An early lunch at Parsons: Brixham halibut with courgettes and a salsa verde, a glass of Folias de Baco, Alvarinho on the side—I adore Portuguese wine and this one is all lime zest and stone fruit, perfect for the fish to come.
I like to sit at this slim wooden countertop before the open windows, enjoying the comings and goings on Endell Street. So close to the throng of Covent Garden Market and yet seeming so far—the surrounding trees shading the terrace from the June sun as the city goers amble past the still empty tables and chairs.
I fell in love with Parsons on my first visit; the tiled walls with playful joys of the sea painted on them, the green leather against dark wood, the wine by the glass stored in an ornate centre island around which the play of service flows.
It was late September. I had spent the day walking all over the city, we were planning a move to the capital. I needed a job and was, reluctantly, looking for one while still clinging to the dream of opening my own little place, not so very different to here. Intimate with happy food, interesting wine, the ambiance and decor delivering you to a small seaside town, in Brittany perhaps, with the mussel boats coming in with their catch. I had a few hours to kill before boarding the night train to Edinburgh, our backup if we really couldn’t stomach the London rental market (still feels like being punched in the gut once a month when my salary evaporates into the small place we call home). Over a pint on the edge of Smithfield Market, I searched for a fish restaurant and found myself soon walking towards Covent Garden to sit on this very stool, looking out at the same trees instead turning brown.
It was a stressful time, beginning all over again. But sitting here on that September night—with chilli and garlic marinated anchovies accompanied by a fitting glass of white, fried cod’s cheeks I haven’t had the like of since, and blue shell mussels in a cider sauce (mopping it all up with a second basket of bread)—I was excited for whatever next would be.
Parsons is one of those seemingly quiet, understated places that whacks you between the eyes.
The floor is filling up. It’s almost one o’clock and the lunch bookings are starting to arrive. A summer breeze enters through the windows and the two servers begin to up their pace, meeting the increased needs of the tables and replying to the bell dinging from downstairs in the kitchen. My lunch, unsurprisingly, did not disappoint. I pay my bill and thank my server.
‘See you again,’ I say, knowing it’s only a matter of time.
