Sunday, Literally

On Sunday morning, Londoners across the city awoke and drew back the shutters (initally with puzzlement, then in a state of rapture) peering up at an unfamiliar glowing orb in the sky. Was I still dreaming? Was my hangover making me extremely sensitive to natural light? No, it was defintely the sun!

Hallelujah! It still existed! Sensing the mass exodus about to break out in every borough, I knew I must act fast to secure a table for brunch. I dressed in a frenzied stupor and lunged out onto the streets, determined to beat the queues forming outside kitchens citywide.

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An excuse to rummage deep in my closet and knock the dust off a Londoner’s most neglected accessory – sunglasses!

There was a nebulous queue of about a dozen people outside Granger & Co by the time we arrived. Run by Aussies or New Zealanders (definitely from that area of the map), where “reservation” is a foreign word, a wait list did not occur to their laid-back senses. Rather, the confused mob is encouraged to crowd the door, looming awkwardly over a few al fresco diners brave enough the endure the morning chill in exchange for more direct access to a few rays of London’s most limited natural resource.

The total wait for a table for two was only 20 minutes – not bad. Once seated was when the real wait began. A true test of endurance. It’s been too long since I had to wait an inappropriate amount of time for a scrambled egg breakfast. My only respite was the sunshine streaming in the room and the excellently executed Bloody Mary I had to sip for the eternity that stood between me and my avocado salsa. In the back of my mind, I somehow knew the infinite wait would be worth it, and it was.

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The 40 minute egg breakfast!

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Look at them – one heady mound of silky organic Cotswold Legbar eggs

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I’m sorry, maybe it was my hangover, maybe it was my indomitable optimism about the sunny day, but these eggs were worth waiting 40 minutes for. Crazy? Maybe. Try them, love them, you could never recreate them.

Belly full, the day demanded a long stroll – punctuated with intermittant spells of shopping. A few hours of uninterrupted sun and I was already at Peter Jones fantasizing about patio furniture for the terrace.

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The first hint of spring, and my head is spinning with garden lantern inspirations!

By afternoon, it was time for a retail hiatus and a glass of chardonnay at Bibendum Oyster Bar in the Michelin Building. I have long been curious about this Art-Nouveau landmark, but at present it is undergoing a structural renovation and the exterior is entirely cloaked in tarps and scaffolding. There is still plenty of interior charm, including this playful mosaic of the tire company’s mascot, the Michelin Man.

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The Bibendum Oyster Bar is an elegant spot to enjoy a glass of wine and a half-dozen natives.

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Hark, spring! What a perfect Sunday.

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