Sorry. I meant Sloane Street. Ah yes, and the first place we visited for some grub in London. Not that it was expected though. It’s not even a stand-alone cafe or restaurant with a holy reputation. Just some three-dimensional block pop out letters next to mannequins. Just an innocent little hideaway in a posh suburb, under a blanc floor of expensive and shiny ladies clothing. Shiny because for some funny reason, that’s how I remember it to be. And I always believed there was some correlation between shininess and drawing attention.
I adored the vintage black and white portraits hung in a neat row alongside the arrangement of little square tables, as if the people in the portraits were determined to ensure smooth-sailing flow of emotion and conversation throughout a romantic meal just by looking over them. My cousins and I babbled away, probably much to the annoyance of the waiters who might as well have been French and snooty with curly, rigid moustaches. We were downright lucky to be in the presence of fine-mannered gentlemen who even offered my younger sister a starter of lemon 7-up. Too kind, really.
The fare was quite splendid, though I struggled to find the avocado in my crab dish.Turns out some slices were sneakily lurking under the little bed of greens. Looks are really quite deceiving, for the dishes are about a thousand times bigger than how it looks. Splitting things made business easier, and the enjoyment factor was pushed up because of this too. Every ingredient was fresh and ripe, which was what made the whole experience almost a rejuvenating one. However, nothing particularly stood out to me like a cat’s eyes at night. Nothing dazzlingly brilliant, though their slices of rye at the start were indeed impressive.
No justice done without at least a little starch. Now, every time I look at ketchup, which by the way is a marvellous accompaniment to a myriad other things in life, I can’t help but cringe at how some bakeries (*cough PAUL) don’t allow such condiments in house. Whilst having lunch with a friend today, I was astounded by the polite ‘I’m sorry, but we don’t provide ketchup here’. I was having eggs so, that statement was more appropriate as a joke. The fries were good, the bread, excellent, but the price… I’d rather not mention. Then again, it too comprised of quality service and fresh produce. Oh right, and the dizzying shopping ambience above and across the street. Gosh, the shopping itself deserves a whole post on its own. I felt like a sliver of plankton thrown amongst the gushing waves of human scents and faces and skin.
Joe’s was a good start for more great things to come.
16 Sloane Street, London