little georgia, lost to me

Sing the above to the tune of "Rock of Ages."

It's impossible to describe the wonderful Georgian cafe, Little Georgia, which used to be on the bottom corner of Broadway Market in Hackney - until forced out to make room for evil property developer Roger Wrattan's French place, La Vie en Rose (& even Mlle B, aged 11, knew that was a totally crap name, the day we went for our borscht, pirozhki and Georgian layer cake, only to find our lovely place gone and some crass ponytailed blokes moving marble fittings around within). We loved it. We went there constantly, living as we did at the time only across the park from it. We went there long before the Francesca's Cafe sit-in, the farmer's market, and even before the fabulous French deli L'Eau a la Bouche opened - though we were VERY glad to see that, as it is owned by the former manager of the old deli/cafe the Cooler, which went to the dogs in Stoke Newington (that day was another shock, let me tell you - we Baroques get attached to our watering holes, we do).

In my old job I used to have a beautiful way of getting to work sometimes, by the way. I'd walk through the park to Broadway Market, go to L'Eau a la Bouche and get a coffee, and then down to the canal, and I'd walk all the way down past Victoria Park, with its old wrought-iron bridges, to Stepney, just at the bottom of Mile End Park. It took about an hour and I'd never see a road. It's all right, though: I knew how wonderful it was at the time. I never think about it now when I'm on the tube.

Well, Little Georgia. It was run by a family of the most taciturn, stately, statuesque people I have ever seen. They were an inspiration. The food was fresh, non-English but still different from everything else, affordable and delicious, and the place was airy and comfortable. It was laptop central, in fact. I loved it there when I was on my own, as long as I arrived early enough to beat all the Badly Drawn Boy fans and their skinny girlfriends who would pack the place out after about 11am... weekdays were best. You could write.

The food, I can't even do it justice. Buttery apple pancakes served with yogurt and honey on a little white platter. Blini, sorry, where do you get THOSE in London these days? Cream cheese, sweet and minty, in rubbery melty pancakes. I can feel it on my tongue even as I type. Borscht, homemade and lovely with sour cream floating in it and two meat pirozhki by the side - not too spicy but deliciously peppery. We'd break them open, having had to wait while they were prepared from scratch. They'd finally arrive, alongside the soup, and we'd break them open and lashings of steam would come out. Meat and spices inside, and crumbly pastry, slightly damp and pully near the centre. Flecks of parsley.

I used to go for breakfasts on my own when the kids were with their dad, huge bowls of meusli and yogurt, with fruit and honey and big round cups of coffee for a pound each, the sunshine streaming into the big room, the papers.

Everything with lovely fresh salads. Cake layered with custard and some flavour of orange.
Anyway, they closed, but I have been SAD ever since. Sadder than you'd think, given that it was a cafe I went to. Somehow it was meaningful.

Well I have just heard that they have re-opened! at 87 Goldsmith Row, which is just south of Broadway Market - and I don't think there is any need to tell you how good THAT news is! I have rung Mlle B at her friend Kitty's house ("be careful on the stairs," I told her) to spread the joy and say "we are going there for lunch tomorrow!"

Then I realised.

I can't eat the food.

Any of it.

God damn it. I can't eat it for at least another two months, and then I have to recuperate before I can GET myself there.

We're going anyway. I'll have a sodding black coffee and we can look at the wonderful family who run it. It'll be nice to see the old neighbourhood. God bloody damn it all. I'll report back.