Atlantica - 01.12.2006, Blaðsíða 51

“Never go to them,” he replied with a wave of
his hand when I asked him about the shuttered
building. “There’s too much what I call ‘cabology’
in there. All people talk about is their fares.”
But, he added, “One interesting point about
green huts is that Churchill used to go to one over
by Hyde Park.”
“Was he trying to get out and talk to the peo-
ple?” I wondered aloud.
“I think he just wanted a cheap cup of tea,” he
answered.
As I hung around his open window, Levy told
me he’d been driving taxis here for 57 years.
I asked him how things had changed since he
started the job in 1949.
“People used to smile at each other. You used
to have little boys walking down the street whis-
tling... young couples walking arm in arm,” he
said, staring out the window. “People seem to be
miserable now.”
I thought back on the people I’d seen and
met in the last three days. It didn’t seem like an
unhappy city to me, but then I didn’t spend those
days driving harried people around. That’s what
people seemed to be: busy.
“So what’s that you’re drinking?” I asked, look-
ing at the old-school metal thermos in Levy’s lap.
“Water.”
BY 3:30, WHEN MY RESERVATION at Claridge’s
rolled around, I was bracing myself for inauthen-
ticity and all the unpleasantries that I associate
with visiting tourist traps in big cities. As my
friend Chris and I were led to our table, I felt
bamboozled by the spectacular white Chihuly
chandelier, presiding over the tea room.
Claridge’s recently won the 2006 Best Afternoon
Tea from the UK Tea Council. Its tea menu polite-
ly educates the unindoctrinated that there is “a tea
to suit every palate and every food,” and offers
a regular afternoon tea, a champagne tea, or a
Dom Perignon champagne tea at only politely
extortionist prices.
Chris and I went for the Dom Perignon. If
you’re going to be bamboozled, might as well go
full throttle for GBP 48.50 apiece.
Having committed myself to a week of canned
tuna for lunch, I told Chris, who grew up in rural
southern England, that I felt like the tea thing
was kind of a sham.
“It’s something that English people grow up
with,” Chris replied. “So even if it’s contrived,
they like it. It’s twee.”
In the village where he was raised, afternoon
tea is still a regular part of the day. “A tea shop’s
a bit like a pub, really,” Chris said. “People don’t
have time for it in London.”
We looked around. Even in the middle of a
Sunday afternoon, we weren’t surrounded by
tourists. Behind us, an elderly woman celebrated
her birthday with her family, and a young trio lei-
surely picked their way through the courses.
The waiter set down elegant rows of cucum-
ber, ham, tuna and chicken sandwiches on a
caddy next to our table, and poured steaming,
aromatic tea from individual pots into our wait-
ing cups.
By the time we got to the clotted cream, tea-
infused jam, and scones, my concerns about
authenticity were receding. Maybe afternoon
tea’s high level of production was more authen-
tic than I had given it credit for. Maybe I was
enjoying suspension of disbelief one spoonful of
cream at a time with Londoners who also needed
a break.
Or maybe, sitting in my cushioned chair at the
white-clothed table, listening to the murmur of
conversation and the clinks of cup to saucer, I
was participating in the long and artful tradition
of taking a break. a
(Practical info on page 50)
044-51 LondonAtl606.indd 49 20.10.2006 9:46:45