Red Velvet cupcake, Notting Hill

IT SEEMS that my destiny, here in London, is to start every sentence with, "When I was on Portobello Road the other day..." (always, of course, followed by a very interesting anecdote).

Yes, it's true, I do rather enjoy a wander down Portobello Road in Notting Hill.
And it seems that when I do, I always have a very anecdote-worthy encounter.

Like the other day when I was wearing my nice tailor-made-in-Vietnam winter coat, lining up to buy some very juicy deep red strawberries, and a friendly-looking Italian couple sidled up to me and said:

"We love your coat, where did you buy it?"

And I said, feeling rather chuffed because yes I do indeed love my coat too:"Oh, I got it made in Vietnam."

"Where??" they said.

"Oh Vietnam," I said again. "I've just been travelling Asia."

A bit more banter followed about how only Summer clothes were being sold in the shops, blah blah, and how it was a bit cold that day.
Quite honestly, I was basking in the flattery when two minutes later they returned.

"Will you sell it?" they said.

Well you know, I wanted to sell it to them for having the balls to ask me. I rather admire that bravado - and you know for sure that doesn't occur often - but unfortunately I'd only worn my coat about three times; it deserves a full winter of exposure with the person it was made for before I can pass it on. It would only be fair.

But there you go, another funny Portobello anecdote. Maybe not funny as in haha, but definitely a hehe, for sure.

Moving on to culinary stories.
I always love searching out gastronomic recommendations, and this one required another return to Portobello.

It's attributed to my friend J's friend R - yes, a friend of a friend - who, I was told, thinks the Red Velvet cupcake at The Hummingbird Bakery, on Portobello Road, is something special.

It's true! It's true!

I did my google search to find where to go exactly - and yes, many others corroborated this recommendation; "best cupcake in London" was even bandied about.

The Red Velvet cupcake is pretty simple, really - butter cake mix with a slick of cream cheese icing.

The cake itself doesn't bowl you over with flavour, but it's incredibly moist, and the main attraction is the creamiest of creamy, lip-smackingly tasty icing, sitting all smooth and dollopy, wanting to be licked.

It was simply divine. In fact, perhaps they should consider doing away with the cake and just having a Velvet cupcake, which would be a patty cake of icing. I suspect it would be a big hit.

But then again, you couldn't ooh and aah at the lovely red cake as you peel back the paper. It kind of looks like a flower if you squint your eyes a bit.

The only tragic part of it all was the dreadful wooden fork it was served with. All I could think about was that spin-chilling sensation you get when you accidentally drag your teeth down a paddle-pop stick. Eeeew.

Bypass the fork and dig in with fingers.

So, as I was saying, "When I was on Portobello Road the other day..."

two dumplings in London

OKEY dokey.
So we're in London!
It's not Asia, it's London!

Yep, after 19 months in Asia - a year in Korea and seven months travelling - we've finally returned to the western land.

Two big moments for us in the past week, pathetic but true: a) Drinking a glass of water out of the tap for the first time in 19 months!!; and b) Going for our first stroll around the neighbourhood and being slow to realise why the cars had stopped for us on the road...yes, a pedestrian crossing actually means something here!!

(Both very deserving of excitement and two exclamation marks, I'm sure you'd agree.)



So far the weather's been gorgeous - aha, it's true! - and before and after our first week of job hunting we've already done a quick reconnaissance of a few markets which I've earmarked to return to - next time with lots more taste-testing and purchasing.
(I'm not-so-patiently waiting on the pounds to enter my bank account!)

So until then, two dumplings is on a wee brief Blogging Hiatus as she searches for somebody to employ her and end her travelling-induced poverty compiled by the woeful exchange rate.
In the meantime, here's some piccies to whet your London blogging appetite, shot at Portobello Road and Spitalfields market.

House of Fruit Shake, Vientiane

I ADMIT the longer I travel for, the keener I am to return - even numerous times - to an eatery that is particularly good.
Because sometimes you just don't want to give another place a go, you just want to have some food which you know is going to be excellent and you're not going to be disappointed.

House of Fruit Shake, in Vientiane, is that kind of eatery. The one we return to, I mean, not the other one.

It's just fabulous, owned by a really great Lao girl and her Mum, and churns out some of the most superb fruit shakes - the perfect antidote to 40 degree days.

The daughter speaks very good English, with just a slight Australian twang thanks to some expat friends, and told us she started the shop five years ago after reading about a family who opened a similar stall in South America, only doing more vegetable shakes not fruit ones.

Every morning as we ate breakfast we would watch her scooting back, two or three times, from the local market, bringing loads and loads of fresh tropical fruit to set up her stand.
Then she would get to work creating a fabulous display, tenderly positioning all of the contrasting bright colours together just so.

This was what made her happy, she said; being able to touch all of the fruit and smell their delicious smells.

Straw slurping: (from left) extra black coffee shake, banana and yogurt, and coffee.

She also told us every shake is overseen by her to ensure that the quantity of fruit and ice, or yogurt and sweet milk in some, is just right.

We couldn't rave enough.
We tried mango, mango with yogurt, banana with yogurt, fresh orange, pineapple, guava, lemon and mint, pawpaw with yogurt, and coffee.

They were all divine: the mango was naturally sweet and thick; the orange was refreshing; the pawpaw had Rachelle's approval and the coffee was super strong with spectacular layering.

They also do great fruit salads with optional yogurt and muesli, and an excellent cheese and salad sandwich on baguette, made with New Zealand cheese.

And that's why when we find a great eatery, we stick to it!

The perfect tonic

FOR a touristy town, Luang Prabang has its fair share of bakery-cum-cafes.

I was fully prepared to dedicate an entire afternoon to coffee and cake and a particularly good chic lit book called The Other Side of the Story, when I discovered there was no need.

Every night about five cake stalls are wheeled out onto the main touristy strip as part of the nightly handicraft market, which sells some really cute stuff by the way, from quilted cushion covers to Laos coffee, slippers, ceramic pots and colourful wiry paper lamp thingys.
(Ok, that last one was beyond my ability to describe.)

Every cake stall has the same range so it’s not necessary to roam around looking for the best flavours, though it is necessary to roam around to find the moistest looking ones on sale.

So here we go: ginger, pumpkin, mango, pineapple, apple, chocolate, banana, chocolate and coffee, and coconut.

All are enormous in size; too big really; but *sigh* they really are the perfect tonic when you’re beating your head against the wall because you’ve eaten so much cold tofu and stir fried river weeds (yes, I coined that term myself) and rice you think you just might explode.

(Almost literally, in fact, ‘cos you know, it is tofu.)

A tale of a border crossing

WITH almost seven months travelling under our belt, we've got a few good stories to tell; a few bad ones; a few crazy ones.

But here's an educational one for anyone who might find themselves crossing the "Nameo" border between Vietnam and Laos.

If not, you may just find our grief entertaining in a twisted kind of way.

Unfortunately it doesn't involve any delicious food that I can talk about; it's simply to share the horror around.

So here goes - what not to do when crossing borders.

Once upon a time there were three Weary Travellers who had been on one too many long bus trips in the north-west of Vietnam.

There were no roads; they were just dusty neverending billy-goat tracks, so bumpy that it was wise not to eat breakfast before embarking.

The Weary Travellers always managed to get the backseat or the seat above the back wheel. Usually the ride would start by sitting about in the bus station for half an hour, being cheated into paying more for the ticket and then somehow being asked for more money. Not always in that order.

On one occasion, which this writer will not elaborate on too much for anger management reasons, a bus man tried to blackmail them into paying the equivalent of two extra bus tickets for "baggage".
He almost threw their bags off the roof and left them on the side of a dusty billy-goat track.

*pause for dramatic effect*

So the Weary Travellers were feeling a little wearier than usual but very much looking forward to crossing the border into Laos, comforted by the knowledge that the Laos Embassy in Australia had assured them they could get a visa-on-arrival at the "Nameo" border.

So after staying two nights in a very cute homestay among the picturesque rice paddies at Mai Chau, which restored some of their faith after some interesting encounters, they forked out a lot of money with a fellow Czech traveller for a private car - the only transport available - to the border.

It took four hours. The scenery was beautiful but not really able to be enjoyed when the road was so winding.

It seemed like a long time; then finally they arrived at the border, unloaded their heavy dusty backpacks and produced their passports.

And then it happened.

*pause for dramatic effect*

Guard Man with irritatingly impeccable English: “You have no Laos visa?”
Weary Travellers: “No.”
Guard Man, with stern look: “Ooooooh.”
Weary Travellers, slightly panicky: “The Laos embassy said we could get a visa on arrival.”
Guard Man, smirking a little: “You must have visa.”
Weary Travellers, in unnaturally high voices: “Us, phone, Laos, embassy, visa, yes.”

(You see, even though he spoke excellent English it was difficult not to slip back into their usual travellers’ simple-speaking habits. Sometimes, although not always, accompanied by charades.)

It seemed the Weary Travellers had been foiled, or, as the Guard Man pointed out, "I think bad information".

They tried very hard to cross the border; there may even have been some bribery involved, though I am not sure.
Whatever did take place did not work its magic. Maybe two of them should have flashed their boobs; we'll never know.

All we know is it was a long seven-hour trip back to Hanoi, and a rather more expensive flight to Luang Prabang in Laos.

But, to finish this tale on a slightly perkier note, they did find some very nice streetside sandwiches on arrival. Dense baguettes ready to be filled with barbecued chicken, tuna, cheese, mayo, tomato, cucumber, lettuce, carrot, onion and chilli sauce.

The End.