Ridin' In My Car

‘All the best chefs in London get their fresh produce there.’ I was told by an ageing Englishman looking up out of under his umbrella.
I asked after Borough Market, which felt a little like looking for the Land of Oz until I was informed that it is in fact pronounced ‘baara’. I rounded the corner of the street down which I’d been directed to meet with a parade of colour.
A rustic structure partially constructed of corrugated iron caught my eye as I walked through the entrance, the chocolate hut. I sat down at one of the beautifully carved wooden benches. The walls were lined with delicately wrapped boxes of chocolate and little porcelain bowls of tasters.The portions of wall without shelving had ‘chocolate proverbs’ from around the world that had been stuck up all boasting the powers of cacao. I stared up at the menu written on a board above the open kitchen. Pancake filled with award winning chocolate hazelnut spread, goat’s cheese and dark chocolate, praline amongst a variety of other combinations to choose from. I settled for chili hot chocolate and caramel-salt pancake, while watching chocolate colored pancake batter being poured into the pans.
Wandering through the market, inhaling the smell of mulled wine and indulging little tasters on offer at every stall, it’s hard not to discard the pace of the city and find yourself breathing deeper and moving slower, being refreshed by delectable smells and sights. The produce varied greatly, from home-baked cakes still warm from the oven to truffle oil imported from France, sold by a rather good-looking French gentleman. I stood still in the centre of the market and noticed the way in which it served as a conglomeration of life and how the people were as diverse as the foods on offer. As I walked back into the city, leaving the buzz of the market behind me, everything around me appeared much like a dull watercolor painting without the red of tomatoes and yelling of salesmen to breathe life into the scene.