Stories Of...Notting Hill

Today I met Charles and Sascha. Charles is from France but lived in Hong Kong for 15 years since he was 25. He’s a restauranteur. Sascha is his devout and loyal customer. She’s been coming into his shop for years now. She’s from California, LA too. Been here in London for 13 years. She was there with her 9 month old daughter, Theodora, with the biggest bluest eyes that held an ocean in each one. 

She was eager to brag about Charles. His Michelin star restaurant in Hong Kong. His pasta from Italy. His orange yolked eggs from the local farmer. Sold cheapest here. Not the dull yellow back home, she said with a shared knowledge. His figs from Spain. Her three year old daughter always asks for them after swim lessons on Monday. Charles isn’t open on Mondays but Sascha’s daughter, Cleo, always asks to try anyways. Because sometimes he’s there. And he always, always, let’s them in. 

Being that he’s a restauranteur he recommended I go two blocks up and to the right for such and such butcher and two streets back and to the left for the Lebanese baker and the Moroccan produce and all the world and all the life spread between two blocks and the jars shelving his whole shop, like a dry foods alchemist. 


About an hour later I walked back, groceries in hand. From across the street through the window I could still see them—between the jars. 


She was still at his counter, cooing her baby in her arms and drinking the expresso he’d made for her. 


                                                                                                                                          Stories Of Notting Hill 
                                                                                                                      Wednesday, November 3rd 2021