Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse, Heathrow. The breakfast smells incredible, and I didn’t have dinner last night.
But I am declining, even the croissants, saving my calories for the Kosher Kedassia meals on the flight. There will be foods on my tray that are not on my training program, so I need to choose my sins.
But boy, am I hungry. The temptation to partake is extreme.
Egg whites, unsalted; a porridge of rolled oats and protein powder; a pot of English Breakfast tea and a liter of still water.
The US needs Nando’s, the UK chain of Portuguese chicken restaurants. This was an incredibly flavorful grilled chicken and rice combo.
My wife wouldn’t like it much: Nando’s runs a wee bit strong on the sodium side. Aside from that, their food is better tasting and better for you than anything they serve at Popeyes.
Sitting by the window at the Timberyard in Covent Garden, having a cheat meal of avocado toast and English Breakfast tea, and arguing with Oscar Wilde via margin notes in a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray.
A perfect way to spend a chilly Sunday in overcast London.
To me it always be “New Highbury” rather than “Emirates Stadium,” but the name is far less important than what this place represents: the home of Arsenal.
Defiantly unlike the curated star lineup that is Manchester United or Chelsea, Arsenal is a scrappy, idiosyncratic North London soccer team that develops players and combines them with overlooked talent from around the world. They are more Dodgers than Yankees, more Lakers than Warriors, more Steelers than Patriots.
And for all of those reasons, they are more lovable, especially to people who have built their success on a mixture of heritage, talent, and determination in the face of adversity.
Maybe I am projecting, but I don’t mind. These are the virtues I admire, I choose my heroes accordingly.
Arsenal won this match, as it happens, a win that bumped them up from 6th in the standings to 5th. An incredible day for me, one that served as a fitting preface to my sabbatical that starts after next week.
Good morning from Costa Coffee in King’s Cross.
The imposing Victorian edifice across the street is the train station housing Platform 9-3/4 . (For you muggle/nomaj types, that’s the London terminus of the Hogwarts Express.)
The coffee in the foreground is an iced Americano. After a wholesome breakfast of oats, almond butter, and whey protein, my stomach is returning to normal.
The dirty vodka martini at the Henrietta Bar was way off plan, the Balthazar salmon and lentils slightly less so, and the asparagus was spot on. In all, I kept to my macro nutrients and calories, but fats were a bit high on the day.
I woke in the middle of the night not feeling well for the first time since starting training. Was it jet lag? Was the food off? Was it the meal? Or was it the first alcoholic beverage in two months?
I am assuming all of the above. I am resolving to be done with the booze and sticking to plan. Clearly, my metabolism is changing, I think for the better.
I miss having a kitchen…
There is no better taste in the world than the taste of smoked salmon at 30,000 feet. Talk about comfort food…