TUPNews recently visited London’s Maritime Greenwich for ice-skating, drinks and dinner.
This time last year I described here my joy at sneaking away one lunch break to skid about at Somerset House. Rather than make a return visit, I ventured out to Greenwich last Friday night to check out what they’re doing over there.
Greenwich Ice Rink is framed by Christopher Wren’s columns on the grounds of the Old Royal Naval College, and as such matches any of its rivals in the scenery stakes. The floodlit National Maritime Museum overlooks the rink from the south, while Canary Wharf glistens coldly in the distance from the north. Magnificent.
That said - there’s no way around the fact that Greenwich ice rink is generally a bit low-rent compared to Somerset House. I was immediately disappointed to see that there was no Zamboni skimming the ice between sessions; instead, a simple-looking chap stood in the middle of ice spraying water from a hose. This ran across only the middle third of the rink – his colleagues made vague efforts to scrape the water around, and then gave up.
But still - seasonal music piped through tannoys, check, rosy-faced youngsters, check, overpriced mince pies, check. Fuck you, quite frankly, Brazil: take your samba, rumba, facepaint, uninhibited “car-nee-val” spirit and shove it up your ass: it’s Winter and I live in London.
Just before I took to the ice I was gripped by a mild panic. I can get so caught up in the romance of various pursuits that I forget details such as my fear of heights, the fact that cricket balls are quite hard, or in this instance, that I am an appalling skater. Not such an issue during last year’s solo outing on the Strand, but this time I was with a companion I wished to impress. As the kids pushed past me, I prepared excuses.
Thankfully I remembered most of the basics – feet pointed slightly apart, knees slightly bent - and was soon off and running. The ice at Greenwich is poorly maintained, which actually worked to my advantage: like the farmer’s field football pitch aiding the scrappy non-league outfit against the top-flight team, the lack of slickness gave me more traction; I stayed on my feet for the duration. We pushed and scraped for a good forty-five minutes, pausing periodically to catch our breath, admire the more talented skaters, and speculate as to the rationale of the large uniformed police presence.
Reader – wherever you skate this winter, wear a few pairs of socks. I went unprepared in this regard, and can now barely walk for the blister on my right foot. You’ve been warned.
A little tired, we repaired to The Trafalgar around the corner. The Trafalgar is as good a pub as its location, right on the river, allows it to be; to some extent a victim of its own success, particularly in the summer months, and now with raucous office parties disturbing what should be a tranquil, old man (of the sea?) atmosphere. But now, sitting in the large bay window, which gives one the impression of being sea borne, drinking a pint of Spitfire and a single malt chaser, I was enormously at peace with the world. Had I been alone, I would have likely drifted into a deep, amber-hued sleep.
But the evening was young: all that skating had made us peckish, so we hit town in search of eats. Mysteriously, Greenwich seems the have the largest concentration of dodgy-looking Mexican restaurants in London (such grim joints are generally a curse on the capital; I am reliably informed that the single Mexican restaurant worthy of the name is in Streatham, of all places), we avoided these and made a spontaneous decision to dine at Peter de Wit’s Café, an unassuming establishment on Greenwich Church Street.
It’s a treasure. An intimate affair, it holds maybe twenty diners: tonight, mostly middle-aged couples. Tucked against the wall was a piano, on which a heavily-pregnant Japanese woman played jazz standards, with a guitar accompaniment. Occasionally a graying, bedraggled figure would emerge from the kitchen and play some saxophone; I was unable to determine whether this was in fact Peter de Wit.
I was immediately won over by the menu, which featured just three starters, three main courses and three desserts. I have recently developed menu blindness, possibly as the result of frequent business travel; the tyranny of choice weighs heavily on me. I ordered the fish pie and one of the three bottles of white wine on offer: painless. Enough to forgive the failure to accept credit cards.
As we waited for our meals to arrive, we flicked through a copy of the Beano, which we had found on the café’s magazine rack. They’ve got rid of The Jocks and The Geordies, and Lord Snooty. Rodger the Dodger is still in effect, though.
The food and wine were just fine; the music was pleasant; the service friendly – but this place is far more than the sum of its parts. I strongly, strongly recommend you dine there at your earliest convenience.
On leaving, the sole waiter (again, possibly de Wit?) seemed very eager to know how we had enjoyed the evening, possibly because we were the youngest couple there by a good ten years. “Excellent, my good man,” I said, “I shall tell all my friends,” which now, of course, includes you, dear reader. Just make sure you book, we were very lucky on this occasion.
