wednesday: Eating deli sandwiches in a graveyard
Cosimo was the first person I’d speak to most mornings. I saw him standing with a cigarette in the doorway of the deli Da Cheffone as I came marching up the hill.
‘Ciao, Cosimo,’ I called out from down the street.
‘Ciao, Chya.’ We nodded heads.
Later in the morning, I went to buy reams of ivory card from Ryman and popped in on Cosimo on my way back. He had no customers, so we chatted a little about our respective football teams’ poor form. I asked Cosimo what he was doing on his phone.
‘Bumble. Is stressante,’ he said as he swiped right on every profile without looking down at the screen. I left him to it and returned to the office to load the card and print out the wills to be signed and witnessed in the afternoon.
I returned to the deli for lunch because Cosimo makes great sandwiches. Behind the counter he shuffles awkwardly, belying his total mastery. Between the two of us, through a process of experimentation, we had figured out how I like my sandwiches: meaty, cheesy, spicy, and a little sweet. I almost always go for the rosemary focaccia: I love how the tiny leaves go crunchy and bitter (a bit like crispy seaweed) when the bread gets toasted.
Cosimo slices the focaccia into equal halves. He slathers a generous layer of Calabrian chilli paste on one side before cutting some pecorino toscano and fennel salami. He arranges the meat and cheese artfully, tosses in some grilled peppers, closes the sandwich, and slides it onto the press in one fluid motion.
It takes four minutes for the press to work its magic. Once the cheese starts to bubble and the overhanging edges of salami sizzle, Cosimo removes the sandwich from the grill and cuts it in ‘alf’ before wrapping it tightly in greaseproof paper and handing it to me.
I walked down Church Row to the graveyard and found an empty bench. I waited for the sandwich to cool down. You can’t distinguish the flavours when it’s too hot. This combination of ingredients really shouldn’t work but somehow it does. The bread is elastic without being stodgy, the sweetness of the peppers counteracts the acidic heat of the chilli, the salami’s grassiness demands to be noticed, while the cheese is mild and nutty; acting as a neutral glue that binds the whole thing together in a paradoxically coherent mismatch of textures and tastes.
Thursday: Staring out of the window with a bowl of noodles
I had never spent much time on the Finchley Road, but now that I was commuting to the station, crossing under the subway and walking along the parade of shops until Frognal, I started to notice an intriguing melange of businesses: an Indian grocery store with all the varieties of frozen paratha, a Brazilian bakery, Colombian café/Western Union, and an affordable Chinese canteen: Oriental Star.
Sometimes I crave plain white rice. If I could only eat one carb for the rest of my life it would be rice. One lunch, I strolled down towards Finchley Road to give Oriental Star a try. It’s a straight-forward canteen with wooden trays and sauces on the tables. The menu sits beneath the acetate surface of the counter. I ordered their chicken in black bean sauce over boiled rice. The rice was simple with the right texture, sticky without clumping together; it nicely absorbed the salty and tangy sauce. The peppers were fresh and crunchy, as were the slices of water chestnut: a vegetable I relish so much in Chinese takeaways but have never cooked at home. On my way out I thanked my server in Mandarin (which happened to be one of the languages he spoke - later he’d tell me he was Taiwanese).
The following week I came back to try their Singapore noodles. I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and sat facing the street. From behind the glass, I watched the world pass by: cars, buses, motorcycles, the National Express coach passengers who hauled their suitcases to the Holiday Inn. The characters of the Finchley Road, some lifetimers, others day-trippers, played out their lives as I ate curried rice noodles with miniature prawns.
Friday: Heating up chole bhature in the office
The Metropolitan line is a maroon arm that stretches out to some of the brownest neighbourhoods of west London: you’ve got oldschool ends like Wembley and Harrow, where my dad grew up, then your newer desified areas like Moor Park, Pinner and Hatch End.
Sometimes I’d leave the office craving dishes that aren’t easy to make at home, so I’d call my mum and ask if she wanted to meet for dinner at Sakonis: a vegetarian Indian restaurant that specialises in snacks and street food.
I’d ride the Met line until Pinner where my mum would pick me up and we’d drive to Hatch End. Usually, we’d share a chaat before mains; I love how runny and sweet their dahi is. You’ve got to eat it quickly before the sev gets soggy. I’d get their chole bhature for mains: a dish that speaks to my heart for its naughtiness. The bhature are deep fried, herby, and fluffy, with one side of the dome crispier than the other. The chickpeas are black, salty, and gingery; they are soft but still retain some bite and contrast with the pillowy and crusty textures of the bhature.
One day I brought leftovers into the office. I microwaved the chole and crisped up the bhature in the toaster. I felt proud to have made the kitchen smell of our food, especially since the smell of curry has been used to put us down. I thought of an Instagram post by the filmmaker Gurinder Chada of a photo with her parents at the seaside à la Bhaji on the Beach, recalling shame: ‘As a kid I used to be mortified when they pulled out the Indian food, now I suspect the whole beach would want some!’ I thought of my P.E. teacher who said that Indian kids stink because they sweat out the curry. To me, the smell of Indian food is as nourishing as the ingredients. I sat at the table tearing off pieces of bhatura, scooping up the chole with my fingers, and letting the food fill my soul. Curries are always better the day after. But I don’t need to tell you that. It’s common knowledge. It’s the nation’s favourite dish.
A shorter version of this article was first published in Hampstead Village Voice edition HVV53