I’ve found its most enjoyable when I stop struggling and simply let it be.
Raising my hand to rest above my brows, I wish I’d had the forethought to remember my sunglasses, as I blink back spots emanating from the blinding sun sparkling against the glass skyscrapers.
It’s not quite my coastal home, but as I walk through a puddle of golden sunshine laying itself bare across the uneven pavement, noticing the green burst of trees from the park, thriving in the warmth, I must admit summertime in London is beautiful.
I’m still grateful for the cover of the underground station though, the air cooler down here as a tube flies past, kicking up dust which sticks to the thin layer of sweat covering my skin, causing it to become tacky. I scan my Oyster card, slip onto the underground and inhale the familiar musty scent of the carriages tinged with a mixture of sweat and sunscreen that scream summertime in the city.
Even though it’s after 7 p.m., it’s officially the weekend and with the weather being as warm and as sunny as it is, I’m not surprised to find the carriages still packed to the rafters with tourists, shoppers, and businessmen looking to let their hair down.
Choosing to stay standing, rather than fight for a seat, I wrap my hand around a vertical pole beside the automatic door, just before the undergroundjolts,the wheels creaking against the old metal track.
Seven stops later, I’m bursting back out onto the streets, sidestepping through the throngs of people to get to my destination – Asado’s
The small pub is nestled away between the corner of two bustling streets; notoriously known for the slice of Italy it brings to the heart of London. Not only that, but it has the freshest pasta, handmade following a Nonna’s secret recipe that has been handed down for generations, with to die-for rich tomato sauce, and don’t even get me started on the garlic dough balls. Each ball simply a bite of heaven with its crisp outside shell, perfectly fluffy inner and an ooze of mouthwatering handcrafted garlic butter.
The last I’d heard they’d also invested in a stone-backed oven to charr homemade pizza dough on.
Talk about delicious. The only issue is, I’m not quite sure I’ll be able to walk home after my stomach is full.
The drinks selection isn’t too shabby either; the usual house wines and tap beers available to buy by the glass or the bottle. As well as a list of cocktails shaken and stirred at the bar.
“Welcome to Asado’s,” croons the waiter as I step inside, peering over his shoulder, towards the bar, to see if I can spot Blake.
“Hi.” I smile, fishing my phone out of my clutch to see if I have a message from him.
Only one notification lights up my screen, but it’s not from Blake. Nope. Instead, it’s from the last person I’d ever want to hear from.
Thomas Mac has replied to your story.
You look beautiful.
“Everything alright?” asks the waiter, stealing my attention back to the here and now.
“Yes. I, um, I have a reservation.”
“Of course. May I have the name.”
“I’m not sure if it’ll be under mine or his.” I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear as I realise, I don’t even know Blake’s second name. “Try, um, Becker?”
A chattering couple take the spot behind me, creating a queue, while the waiter slowly trails his fingertip down a detailed sheet bursting with names and times. I hold my breath, gritting my teeth against the sound of the woman behind me and her tinkling laugh.
“Here you are.”
I inhale greedily, relief washing over me.
“For two of you?”
I nod, glancing down at my phone again. Still nothing from Blake. “Mhm. But I don’t think the other member of my party is here yet…”
“Not a problem. I can sit you at the bar while you wait? Or would you rather sit straight at your table? It’s requested here that your table be outside, in our pergola garden. Is that correct, Miss Becker?”
Did I mention, as well as the amazing homemade food, Asado’s also has an outdoor seating area, complete with pretty solar powered fairy lights that are strung above the tables and wound around the tree trunks?
Four, tall space heaters also sit in each corner of the garden paradise, in case the temperature drops unexpectedly, as well as a stack of blankets to ward away the chill.
A rush of giddy gratitude fills me thinking about Blake calling to make our reservation and specifically asking for a seat in the garden. I don’t know how he knew, but after seeing it splashed all over my social media feed, I’ve wanted to sit in Asado’s slice of Italian paradise garden for as long as I can remember.
“The bar is fine,” I reply, the giddiness in my gut forming into a small knot of nerves. Although I don’t know why. This isn’t even a real date; not that the people around me need to know that. “I could do with a drink before he arrives.”
