De Beauvoir Deli Café
“Now I have neither happiness nor unhappiness.
Everything passes.
That is the one and only thing that I have thought resembled a truth.”
Dazai
Meteorological tides roll back and forth through the capital: dirty gutters, mouldy awnings and exhausted advertising boards are exposed to heavy rain, golden sunlight and overcast indifference in a matter of hours. A reminder of the environmental indifference to the human drama — a rickety stage swaying and creaking in an atmosphere as apathetic as it is authoritarian.
Sitting in the lavish suburban doldrums between north and east London — where porches become porticos and brickwork is paintbrushed — the De Beauvoir Deli Café is a confusing enterprise. Split into two shops on a wonky axis across the street from one another, I am quickly informed that beneath the identical exteriors lies a divergent set of offerings, availabilities and atmospheres — although only the difference, rather than any detail concerning it, is communicated.
The waitress is lovely if a little confused — forgetting aspects of my order and splicing parts of it together. A brownie and a custard tart became an unavailable custard brownie in the transition from table to ticket. In the bafflement lies an inspiration; if this cross-pollination has not yet blossomed, someone should graft it soon.
The cake selection is limited and lacks the enticement of novelty — the bread and butter of baked goods, with little deviation or flair. This is no problem in and of itself; although it means that the baking basics must be brilliant.
They are half way there. The brownie’s robust cocoa flavour populates a satisfying spectrum from a crisp casing to a moist core — although some disruption to it or distraction from it would accentuate and elevate it further. The custard tart’s semi solid interior is sweet, fragrant and leads tastebuds from a milky pleasantry through to a vanilla climax — although the pastry encasement is soggy and unappetisingly chewy.
I leave in a state of confused semi satisfaction. By the time I have finished eating, I have realised that the recommendation I received was for the other arm of the kitsch body; where, perhaps, more various and vibrant pastures of baking lie. However, this should not provide absolution for the efforts of the establishment I entered. Its sins are not severe, but nor are its virtues sublime — it is adequate, but little more. At some point in the future, we will see if the conjoined twin’s graces are sufficient to save the body it shares.
