48 Hours in Margate or the one where introduce a new restaurant award – Part 2

The sun is shining.

I write this from the temporary workstation that is my mother’s kitchen table. I’m staying with her for a week while my sister, who lives with her, is off on holiday.  I’m overdue writing this but, I’m job hunting and having to prioritise that – this set-up is knackering my back so time at the computer is limited. But… after a seriously miserable summer, we’ve finally had a couple of days of proper sunshine and that has put me to thinking about being by the sea and “oops,” “eeek!” finishing off that Margate post!

It's not necessary to have read Part 1 for your understanding of Part 2 but, you know, you might want to nonetheless. Hint hint. Just in case you don’t feel the need to get the background though, I left off just as I was heading to bed for a good night’s sleep. Nothing outrageous to report, a good night’s sleep is what I got and after jumping out of bed and straight into my mini exercise routine (20 backward lunges, 10 squats, 10 side lunges, 10 standing on tip toes… no really, that’s an exercise, and hmmm… maybe that’s it), a quick shower, a cup of tea on the balcony, and I was finally ready to start my day. And by start my day I mean head down to a breakfast of sausages, bacon, eggs, toast – all the good things. And a bowl of fruit with the obligatory stewed prunes. I judge a hotel breakfast bar by whether they have stewed prunes or not, you can have all the homemade granola and sourdough and whipped butter and Manx kippers (etc.) you like but if there aren’t any stewed prunes that’s just a bit disappointing, don’t you think? Thankfully, The Walpole Bay Hotel isn’t the kind of establishment to even consider leaving out the prunes.

Getting in the sea is a labour of love.

I’d had to time breakfast quite carefully because I planned to take a dip in the sea by way of the enormous tidal pool before lunch and at precisely the optimum (tidal-wise) time. I can’t actually remember now whether the best time to go in was just as the tide had come in or just as it started to go out. Either way, it didn’t really matter because by the time I finally got in, after very actively trying, it had come in and gone out and was on its way back in again! Not really but, it DID take me an excruciatingly long time to get in. I started by looking longingly at the couple of people already in and wondering how they’d got there, had they battled their way past the seaweed “urgh” and rocky/stoney shore or, had they walked along the pool walls and got in via the ladder even though there was a sign saying not to walk along the walls but then why the hell were there ladders along there and maybe the sign didn’t say what I thought it did or certainly didn’t mean it. Phew. I dipped a toe encased in a swimming shoe in, and oh my days it was cold. I dropped a heel in and then (because I was now standing one-legged, flamingo style) I lowered the other foot in. And then I got out. And then I repeated. My feet were like blocks of ice by now and I don’t recommend this as a way of getting into a really cold body of water, it might be okay on a blisteringly hot day, but this was March and the very beginning of the season and the air was definitely not hot. A man arrived with his dog. I stared at his back as he undressed (sounds weird, I know) until I plucked up the courage to speak to him “so you’re going in then? How are you going to get in?” (Honestly, I chuckle at myself now, like, obviously he was going in! But at the time I was very earnest). He was going to walk along the wall, as he does every day. With a smile he suggested I give it a go. Instead, I went back to the seaweedy shoreline and continued my odd one-footed dance whilst berating myself for my utter pathetic-ness.

And then (by now all swimmers had got out and dressed and I knew I wouldn’t get in, even though I’d sworn to myself that I would) a group came ambling along the beach laughing and chatting away. They stopped close to me and pulled off their clothes (revealing mostly non-wetsuited, some even brown, bodies) and something about their energy made me talk to them too. They took pity on me and said “COME IN WITH US!!! COME ON! YOU’LL LOVE IT”.

Sometimes, I’m very glad I’m female.

Unfortunately for me, the person in front of me, a male, was also not a regular swimmer and was also not in a wetsuit. He made it look, how can I put it, horrendous. Only in up to his waist, he had a sort of mini panic attack and couldn’t get out fast enough. His companions, all female (I assume), jostled him a little and tried to convince him that it wasn’t so bad once you were in properly “yes WELL” he replied, “you don’t have a penis that’s currently shrunk right back up inside you, DO YOU!?”. They laughed. He made his way back to the beach and I climbed down the ladder and got in. No hesitation. I gave myself a moment to settle my breathing and then headed out towards the centre of the pool. It was glorious. Bitingly cold and honestly, painful – but also beautiful. Before I got to the middle, I realised that I needed to turn round and head back to the ladder NOW or my fingers would be so numb that I wouldn’t be able to get out. And it’s a good job I did as it did feel as though my fingers were on the cusp of turning into sausages by the time I reached the ladder and I just managed to hoist myself out. But Oh My Days, what a joyous experience.

Good as it was, I knew I wouldn’t be doing it again the next day!

I was too late to use the community sauna, set up in a little sort of caravan thing alongside the tidal pool, as it was only open in the mornings and by the time I got in and out, the morning was long gone. And, I had to hurry to get ready to head into town for a lunch reservation for what turned out to be one of my favourite dining out experiences in the longest while.

Worth a Special Visit

I spent the last twelve months steeped in Michelin, working, as I did, for a two starred place in London. Two stars means “Worth a detour” and three, the highest of accolades, is reserved for those places deemed worthy of a “Special visit”. I mean, no offence but, I think it’s all a load of old codswallop – who deems something worthy of a visit, what are the parameters upon which they judge? Don’t get me wrong, the establishments that are awarded these ‘honours’ are incredible, the people who work there are driven and talented and everything is, undeniably, exquisite. But increasingly it seems to be about white tablecloths and hour long “Table Talk” – that’s where the dishes are explained to you. So, I’m bringing in my own awards the…erm.. “Middle-aged Londoner Chef’s Kisses”. I’ll be handing them out to places that blow me away, where the food is exceptional and I feel welcomed, looked after, and above all else, supremely comfortable and happy.

My first Chef’s Kiss.

So, without further ado, I give my first Kisses to Bottega Caruso. A place so exceptionally divine I didn’t want to leave. If I hadn’t been so full, and they hadn’t have been fully booked for the evening, I might have tried to just roll lunch into dinner. As it was I stayed for about three hours, which is good going for a solo diner! Long enough for the whole Bottega family, including friends and children back from school to descend, and at no point was I made to feel like I needed to leave.

I don’t even know where to start – the restaurant itself, little more than a room (is actually three rooms: the main dining room which is sandwiched between a private dining room and the kitchen which isn’t open, as such, but is completely visible, partitioned as it is from the dining room by a large window). The vibe is relaxed, simple, homely – there are shelves with deli produce set amongst old cookery books, wooden floors and tables, happy guests, friendly staff.

I honestly ate the whole menu, or, all that I was able to. Sourdough bread with Simona’s auntie’s olive oil – a beautiful grassy smooth mouthful of goodness, one of the best olive oils I’ve tasted, Giardiniera or, pickled vegetables, I could have eaten these by the bucket full – they were so crisp and fresh tasting but with a good pickle flavour too, tart and sweet and very moreish. I wish I’d asked for the recipe. Instead, I said that I wanted to put in a pre-order for a recipe book, should there be one on the horizon (and there should). Creamy goat’s curd with beautifully ripe figs and onto the “Smaller plates”. A plate of grilled sweet and sour radicchio with capers and juicy fat mozzarella, I’ve tried to make this at home since but haven’t gotten anywhere near as good.

And a dish of mussels with piennolo tomatoes, ‘nduja’, wine and cream. Now, I’m not into food on skin, I’ve never fancied the idea of squirting cream over someone and licking it off, or vice versa, but I felt like I could have lain down in a bed of this, so absolutely comforting was it. Eating it was a sensual experience. It was sweet and rich but also deeply savoury and fresh and light – a real triumph. They sell the tomatoes, I wanted to buy a jar but as I was travelling by public transport and wasn’t travelling light, I had to resist.

Bottega Caruso is so good that I’ve convinced the family (that being: the adult children, the ex, AND his partner) that we need to have a mini break, like we used to, and go to Margate specifically so I can get them all to eat there. If that isn’t the definition of making a special trip, I don’t know what is. But I’d hate to burden them with three stars, from what I hear, it’s a total headache. Hopefully my Chef’s Kisses will suffice.

I finished my meal off with an exquisite homemade nocino (a green walnut liquor) which I hope they still have when I go on my weird family jaunt.

A bit of Positive Retail therapy.

I rolled out of the restaurant and straight into Positive Retail, a gorgeous boutique that sells dead stock and resale clothes. I found a beautiful Ganni top that was perfect for a present for my daughter’s birthday and lusted after a retro Valentino tracksuit top. My it was a beauty! Much of the stock is reasonably priced, and by reasonably I mean I could afford it – but (luckily) the Valentino was way out of reach. I did buy a lovely little bracelet by a brand based just along the coastline in Ramsgate. I got chatting with the assistant, who had lived quite a colourful life in London – far more fabulous than mine, and then a friend of hers came in and we got to chatting too and… it turned out that she used to work for the restaurant I was working at! Such a small world. We exchanged notes, and phone numbers.

Because of my super-extended lunch and then all the chatting in Positive Retail I didn’t actually manage much of a mooch around (shops and galleries). I did come across a lovely little boutique, Edie Collection, that seemed to only sell really bright gold coloured vintage costume jewellery – lots of 90s stuff. I couldn’t resist going in and again, came out with a bracelet (now a firm favourite) and having had a good chat. I couldn’t help thinking “These Margate people seem pretty friendly! I wonder, could I..? Would I like it here?” Pah ha. I wondered, was Margate really as great as I was being told or, rather, was Margate as I was being told if you weren’t white? And just as I was about to put an offer on a house (not really, obvs, just in my head) a friend of mine brought me back to reality saying that they’d found it quite racist and had had racist slurs thrown at them when they visited. But my Margate experience had involved quite a few people of colour so far, who all seemed happy. And besides, it couldn’t be worse than where I spent my late childhood, surely!?

“Yes, I’m seriously considering buying this £50,000 piece of art”.

I ambled back to my hotel via a back road which turned out to be très chic and where most of the places I’d been recommended were. I passed a gallery that seemed to be having a private view – I’m not really a “private view” person, somehow haven’t fallen into the art scene (despite my love of art in my youth) and I feel quite self-conscious in small galleries. I feel like I have to pretend I can afford the pieces and am actually considering buying (though, apparently, gallerists can tell straight off if you’re a potential customer or not so I may as well not waste my energy!). Not wanting to let feeling uncomfortable stop me, I went inside. And I was so glad that I did, the exhibition was beautiful, Paris Essex, a collaboration between two knitwear and textile designers (yes, you guessed it, one is from Paris and the other from Essex) was full of humour and was very joyful and colourful! The pieces are  essentially blankets, I think, but they can be hung as works of art on your wall, or worn, or thrown over a sofa etc. As an ex-fashion student and a sometime crocheter and knitter with a real interest in texture, I couldn’t have stumbled on a better exhibition. And though I felt as though everyone else was super stylish and cool, and knew what they were talking about, I didn’t feel that out of place. The exhibition was part of POW Thanet (Power of Women Thanet) Festival, which is an annual festival that “celebrates creativity that champions gender equality across Thanet” – the call for submissions for next year’s festival is currently open (if you happen to be a creative have a look) and on top of that, they look to do lots of events and activities across the year.

It was getting on a bit by the time I got back to the hotel – though I was still too full for anything approaching supper I couldn’t resist a little nibble of the ginormous scone I’d ordered earlier for ‘afternoon tea’. Even if you’re not staying at the Walpole Bay Hotel, I recommend going and taking tea there after having had a little look at all the artefacts (make sure to ask to see the ballroom and pink snooker room)/the museum.

A night out in Margate.

As I wasn’t up for a full supper anywhere and I wasn’t really drinking (so hanging out in a wine bar/pub etc didn’t really appeal) I cast around for something else to do and ended up heading to The Albion Rooms (owned by The Libertines) to watch a gig. I’d hoped to sit and have a drink in the Arcady Rooms on the first floor of the hotel as it looks lush, but it was closed, so I made my way straight down to the venue, The Waste Land, where I sat, awkwardly, at a table with my Lucky Saint alcohol free beer, waiting for the gig to start. It wasn’t long before I was chatting away to someone, an artist (bien sur) who works on huge installation pieces and was just having a break from packing one up to be shipped off to Germany the following day. As well as being very interesting she was hot! She was wearing a gorgeous silver bomber jacket (tick) and had bleach blonde hair that was styled into a sort of messy quiff, and I briefly wondered if maybe I mightn’t give up on men (seeing as they seem to have given up on me) and move over to women.

I asked Hot Artist (annoyingly don’t remember her name or I’d have tagged her so you could see her art) where else there was to go, and she suggested somewhere she’d been for dinner earlier. By day a membership co-working space and by evening a pop-up restaurant (currently on a hiatus), Faith in Strangers turns into a cocktail bar and venue/club by night. It was empty AF but, the following night they were playing host to a big-name DJ and were expecting the place to be heaving so the staff were definitely not mad to be having a gentle one.

I ordered an aged negroni and then sat, nursing my drink and marvelling at the geometrically patterned black and white tabletops (I’m very easily pleased). I also had a little dance – just me, on my own, with a group of women to my right, huddled round a table, having a chat about men, and the bar staff pottering away behind the bar. Just as I was feeling self-conscious and about to sit down again they put on a track that I didn’t know but have been playing on repeat since, and it never fails to make me want to move my body.

A midnight Afternoon Tea.

By the time I got back to the hotel I was feeling a little peckish. Obviously I’d missed the boat for supper anyway (was about 1am) but… hoorah, I still had the majority of my scone and cream. So I buttered and creamed the hell out of it, made myself a cup of tea, and sat on my balcony munching away and listening to the sound of the sea crashing about. Such bliss.

Coming to the end of my 48 hours, and my late night meant that I was late to rise and just had time for a quick shower and a sprint to breakfast before I was too late, and then back to my room to gather my stuff before checking out. To fill the time before my train I set off in search of the Carl Freedman Gallery which had been recommended by multiple people. But when I got there, even though it was during opening hours, it was closed (read on though…). Don’t be put off by its closed appearance pavement-side, if you, like me, arrive during published opening hours, just walk boldly up towards the wall in front of you and all will become clear as off to your right there’s a super modern glass entryway leading to a reception desk, with an incredible floral display, and behind that, the gallery. Daisy Parris: Mother Me was being exhibited and I LOVED it, some of it tackles quite challenging themes but all of it is aesthetically beautiful, a wonderful colour palette of soft pinks and greyish greens and yellows, and many of the pieces had bits hanging from the bottom of them or poking out of the top which just really appealed to me. I didn’t have long so zoomed round and then picked one to stare at for a few minutes.

Time for one last meal.

I couldn’t finish my trip to the seaside without some fish and chips now could I? There’s only one place to go for that, well, was an almost unanimous suggestion from those I asked, and that’s Pete’s Fish in the Old Town, on the seafront. I sat at one of the tables they’d set up outside and quickly gobbled down piping hot chips (“ouch, ouch, ouch”) and beautifully juicy fish, with a crisp, light batter, before any of the gathering sea gulls could get their filthy beaks on them, and before I missed my train! Which I nearly did.

Margate has so much more to give than I was able to see.

My sister has long espoused the joys of Margate and I must say, I see it now. I’m sold. The place literally hums with creativity, it’s such a good place for food-interested people, and, as far as I can tell, it’s really friendly and welcoming. Plus, the sea of course! There’s so much of it that I didn’t see (I know there’s a Dreamland shaped elephant in the room), I’ll definitely be back and when I am, these are the places I’ll be checking out:

• Bottega Caruso again, obvs. I’m planning to takeover the back room with the fam and have a veritable Neapolitan-esq feast. Can’t wait.

• Angela’s – super tiny though and difficult to get a booking I believe, so maybe their sister restaurant, Dory’s.

• Making sure I see the Anthony Gormley – seriously, can’t believe I didn’t see it, that’s the type of thing that would make me jump for joy and stop me in my tracks for AGES!

• Having a drink at the bar, out on the balcony that wraps round the building, at the Tom Thumb Theatre. It really reminds me of being in the West Indies and felt so charming with it’s festoon lights garlanding the length of the balcony.

• Having a pint, or maybe a gorgeous Sunday lunch, at The George and Heart

• And I’m torn, there are so many gorgeous looking little hotels in Margate, some only very recently opened, that I’d love to stay in. But, what about the fabulous Walpole Bay Hotel!?

• A friend of mine has just started running a hotel in Margate (I think he’s running it…) Margate House, so I’ll definitely need to check that out! I’m well jel.

• And, if you happen to be self-catering in Margate, and you’re not vegetarian, go to Northdown Butchers. As I write this they’re not open yet, but I know it’s going to be excellent, the owners have impeccable restaurant pedigree.

• And… estate agents’ windows!! Of course.

Have you been to Margate? Do you have any suggestions for me for my next visit? How about the rest of that coast? It’s all rather brilliant you know.

Now, I know this post is SO long but it is packed with info, along with a lot of waffle, on places to go in Margate and I’d be really happy if you shared it with anyone Margate bound. Thank you! And thank you for reading.