The Last Chorizo in Chiswick
Last weekend friends invited me to dinner at their house in Shepherd's Bush. Now there is an interesting name. It is thought to be derived from common land that a bunch of shepherds used as a resting point on the way to Smithfield Market in the City of London, but sounds more likely to have been a house of ill repute.
Excited at the prospect of getting lost in a town considerably bigger than mine, I fumbled in my makeshift under-the-stairs wine cellar for a bottle or two.
My collection has all but diminished, but overreaching and falling sideways into the dark I chanced upon an excellent looking 2001 Bordeaux. It had one of those intriguing round green labels on top, signifying that someone had kindly purchased it in France.
I jumped on the train, met my friends in Barnes and we all went for a for a circular walk by the river, dodging the unsightly lycra clad joggers interminably bouncing their buttocks around the Thames.
The first waypoint was Hammersmith Bridge, an elegant green suspension bridge with an unfortunate history of terrorist attacks. The first attack was foiled by a passing hairdresser in 1939, who grabbed a smoking suitcase and threw it into the Thames where it exploded.
Slightly relieved to reach the Chiswick side we watched some of the training for the Oxford Cambridge boat race over a pint of London Pride.
Crossing Barnes Bridge to arrive back, my friends declared that they needed a chorizo sausage for the evening cuisine. It was about 6.30pm and Chiswick seemed like a good option to search out this precious resource. The place was one big traffic jam, which made the annoyances of commuting into my small town seem trivial in comparison. Looking up, even the sky overhead seemed to be jammed up with low flying planes desperate to eject their stale, grumpy contents at Heathrow. I am sure these planes were also full of jetsetting chorizos purchased unimaginatively at a duty free, hanging teasingly close.
Carluccio's was open, but searching for a predominantly Spanish delicacy in an Italian deli was unsurprisingly none to fruitful. Most other places were closed, which left the supermarkets. Tesco could not come up with the goods, but M&S had one rather extravagantly packaged chorizo left, revealed with a flurry by a proud shop assistant.
Later that evening I fell into a contented sleep, my belly full of roast belly of pork on a bed of chorizo, chilli, black-eyed beans and tomatoes, washed down with that excellent claret, amongst others.
Excited at the prospect of getting lost in a town considerably bigger than mine, I fumbled in my makeshift under-the-stairs wine cellar for a bottle or two.
My collection has all but diminished, but overreaching and falling sideways into the dark I chanced upon an excellent looking 2001 Bordeaux. It had one of those intriguing round green labels on top, signifying that someone had kindly purchased it in France.
I jumped on the train, met my friends in Barnes and we all went for a for a circular walk by the river, dodging the unsightly lycra clad joggers interminably bouncing their buttocks around the Thames.
The first waypoint was Hammersmith Bridge, an elegant green suspension bridge with an unfortunate history of terrorist attacks. The first attack was foiled by a passing hairdresser in 1939, who grabbed a smoking suitcase and threw it into the Thames where it exploded.
Slightly relieved to reach the Chiswick side we watched some of the training for the Oxford Cambridge boat race over a pint of London Pride.
Crossing Barnes Bridge to arrive back, my friends declared that they needed a chorizo sausage for the evening cuisine. It was about 6.30pm and Chiswick seemed like a good option to search out this precious resource. The place was one big traffic jam, which made the annoyances of commuting into my small town seem trivial in comparison. Looking up, even the sky overhead seemed to be jammed up with low flying planes desperate to eject their stale, grumpy contents at Heathrow. I am sure these planes were also full of jetsetting chorizos purchased unimaginatively at a duty free, hanging teasingly close.
Carluccio's was open, but searching for a predominantly Spanish delicacy in an Italian deli was unsurprisingly none to fruitful. Most other places were closed, which left the supermarkets. Tesco could not come up with the goods, but M&S had one rather extravagantly packaged chorizo left, revealed with a flurry by a proud shop assistant.
Later that evening I fell into a contented sleep, my belly full of roast belly of pork on a bed of chorizo, chilli, black-eyed beans and tomatoes, washed down with that excellent claret, amongst others.
