Please note that since writing this blog post, Strand West has closed down
In preparation for our holiday in Croatia next week, Nicola and I decided to make the most of the last of the summer sunshine (of which there’s been pitifully little for the past three months) and head to the beach. Well, sort of. Whilst exploring my new neighbourhood before moving in, I discovered a Truman show-esque area of Amsterdam that I’d never encountered before. Right on the IJ, a collection of white boxes covered in coloured Perspex dominate the surprisingly coastal landscape. These boxes are rumoured to house student flats, but I have the feeling that they’ll be worth millions in fifty years’ time once the architecture has become something akin to the cubist houses in Rotterdam: once a housing project, now the most sought after property in Holland.
Within the complex are two bars, conveniently provided for the student contingent and curious locals. Strand West does exactly what it says on the tin: to the northwest of the city, it boasts a beach volleyball court and a host of upturned crates covered in outdoor cushions that invite you to lounge in a vaguely horizontal position, clutching a mojito and pretending it’s rather warmer than it really is. Said mojito took a while to create (though who cares when the barman is that hot) but it was worth the wait. Slightly too sweet for me, Nicola pronounced it a cocktail success.
After stoically sitting outside till about 8 o’clock, we decided we were really quite chilly, despite the beach atmosphere, and went inside for dinner. After some wait, we ordered a vegetable tempura starter to share, followed by two mains and a bottle of Spanish rose. The waiter, who was clearly 12, seemed perplexed that we might want to order a whole bottle of wine. In his five minutes of training as a wine waiter, someone had evidently taught him to show the customer the label (he showed it to both of us) but forgot to tell him that he was also meant to allow them to taste it. Clearly people don’t order wine here very often. The tempura was lightly battered and served with a wasabi mayonnaise which cut through the oiliness of the vegetables. The accompanying salad was crisp and dressed with soy sauce and sesame seeds. Despite the patchy service from the twelve-year old who came from the Dutch-waiter-who-refuses-to-speak-Dutch school of restaurant management, the starter left me optimistic about the main, which is pretty much the point of a starter.