Layla
“Men love a prop so well that they will lean on a pointed spear.”
Mary Shelley
A stream of annual festivities, celebrations and convivialities have passed — the tinsel tackiness of Christmas, the hollow jubilance of New Year’s, the manufactured misery of blue Monday and the unctuous affections of Valentine’s.
Although these days have accrued some paltry significance through some desperate collective belief, they become obsolete almost as soon as they are memorialised. Like the stories of the tombstones that shuffle down hillsides until they no longer mark the graves they were originally intended to, the stream of time that passes beneath these anniversaries does not care for the facile order that we have attempted to impose on them: it just meanders apathetically on.
As I sleepwalk through the calendrical overture in the aftermath of the jubilation— bleary eyed and disorientated — I contact an old friend of mine with refined tastes and faultless style; who has only discovered the hackneyed pages of this doomed blog recently. We plan a reunion; and she recommends that I try Layla in Notting Hill.
I’ve remained blind to its acclaim; unaware of this cake-lovers’ mekkah nestle among the mansions of west London. Since it opened in 2018, it has metastasized to the extent that Vogue has reported on it.
It marks first time someone has accompanied me on one of these futile missions into the wilderness of delicatessens. It’s nice to have a little company; especially if they’re currently writing a book on a social media influencer’s descent into the world of Nazi homesteading.
As we walk down Portobello Road, it seems as if London has lost all colour — its sky is exsanguinated, its textures have been muted by the pervasive damp weather, and its inhabitants are wrapped in beige tones and dull knitwear. We are not even graced with crisp, still, brightness this winter — it has been a grim meteorological trinity of stifling mildness, buffeting wind and constant rain.
We arrive at Layla and find a line of people waiting; which, unfortunately, was to be expected at a spot that’s been frequently cited as one of London’s best bakeries.
Although the interior is tasteful, there is something puzzlingly austere — if not subtly derisive — about the mechanism of service: especially in an area of London that is fond of its trappings and which values its superfluous comforts. People are processed at the simple wooden counter and spat back out onto the street with an almost industrial proficiency. There is no inside seating: the only option are schoolyard tables with rickety benches on the pavement.
It' almost feels like a dare: as if Layla asks its bourgeoisie clientele ‘how many of your amenities are you willing to sacrifice for the higher reward of our flavours?’ — while remaining assured by the knowledge that the sidewalk benches, residues of eaten meals that lie on top them, and an ever-regenerating queue will be endured by its visitors for the sake of beautiful baked goods.
And they are truly beautiful: some of the splay of treats on the counter are twisted into the shapes of bows, others glow with almost luminescent freshness, and all stand in ample enticement.
We settle on two savouries and two sweets to share between us; a sundried tomato twist, an apple cider swirl, a whisky marmalade bun and a slice of rhubarb custard tart. Juggling our collection of plates, we make our way outside and insert ourself into a small space at the end of one of the tables.
After we’ve bisected and distributed the morsels, we begin.
The savoury flavours are deep and satisfying. The vibrant earthiness of the twist’s sun dried tomato jelly is interspersed with pockets of bitter pepper and sesame — supported on a crispy platform of dense puff pastry. Although the honeyed vinegar of the apple cider filling is pleasant, its ratio to the swirled bread that surrounds it is inadequate — and it seems slightly one dimensional and anaemic.
We move on to our sugary second course. There is a contrast between the two sweet offerings: one a hairbrained wildcard, the other a time-tested classic.
The pool of whisky marmalade which is wrapped in an open, swirling cocoon of brown bread is strange and wonderful; the peatiness of the liquor mingles with the bitter tang of burnt sugar. Both are flavours that need to be deployed carefully; but they are harnessed by the sweetness of the gooey substrate and the stalwartness of the plain dough. It is some magician’s work — an eccentric masterpiece.
Despite its ingenuity, it is eclipsed by its traditional adversary — the rhubard custard tart. My friend uses her fork to gesticulate towards it with a glee that is almost violent and exclaims “that’s the winner.” I agree with her. It is a triumph of classic baking. A wave of oceanic vanilla sweetness floods my pallete; which is delicately dissolved by the subsequent tartness of the pickled rhubarb. It’s a heavenly riptide of counterpointed flavours.
We leave, glowing, to wander down the bric-a-brac labyrinth of Portobello Road; meandering between stacks of crockery, piles of vintage clothes and twinkling dunes of jewellery.
Layla deserves its accolades — situated in an ideal area of London to waste a Sunday in, its baking is immaculate and its atmosphere is dignified and unpretentious. It has directed its energies and concentrated its resources in the right place: towards exceptional products and polite productivity rather than frivolous decor and fatuous fanciness. Any faults it has are not its own — but due to the reputation it has developed. The queue is exasperating, but it is an indignity that living in London acclimatises you to — the non pecuniary cost of eating anywhere that serves quality food.
As I pass its window a week or so later, I realise that the selection on the counter has changed, which further research informs me happens on a frequent basis. I quiver with excitement at the prospect of returning soon to devour the new wonders it produces.
