After a 7 hour red-eye flight where even being in business class has not helped the lack of sleep, I am relieved to have a lounge to go to. It is a new sensation for me to go from landing on a plane to being in a shower within 30 minutes, and it’s almost worth the price of business class alone. I’m still genuinely unable to eat anything after my final day in New York binge, so I am content to curl up on a chair with a cup of tea and a book for a while, eschewing the multitude of hot and cold breakfast options. Eventually, Dad comes to pick me up so I can go nap in my own bed at home, and the job is done.
Continuing the mid-checkout-airport time-killing, we figure that Grand Central would be a good shelter from the rain. We quickly conclude that in order to be able to sit down, we’re going to have to actually buy something from somewhere, and this seems like the first reasonable place (Alasdair semi-jokingly suggests the oyster bar, but even I couldn’t manage it at that point in the day). A perfectly fine yuzu seltzer passes further time.
In the awkward period between checking out of the hotel and it being time to go to the airport, we have to kill time - ideally indoors because it’s absolutely pissing it down, so no just getting to wander the streets of New York. Alasdair finds an indoor market near where we’ve been for an early lunch, and that seems to have a cafe in it. There are many delicious looking things, include some kind of earl grey choux pastry thing. Unfortunately, I am stuffed, so an actual earl grey tea is the one, as I read a magazine full of one page articles amidst multiple pages of ads and photo shoots. The time passes.
Having had a surprisingly big lunch, when we have a lighter, earlier dinner, we do so knowing that I’m going to treat myself to a Milk Bar trip for something to have later in the evening once firmly ensconced in my pyjamas. I don’t, however, know at that point what I’m going to have. The last time I visited, I was only able to get a slice of cake, as their drink machine was out of order. So this time, in an ad hoc manner, I decide to double down. First up, a cereal milk milkshake, which is one of my favourite milkshakes I’ve had - topped with cornflakes, it really genuinely does taste like cereal milk. To follow, much later, is a slice of their quadruple chocolate cake - the sponge is oddly dry, but the ganache is lovely and does actually bind the sponge together quite well. It takes me the next morning to finish it, but what’s the harm in a little chocolate cake for breakfast on holiday?
The GOAT of American cookies, and a thrill to see that they have a vegan (well, catch-all dietary) cookie for Alasdair to enjoy as well. I go for the double chocolate cookie - in for a cent, in for a dollar - which is more spherical than flat. A monster of a thing. More gooey than crunchy. No bad thing! I pair it, counterintuitively, with an iced chocolate which isn’t even on the menu but they seem chipper as to figuring it out, and to be fair they do.
Finally! A hot chocolate! A sign on the counter warns me that, in order to fully activate the starch, the hot chocolate is very hot. They’re not wrong - I only attempt to tackle it a subway ride and a walk to the hotel later. It’s a very deep hot chocolate, more bitter than sweet, even with the whipped cream (scooped from a tub - a tub!), which honestly took me by surprise in a country where even the bread is full of sugar. It’s quite nice, but lacked the zing of a good, balanced hot chocolate.
Having popped into Grand Central for Alasdair to get the iconic photos, it would seem rude not to drop down into the dining concourse to get a snack for later in the day. I weight up my options, and after a tough call between this and Magnolia Bakery, I opt for Doughnut Plant, because I really want to have the Valrhona chocolate donut again. Later in the evening, I devour it standing in the hotel room (no crumbs in the bed!), and it is everything I want. The donut is well-coated in a thick, luscious chocolate glaze; the dough itself tears apart nicely, not too dense, but with some heft behind it. The dream.
In my hunt for a hot chocolate in this goddamn city, I once again pop into somewhere recommended on Eater’s list of best hot chocolates in the city only to find that they are no longer doing a hot chocolate - it seems to be much more seasonal than in the UK. They don’t know what they’re missing. In any case, we had time to kill and a need for something to eat and drink, and their maple cruller looked very appealing. It tasted even better, practically melting in the mouth under the flaky maple glaze.
When we check into the hotel, we’re told that our room booking includes a free glass of wine in the lobby bar between 5pm and 6pm every day. We don’t need telling twice. Making our way in before getting changed for our dinner reservation elsewhere, having spent the day rushing around New York in the heat, we are served a delightfully chilled glass of anonymous white wine each, which absolutely hits the spot. The next day we return and, after much umming and ahhing, figure out the etiquette of tipping on a free drink - to be fair, our bartender is lovely and it feels rude not to. I hope he had a lovely birthday upstate (as he tells us, he loves NYC but you do have to get out of the city once a quarter).
Celebrating Alasdair being a grown up and having a job interview, we go for a drink at our new favourite bar, Spirited. Despite the predominance of whiskey, our choice of tipple is their espresso martini, which is one of the best in Bristol. It doesn’t quite match Fauzy’s, but you’d be a fool to set that as your aim. It’s a cosy little spot, and a delight to have just down the road.
Whilst briefly back in Harpenden, Mum and Dad suggest breakfast out in town, so why not. We go to their new favourite caff, where it is evident they are regulars from the welcome they receive. I am not overly hungry, so I have a toasted tea cake, which to be fair is very good, the right amount of fruit, lots of butter and jam. It’s not quite a greasy spoon, but it’s also not posh, which is a nice change in Harpenden.
Somehow, despite having just done a full tasting menu, Milly and I could do with something… chocolate-y. Luckily, we know Italian Bear is open late and is literally just around the corner. I am not as foolhardy as I was the first time I came a few years ago, so do not order both a hot chocolate and a dessert. Instead, I go for the pancakes, three of them, each with their own milk, dark, and white chocolate drizzle, topped with whipped cream and strawberries. They are - inevitably - sweet, bordering on the sickly. This is not a bad thing, but I have a high tolerance; others might not be so lucky. It could do with a little more lubrication, a certain clagginess of the combination of a scotch pancake and melted chocolate, but still. Small complaints. It is delicious, and just hitting the spot.
Clo is throwing it all in to go travelling indefinitely, and for some reason she is very keen for me to make it to her leaving drinks with her friends. I return from the theatre in London at a reasonable enough hour (thank you Elektra for being a one-act-er) to pop in at least for a bit. I am not drunk enough to stay for long, but too tired to get drunk enough to stay longer, so I order me, Clo, and some of her friends who are near the bar at the time a mix of baby guinnesses (me) and tequila (Clo). I vaguely dance for a bit, and then make my leave. Clo’s friends are all thrilled to meet me and have apparently heard so much about me, which is genuinely touching. It is nice to meet them too.
Considering I am in Zara’s on average four times a week getting a hot chocolate to take home with me, I very rarely stop in. But Ruth is around and we’ve got time to get coffee before it’s time for her to head back to Manchester, and I can sneak this in in a work morning. I have my standard, a dark mint hot chocolate (complete with marshmallow, obvs), in a beautiful ceramic mug that you just don’t get the benefit of when taking it to go. We have a good catch up over the state of work, and part ways knowing that she’ll have to come back next time she’s in Bristol, and that I’ll have to come back tomorrow.
In an effort to avoid the rain and to kill time between dinner and a show, the nearest thing to the theatre is Ole & Steen. I have a peppermint tea because sometimes I don’t have a hot chocolate, and a chocolate mousse-y cake-y thing, which to be fair is quite nice, if way too rich (admittedly after a quite rich dinner, so maybe that’s on me).
The first First Friday Social at work for the year. A smallish turnout, but a perfectly sized one. We play some pool, I have a couple of pints (but not my usual Lilley’s mango cider, because for some reason I think it’s just going to be too sweet for me tonight), and make my way home at a reasonable hour (if later than originally planned).
Our friends Charlie and Milly are doing the sadly inevitable Bristol comedian thing of becoming just too good and in demand for Bristol and upping sticks to London. They’re having leaving drinks, and we get to do so in the games room at the Volley, including getting to watch Emma Hughes’ unhinged attempts at playing shuffleboard.
Raph and I go for a quick drink after coffee at the Bristol Loaf, because for some reason he wants to come here. I have never felt less welcome in a pub! It’s incredibly intimidating being two outsiders in a pub blaring Marilyn Manson at four in the afternoon on a Sunday, one of which (yours truly) ordering an orange juice. I shan’t recount Alasdair’s anecdote about it - that’s his to tell.
Time to catch up with Raph for the first time since Christmas, swapping the traditionally belated presents. I have a perfectly ok hot chocolate and a quite nice croissant, and that’ll do fine. I’m normally a bit more adventurous with the Loaf (their crumpets are excellent), but we got there just as the kitchen was closing, so alas no. Another time.
We pop in for a quick drink as part of Maddie’s goodbye celebrations. I get as far as ordering a Jubel Peach before Alasdair reminds me that it’s still Dry January, so a ginger beer it is. I know I am normally the first person to argue that actually gentrification isn’t all bad, but this is one of the few examples where I do think we need pubs like the old Colosseum. Now it’s just any other pub. Bring back the Queen fruit machine.
The usual haunt for the OPPO new year’s drinks, so I pretty much uniformally am on the mocktails. Definitely feels over-priced for what it is, and the ambience is, eh. But it’s tradition, now.