Food
Michele Roberts hunts for African snails in Hackney
Published 23 February 2004
At Dalston Junction, I searched for African snails, but found only chicken feet
Friends keep telling me that I need TLC. Tender loving care? No, they said, TFC. The Turkish Food Centre. Off I went to Dalston Junction in north-east London on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Big red buses, packed to the gills, windows steamed up, slid past over gleaming tarmac. The lights had come on early. Pavements thronged with umbrella-wielding shoppers in gorgeous fancy clothes. I dived down a side street into Ridley Road Market and was stopped in my tracks by this cornucopia of sights and smells, juxtapositions of clashing colours, the hurly-burly of people and children. Here was excess made flesh. More of everything than you could possibly want. Massed ranks of pumpkins, melons, cabbages, horseradish. The doubled row of stalls, back to back, filled the space.
I was looking for African snails, mythical beasts several gourmets had described, but I didn't find them. At the front of the Nigerian butcher's stall, I saw large plastic bags full of chicken and of calves' feet, goats' legs tied up in bundles like kindling, heaped tripe that looked like knitting. How wonderful not to recognise things; not to know their names. The fishmonger's offered unfamiliar creatures of the deep and kindly introduced me to glitzy blue parrotfish, doctor fish with a frilled half-ruff. How I wish I had invited 20 friends to supper, and had an excuse for being super-greedy.
Shops lined either side. African and Caribbean bakeries, Turkish cafes displaying silvery trays of meat stews flecked with green and red peppers, pound emporia tantalising you with shiny jewellery and hair clips, whirligigs, Sacred Hearts. Pale green tiles in one meat shop depicted pastel images of bucolic landscapes and trussed game, while sepia photographs dangling nearby showed the market as it used to be a hundred years ago. Passing Percy Ingles's cake shop (established 1954), I goggled through the window at the assistants in green overalls, white aprons and white caps, at the fake ham rolls, designed to tempt you in, made of painted plaster. Hand curls of yellow mayonnaise, like early perms, squiggled through lettuce leaves faded to blue. Next door offered fireworks and party costumes downstairs, and upstairs the Walton Cake Decorating School. Women hunched over icing nozzles eased orange strips of marzipan into place, creating a lattice-work effect.
The Turkish Food Centre, finally reached, stocked everything you could possibly need, with labels in Turkish so you could be sure of what you were getting. For a foreigner like me, some guessing was involved. I loved the bulk and abundance of goods: the catering-sized tins and jars of olive oil, tomato paste, olives, the vats of yoghurt, whole wheels of cheeses, doorsteps of halva. Luxe, calme et volupte.
Post this article to
We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.
