Streets of London : A peek at our streets

Our neighbourhood is delightful. It is a family-oriented suburb of small streets, blocked to limit traffic and to allow youngsters more freedom to move, and many a parent has a safe ride carrying babe in a boxy bicycle caboose common around here.

Many of the homes have pretty names: Lark, Birch, Myrtle, Oak, etched in ornate plaster over the lintel. Some of their porticoes have been decorated delightfully with traditional black and white tiles and symmetrical planters. Others have tiled feature panels displayed on walls at the sides of the entrance, and cherubs feature frequently in these. Some have smart cars parked, too: Mazeratis abound. And there are small shop signs wryly advertising various services.

Builders are renovating on many surrounding streets. Most we have chatted to have been Polish, with just a smattering of broken English: all of whom seem happy to be interrupted for a chat. All day yesterday we had removalists packing up next door for a move, and despite the van name the removal workers, again, were Polish.

One afternoon on our bus a group of rather inebriated Polish workers had gathered on the top deck, and were singing too loudly, and a local demanded, very loudly, that they 'shut it'. We all looked around rather wide-eyed. The workers quickly quietened down and got off the bus at the very next stop, wanting no trouble at all. But, there clearly was tension evident still.

Not surprisingly, at our interchange just a suburb or so away when we ducked in quickly to do some shopping we found a dedicated Polish supermarket with all sorts of mysterious delicacies on shelves and in hampers there for the trying.

We also found another street market, selling an assortment of prepared hot food for lunches, all around £6 - £7.50 a platter. We bought tartiflette from a Frenchman who works three days at the markets selling serves from his giant pan of tartiflette. Then on another three days he is busy importing expensive Reblochon cheeses and other French products to sell on to London restaurateurs. He is married to an English girl, has two children born in England, but is worried about his status under Brexit, and has no idea yet if he will be allowed to continue to live in England. Extraordinary, if he is not.

His pan held some 32 kilos of potatoes and 6 kilos of wedged Reblochon, of the appellation d'origine controle variety along with a mountain of smoked bacon, cream, white wine and garlic. He is sold out before 2 o'clock most days, he said, and serves some 80 or more generous servings to local workers who descend like lemmings to queue for their lunch. Amazing to watch. We had never seen this in England before, this run on stylish market stall lunches on such a daily basis, with such a following.

To go with our tartiflette we took home containers of confit beef and pork from a nearby stall that belonged to a French mum and her son who had sautéed them in mustard, wine and 'much love', they said. The meats, we were told, took three days in the preparation just to be ready for the market: one day marinading, another slow cooking for 12 hours, another setting, before being slowly sautéed in these large pans at the market. Everything was quite delicious.