I am seated at Nude Espresso in the Brick Lane market; the weather in London Town has been crisp, bright and without rain.

Having spent my early childhood summers in this Town, and returning so often as an adult, London has become somewhat of an old neighborhood haunt for me. Yesterday, Hannah remarked how odd it was that I was so familiar with the ins and outs of London, like the average resident (if not more so, as my curiosity takes me absolutely everywhere).

Familiarity is a lovely thing for creatures of habit.
Sadly, however, I have become unfamiliar with my favourite British subject: The Male.

These men I once adored, was fascinated by, and to whom I probably always reacted in very bizarre manner. Ever, when I hear this accent, I practically fall out of my chair, my car, the bus, Lulu, topple out of yoga, slip off my skates, vault from an airplane and even a train. Wherever I may be located, I react to this accent quite bizarre-like, and I have always greatly enjoyed the reaction.

This accent, coupled with their very distinct beauty has every single time proven a deadly combination for your girl; darkish golden hair, very white skin with always pink cheeks, full ruby mouths and crystal clear blue eyes. They sound psychotic, no? Doll-like in their beauty, these men. (Blame George Michael, like I do. He’s the one who forever changed the landscape of my interest in men; lucky me, however, I still like them straight.)

Right. So, they have become unfamiliar to me because clearly gentlemen, there is far too much estrogen in your water and it has affected the size of your thighs. (All but you who stopped me to chat in the art studio and I accidentally nodded yes when you asked me if I was Spanish…because your beauty confounded me.) Obvi, I have a thing for men with strong thighs; I have accepted that this must be some sort of biological imperative in my world, that a man come with thick and solid legs. Otherwise, I see twigs and twigs do not sex appeal make.

Speaking of sex appeal, the once notoriously gin driven London Town is slowly changing its topographical landscape from pub to coffee house. Not just the random and boring coffee pimp Starbucks, but rather amazing fair trade roastery coffee houses whose main goal is top-of-the-line flavour and texture. Coffee turned art form, quality in place of quantity.

Hannah and I yesterday did a coffee house crawl, tasting the flavours of three shops in the Shoreditch / Brick Lane district, where Han & Charlie live. First stop was the usual Coffee @, which is really quite student and though would appeal to you all in black, wears relatively quickly. Ultimately, their coffee simply does not compare to those found at either Allpress Espresso Roastery (at 58 Redchurch Street) or Nude Espresso (to which only a leprechaun can direct you).

If heading out for a date, please avoid at all expense Allpress, as the lighting inside is for shit. It is florescent, and I think that about covers the ‘why’ of not going while wearing the pretty. Additionally, the seating is very quite cafeteria in its style; large wooden tables at which several parties may sit. It is, however, the perfect spot to go with your friends for an incredible cuppa, sweets and sandwiches. They warm your coffee cup with boiling water before serving it your way. Very elegant touch, this.

As for a date beginning or ended, Nude Espresso is really where you must head. Everything works, starting with the lighting (not florescent!) to the atmosphere and seating arrangements of cozy corners. The staff are particularly gorgeous, too, and the cappuccino is a must-have as they top it off with swirls of hearts.

Thing is, there are two locations of Nude Espresso, and the one I recommend is slightly off the beaten path; upon entry in to the Truman Brewery Food Hall on Brick Lane, walk out the back door, past the dumpsters and in to the parking lot. On your left, you will see the proper location of Nude Espresso. Go in and ask for Gerard, requesting he make your cappuccino if there. (Make certain to enjoy their God Spank the Queen exhibit, commissioned specifically for Coco de Mer (aside from Rigby & Peller, a must to purchase lingerie when in London Town).

We are off to an industry party this evening, as Charlie is a script writer. This will be very interesting, and will no doubt bring forth many unfortunate stories for this interWeb home.
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Re Nude Espresso photograph; aren’t I the biggest creep in the world to take a photo like this, and then not be shy about posting it? He is the owner; his name is Gerard. He has crinkly smile lines around his amazing greenish / blue eyes, all beneath a head of thick waves that were whispering “play with us, Maha” as he and I were chatting. He will also never let me back in to Nude Espresso once he finds I took this photo. (Unless, of course, a smile can get a girl a very long way in these parts.)