Streets of London : Have you seen the old man

"Have you seen the old man,

In the closed down market,

Picking up the papers,

With his worn out shoes,

In his eyes you see no pride,

And hanging loosely at his side,

Yesterdays paper,

Telling yesterdays news"

Food has been our enticement to date. No matter where we walk we seem to find it, or it calls to us.

Lunch on our first walk was Middle Eastern. In Fulham. We ordered a za'atar manakeesh, a dark dukkah-seeded spice bread covered with a mix of dried seeds of oregano, basil, thyme and savoury, along with sesame, sumac and other delicious spices; a cheese manakeesh, recommended as a shop favourite; and, for Pete, a lamb one. All came served on huge round wooden serving platters with a side salad of pickled condiments, and a bowl of the smokiest eggplant Baba Ganoush on the planet, with extra rounds of flatbread. Seriously delicious. The slices of manakeesh shown are just a quarter of the original flatbread we were served. Huge. Each for just £2. Amazing. Which is currently about $AUD3.25 a piece. The staff were delightful, from Iraq, Somalia, parts of Jordon and Lebanon, and the decor reflected their origins: sofas downstairs were heavily decorated in elaborate tapestry fabrics entwined with gold and red from home. We were gifted with a packet of pink and white meringues on leaving. And a kiss. We will definitely be returning. The flavours were fabulous.

Day two we ate at a highly starred French restaurant in Putney which we forgot to photograph: onion soup, rabbit with all the trimmings, and a Croque Monsieur for Miss Bec. Earlier, though, wandering around the High street we came across an Jamon Iberico specialty shop with a platter of baguettes in the window which we just had to try. Seriously special. Simplest is nearly always the best, in food choices, I think. Even the store serviettes were incredibly stylish.

The following day, further afield, we found a whole food emporium that looked a lot like Harrod's food hall with an extraordinary amount of organic food, packaged, bottled and shelved. If we had one like this at home I would be haunting it, no matter the price. It is a feast for the eyes. The bread was artisan, every loaf looked amazing, and the choice quite simply, was vast.

Yet food, we are finding in London in our local burbs, is increasingly coming pre-packaged. Probably reflecting a large single clientele too busy to do much more than heat and eat most work evenings. Or, it may be the way of the future. We are not sure, but the choices, for those inclined, are endless. In the vegetable section, for instance, we counted thirteen different packages of pre-cooked, heat only, potato options: slices, wedges, parmentier, hash, chunky chips, frites, rosti, roasting, croquette, among others.

We keep wondering what impact Brexit will have on food choice in the UK in the coming years. We remember the serious limitations of the pre-EU years.

We took a bus northwards, but hopped off quickly when we came across a buzzing little 'burb that turned out to be the Church Street Market, which we found operates most days in Marylebone, just a stop or two from Marble Arch. What was fascinating to us was that this was almost entirely a Middle Eastern market, reflected in the goods, the throngs, and the dress of the market-goers. Many ladies were in the full burka, others in a hijab just covering their hair, some in the niqab revealing only very beautiful eyes.

Much of the clothing on sale was black. Dresses were long and commodious, coats of wool and cashmere swept the floor. Everything seemed ridiculously cheap. Fruit and vegetables especially so. Each bowl in this vegetable stall sold for £1 a piece.

We espied a bread maker, somewhat in the style of the manakeesh we had eaten at our first lunch on our first day here. We could not resist it, and seeing our eager eyes, we were welcomed indoors to a shared table to try it out. Our table companion was a young, very good-looking Tunisian man, "sometimes from France, sometimes from England". He grinned when he said this, so we assumed he was an illegal. But he was delightful.

Lunch was simple. Some folk would call it cucina povera. To us it was sublime. I had bits of pan-charred potato cubes, curried cauliflower and eggplant served together with a simple salad dressed with lemon. The meal came with the lightest airiest flatbread we have eaten in our lives.

We watched this being prepared as we waited. I love that. We will have to return here as well. Twice. Because later that afternoon we found a market stall selling whole large charred griddle fish and salad for pennies, served on a wobbly laminate market table in the open air. The stall holder told us the same meal can be bought two blocks away for £35. I believe it. I want this one.

As we were leaving and the market was slowly closing we were tapped on the shoulder by this old man. He spoke no English. We spoke no Arabic. He wanted nothing. Just for us to take his photo so that he might see it on our camera viewer. When we did, he laughed and laughed. Life in some parts is so simple still, yet so very nearly perfect.