The awkwardly timed brunch does not kill as much time as we had hoped before the awkwardly timed flight, so we find somewhere else for a coffee. It’s a pretty bog standard hot chocolate for me, but the decor is light and there are architecture magazines abound.
Down the rabbit hole we go. Evidently the wine pairing was not enough for us, so a cocktail it is. I ask for an espresso martini, but am informed gently that they have no espresso machine, so that is not an option. I immediately swerve to the complete opposite end of the spectrum and have a dirty martini instead. Vodka, rather than gin. Sake, rather than vermouth. Olive brine, as it should be. A hint of sechuan pepper. And three smoked olives on a cocktail stick making for the most delicious garnish I can remember. It is perfect. Somehow, I’m not quite full enough, so I very much enjoy a cream cheese donut as a snack. A perfect nightcap.
Killing some time with Hazel after the film, and meeting George in town before dinner after work, we head to - as they know it - “the American beer bar”. A vast chalkboard of ever rotating beers, from which I broadly allow those two to choose for me, and some classic Dutch beer snacks of some bitterballen and pork belly bites. An excellent stop-gap.
I’ve somewhat awkwardly come to Amsterdam on a Thursday night, leaving me a Friday to kill while George and Hazel are working. I figure I must be able to find a cafe to enjoy a hot chocolate and read my book for a while. A brief googling reveals Pompadour, so off I trot. It’s a very French little place, a few hastily added tables to what is otherwise a clearly very impressive patisserie. I want to eat every last cake I see on the counter. Alas, I know I have a big lunch coming, so I restrict myself to a hot chocolate - a proper thick monster, as it should be on the continent, cut through with whipped cream - and I am thrilled to learn that the madeleine I ask for, I get for free with the drink anyway. A lovely lazy morning as a result.
It is the morning of the Bristol 10k and half marathon, and as most of the Plus WAGs group are partaking, it only seems fair to schlep down and support. Nia and I are the two spectators of the group, so we meet at Drizzle on the Christmas Steps to make the most of their race day deal, a coffee and a loaf cake for presumably a saving. It’s slightly disappointing, having picked Drizzle because Nia is gluten intolerant and the website says they always have a gluten free option, to find that they don’t in fact have a gluten free option today, so she enjoys a Ruby Hue hot chocolate and I enjoy a lemon drizzle. A bit more suffusing the sponge with lemony syrup wouldn’t have gone amiss, but it’s a pleasant start to the day.
The leaving drinks proper. Enough people weren’t able to make it to the First Friday Social that had inadvertently become leaving drinks for me and Tom, and they all asked if I was doing something on my last day, so it felt a shame not to. Plenty of film photos taken, which mostly turn out well. I get gossip I would never have got otherwise when I was still there, which is always a thrill. It only seems right to treat the group to a round of the HPE house drink, so an unfortunate bartender has to prepare a tray of 18 Baby Guinesses for us. I end up having three of them, having successfully counted the heads but not accounted for the non-drinkers. Oh well. It’s a heavy head that wears the crown. A slightly sad moment as we linger outside after last orders, knowing that parting here is, in its own way, the end of an era. Still, I couldn’t have asked for a better last group of stragglers to be doing it with.
After months of Leila and I insisting we must get coffee when bumping into each other, we finally actually manage to arrange something, and when our plan A seems to be inadvertently still shuttered, we fall back to the old classic of a Bristol Loaf. I have a chai latte and the homemade sourdough crumpets, a touch overcooked which minimises the glorious butter seepage you hope for, but you can’t argue with the jam. We have a wonderful gossip, and eventually part ways continuing to insist on doing it again some time. I look forward to it.
A little bit of time to kill between checking out and our train into London, and an Ole & Steen will do quite nicely for not wanting a huge brunch, just a bite. I have a cup of tea, knowing it’ll be a long day, and as it’s vaguely easter time, a mini egg chocolate cupcake - way too big, a touch too sugary, but it does the job.
The show finishes earlier than expected, we happily found ourselves towards the beginning of the signing queue, and neither of us would say no to another drink before returning to the Premier Inn. Just round the corner from the theatre we find The OXO Bar. The clientele don’t quite match the decor. I start to understand, amongst some very loud rugby lads, how Thom Yorke could write A Wolf At The Door. But let’s not focus on negatives. I ask for a Grasshopper, a cocktail the poor young girl behind the bar expresses slight trepidation at, having never made it before. Akin in some way to a White Russian, it’s mint liquer and white chocolate liquer combined with milk and cream, giving it a real After Eight feel to it. I take my first sip and enthusiastically inform our bartender that she’s nailed it. I couldn’t do more than one, certainly not this late at night after dinner, but it was refreshingly different.
Ruth’s in town, so it’s out for a drink the three of us go. I’ve heard good things about Same Again, a new cocktail bar taking up residence in the building that used to host The Wellhead - which I hadn’t even realised had shut down. Shows how much I’m paying attention to the city centre these days, but why would I when there’s Spirited just down the road from me? We’re very happy with our choice, though. Same Again are specialising in cocktails and sparkling wine, so it seems a shame not to dabble on both sides of the menu. We start with a cremant d’Alsace, a rich, fruity number, more well-rounded than champagne and nicer for it. Onto the cocktails, I’m quite taken with a Don’t Burn The Butter, a Manhattan style drink with bourbon, brown butter, apricot, and a coffee macerated sherry blend. It’s a complex proposition, many notes in an augmented chord - a touch of dissonance but leaving you wanting more.
My favourite haunt that I rarely ever actually get to sit in at, what with it mostly being a source of WFH afternoon hot chocolates. But this time, I’m catching up with Ruth on the weekend, and where else could we go. The best hot chocolates in Bristol, so much so that they’ve ruined everywhere else. Today, my favourite, a dark and minty hot chocolate with a homemade marshmallow. Rich, velevety, not too sweet. Perfect.
Yesterday, I was (very easily) talked into buying the Waterstones book of the month by the bookseller at the till, and eager to reassure me that I was making the right choice, informed me that with the receipt I could get a free hot drink until the end of the month. Not one to leave money on the table, I went back the next day to take advantage of this offer, with a perfectly serviceable hot chocolate and an excuse to sit still and read for a bit. What more could you want?
I’ve identified the only other human being I know in Birmingham, and I am thrilled to get out the house and have a coffee with Reuben. He suggests Blank Slate Coffee, which - with no superior local knowledge - I am happy to agree to. I have a small chai latte which is smaller than I’d have anticipated, but is perfectly nice. I’ve not yet had enough chai lattes to fully discern. I also bring home a brownie, which is no Zara’s or my own, but is fudgy enough to get by.
I have cleared my afternoon of meetings and have found a café that’s a 15 minute walk from Aladair’s mum’s house, so it’s time to take a break into the world that isn’t just going to the gym. I have a very nice chai latte and a red velvet cupcake, which I can tell you was good because the frosting dipped into the centre rather than just adorning the top. I listen to Slowdive’s self-titled comeback album and crack on with some work proposals. Nice to have a change of scene.
Having dropped Alasdair off at the hospital for the operation, and having found out that despite being on the morning list and getting there for 7.30am that he’s actually going into theatre at 2.30pm, Vicky and I make tracks via Gluttons For Nourishment, if only for the name. I treat myself to a brunch slice of chocolate cake - quite moist, well iced - and a chai latte for my troubles. A pleasingly different vibe from a hospital, which is really the selling point I suppose.
Needing some sort of sustenance before the train back to Bristol by myself, Alasdair and I pop into Black Sheep Coffee more in a “this will do” sense than any particular excitement. Service is remarkably slow and ill-thought through (don’t have the hot drink on the side ready to go and then take 10 minutes to make the food). I have a peppermint tea which is hard to get wrong, and a somewhat underwhelming “Norwegian” waffle with strawberries and cream.
Our home away from home, and an odd choice to go to our local whiskey and cocktail bar during Dry January, but the non-alcoholic cocktails are still to die for - I opt for a 0% floradora, made with grenadine instead of raspberry, and it is just divine. Thank god it’s here.