“I think that if you say Cheddar is one of our most generous gifts to humanity, people might consider you a bit odd –” Ned Palmer

We started the day with a family breakfast of waffles at Mary’s. Then we set off under London on the tube Tate Modern our destination. We emerged next to the Thames at Black Friars and crossed the river and wandered up it’s bank towards the iconic art gallery. The morning was cold and mum forgot her gloves and scarf which wasn’t ideal. Before braving the gallery we decided to pop into the café. It was busy but the queue moved fast. The fare was well suited to the sorts of guest a gallery like this would attract with lots of salad, quiche and bagels. We went for coffee, and trout and cream cheese bagels which were delicious. Then it was into the gallery. The former power station is massive space. The central atrium currently has a work called Open Wound by Mire Lee. Membranous fabric sculptures resembling skin drying in wind hang everywhere. A recreated turbine from the building’s past life hangs:

 “Slowly spinning, the industrial turbine assumes surprisingly human qualities, pumping dark pink viscous liquid through dangling vein-like silicone tubes, collecting in a large sloping tray underneath.”

There was more than a little H.R. Giger to it all. I was a fan.

We worked our way up through the building and found the pop art room with Warhol and Lichtenstein. We also found a huge tower of transistor radios all nattering at us like a flock of seagulls.

Once we felt we had considered the tower of radios and the open wound enough we caught a black cab to tower bridge , we had an appointment with my ancestors.

My paternal grandfather Al was what today we might refer to as a foodie. He absolutely is the one from whom I inherited my passion and interest in food, and from whom I inherited my waistline. He was a Londoner and one of the tales he used to tell, as we dug into delicious steak and mushroom pies in his Lower Hutt dining room in 1980 something, was of the pie eel and mash of his home city.
I didn’t manage to make it to a pie and mash shop when I was here in 2019, but we were going to do it today.
The cab dropped us outside and we joined the queue out the door. Slowly we passed inside. The queue allowed us to watch and listen to East London ladies behind the counter. Sadly, when it came time to order the stewed eel it was between batches. We ordered pie, liquor (a white parsley sauce that once was made from the cooking liquor of the stewed eels) and mash. After a dosing with a white pepper seasoning powder and chili vinegar we dug in. The pies are almost like large English versions of the Shanghai soup filled dumplings Xiao Long Bao. When you cut into the pie it bleeds a delicious thin gravy across the plate which mingles with the liquor and the mash. We found a spot in one of the communal booths and eat from the narrow marble tables. Pleasingly the restaurant was full of Londoners of varying ages and ethnicities, and we were evidently the only tourists there.

From here we Uber-ed to Borough Market. The difference between the black cab driver who had been jovial and friendly and full of the milk of human kindness and the Uber driver who was deeply grumpy with us due to some failing on our behalf was striking. I can’t help but feel that the tables have turned and so many of the ways ride share drivers were once supposedly better are now reversed.

We were to meet cheese author Ned Palmer at Borough Market. Upon exiting the car of grim hostility, we made our way to The Market Porter to wait for him. It was heaving as usual. Unfortunately, the tube was down so Ned took awhile to arrive. We went for a wander around the market, and I bought some beers from the longtime beer stall Utobeer. Then we took the obligatory Lock Stock photos, found a bench to perch on till the cold got to us and found a perch at the end of the bar in The Wheatsheaf. There I had 2 pints of Youngs Special which had more than a little “Burton snatch” going on revealing it’s non-London origins these days.
Ned found us and we jumped in a black cab to The Kernel tap room in Bermondsey. As a rule, I don’t come to Britain to drink craft beer.  We have plenty of that at home and the appeal of Britain is real ale and old pubs. I am however able to make exceptions, and the Kernel is a craft brewer with good provenance. Also, the experience should allow me to complete a column I am working on.
The Kernel taproom is all polyurethaned wood hues and long sleek tables. It is a Nordic look but not the recent white tile Nordic aesthetic but something more 1970’s and organic. I drank a historic stout and a grisette carefully avoiding the new generation American hops I can’t stand that were helpfully displayed clearly on the board.
We had a great night with Ned discussing his NZ family connections, the world of freelance cheese tastings, and the state of the world. Ned kindly gifted me a copy of his recent book about the cheeses of France which will join my copy of A Cheesemonger’s History of the British Isles.
Soon it was time to Uber to a Piccadilly line tube station and make our way north to Tottenham , a kebab and then to bed.