of Liverpool, or four hard days’ nights

Liverpool. City of big hair, orange tans, thick Scouse accents. City of my sweet friend Maia, who has none of those things. We spent a four-day weekend alternately braving the city and retreating to fuel up on milky tea and cardamom muffins at her flat. It was sort of like running between a cold swimming pool and a hot jacuzzi. My toes are still tingling.

So. Go make yourself a cuppa, and enjoy this very small slice of Liverpool.

We start at the heart of things. Bold Street Coffee is a new kid on the block but has managed to pull together that mix of thoughtfully-roasted beans, capable baristi, and street cred that clues us in to a quality third-wave espressobar.
Bold Street Coffee

Next up, a mosey up Bold Street and the surrounding block. Thanks to the numerous vintage and charity shops, I found a cheerful red knit cardigan, a silk blouse with a cheeky citrus print, and a stack of new-ish literature I’ve been unable to track down in the Netherlands. Think Zadie Smith, Jonathan Safran Foer, and a triumphant copy of East of Eden for my Steinbeck-smitten man.

Of course we sustained ourselves on more than coffee and vintage dresses (although let’s be honest, that’s close to all a girl needs). Exhibit A: a horrifically full English brekkie at The Tavern Co. Exhibit B: a mini steak-and-kidney pie that found me the next day. Needless to say this weekend was a vegetarian hall pass, and I was happy to come home and plan on a month of lentils, veggies, beans, and tempeh.

I spent my last night in Liverpool in, enjoying the house special – inventive cocktails and the film (which shall remain unnamed) that had us all swooning in middle school.

The weekend flew by, and by Tuesday I was well chuffed to be back in the Netherlands, sitting at my regular hangout. As far as I’m concerned, The Village Coffee & Music in Utrecht makes the best flat white around. Here it is, folks — microfoam poured lovingly over a double espresso.

Here to conclude this UK edition is the Queen, waving her posh gloved hand. 

P.S. I beg mercy for not mentioning the Beatles at all – the title is a tiny, tiny concession.