Please note that since writing this blog post, Caffe Esprit has closed down
Please note that since writing this blog post, Toom has closed down
It’s Saturday. I’ve usually spent half the morning sipping strawberry smoothies and cappuccinos in bed, nibbling croissants and getting crumbs between the leaves of my book. I’m contemplating hitting the shops in search of mosaic mirrors and Moroccan lights… when my mobile beeps.
‘Meet for lunch in an hour?’ It’s Andrea, or Fiona, or Nicola, and lunch in an hour sounds far more fun than furniture shops. But where to eat? Singel 404 (which is by far the best café in Amsterdam) is chocka by noon; the Esprit café is like wearing a Calvin Klein T-shirt – too branded; and Café de Jaren is a multi-storey car park of an eating experience.
It’s a tough life, but the quest for the perfect weekend café continues. Last Saturday, I went to Poco Loco – a funky seventies-style space with a large sunny terrace on the Nieuwmarkt. It’s actually a favourite of mine, and a perfect example of what the Dutch do best. Morning coffee and appelgebak, generous club sandwiches and wraps for lunch, white beer and bitterballen in the late afternoon sun, gluhwein in a cosy cushioned corner of a wintry Sunday evening, and Friday night cocktails glowing orange in reflection of the wallpaper. Were it not for the school canteen-style tumblers in place of stemmed wine glasses, Poco Loco would be up there nudging the perfection chart.
On Sunday, however, my experience was less positive. A spate of look-alike spacious café-bars has recently sprung up along the Overtoom, and I remembered eating a good humus and roasted aubergine roll in one of them previously. Thinking I would return, I wandered innocently into Toom; it had the same pavement-sprawl terrace and colourfully heaped plates I thought I recalled from my last visit. Like a mirage, though, it seemed Toom was not the café I thought it was. Inside, the décor was like suburban France in the eighties, while the toilet smelt like something I thought I’d left behind with my backpacking days. My tomato and mozzarella salad arrived, looking heaped as predicted. I then realized that the heap was in fact half an iceberg lettuce. Balanced deceptively on top, the mozzarella was firmish and yellowish, not like the soft white buffalo mozzarella that comes en-wombed in its own whey. The dressing tasted only of pesto, watered down with an olive oil that was more local bike than extra virgin. And it came with two pieces of white sliced toast that were reminiscent of dry sponge in both weight and taste. My friends had quiche that was made with puff pastry, rather than short crust, and tasted like aeroplane food; and salmon tagliatelle that was the best of a bad bunch.
Subsequent to this, I’ve finally recalled the home of the humus and aubergine roll I’d so enjoyed; for the record, it was Questo, and it seems to have shut down.