going to tea...

Writing this journal seems considerably redundant on occasion. I feel that I write too much about how living here is a balancing act, how I’m in a state of flux between traveler and resident, and how I love life here but missing home every so often. This week I re-evaluated how I’m doing things here. I think that having December 11th hanging over my head is no way to really live in London. I know I have to leave, eventually, so why constantly harp on that? My friend google calendar and I carved out some “date with the city” time, and whether or not I have a set activity in mind, I am determined to get out of the flat, FSU, or LDA and spend some time wandering around the town. With this in mind, I’m going to take a different approach this time, and harken back to the days of Doris Lessing, perhaps with a little influence of Rachel Lichtenstein. Grab your Earl Gray, English Breakfast, or Tregothnan, and let’s go to tea at the Orangery.

I arrive at the Orangery at four in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Business is brisk, with a smattering of people sitting outside, enjoying the final rays of an Indian Summer sun. Aly, Kara, and I wait in line to be seated, enjoying the laughter and energy of a small French child and his parents in front of us. We are dressed well: Kara is in a knee-length black dress, Aly is wearing a gray skirt and green top, and I’m in my gray dress with lace flowers. I mention this for purposes of context: I feel comfortable amidst the suited host and neatly pressed shirts of the wait staff. We pass several couples, families, groups of young friends. The crowd is rather diverse in both language and age, a factor I contribute to the tourist hype: the tea room is affiliated with Kensington Palace, though admission is not required for the tea room. As we pass through the doors into the tea room itself, we are greeted with platters of pastries on a raised bar. Just behind is the food preparation area, where the wait staff arranges the various food items on a silver plate before serving them. Two tall doorways lend a glimpse of the kitchen, where the occasional clatter of pots and pans can be heard. The Orangery is a long, rectangular room, with seating to the left and right of the doors. Nearly everything within eyesight is a shade of white, warmed by beige tiles and lighting above the false crown molding, pitched towards the ceiling. We are brought to our table, in front of a window with a spectacular view of the greens and hedges. We are happy to find that the wrought iron chairs and tables have been softened by fluffy seat cushions and impeccable table cloths.

Lucaas hands us our menus, one for tea and another for food. The selection is equal parts impressive and overwhelming, with a selection of soups, cheeses, wines, coffees, pastries, and of course, teas. I settle on the Orangery tea: a cream cheese and cucumber sandwich, sultana scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam, and Orangery’s signature cake to finish. For my tea, I select Tregothnan, a full-bodies black tea famously known as the product of an English Estate in Cornwall. Aly selects Indian Breakfast tea, and Kara chooses her favorite, English Breakfast. After selecting our teas, we sit and enjoy the chorus of languages around us. There are three American girls, around our own age, to our right, a family of Germans to our left, and across the room several couples, families, and single travelers looking for an afternoon pick-me-up. A group of Americans, two older women with a teenage and young daughter, are dressed rather inappropriately in their denim and sweatshirts. The rest fit our classification, something I refer to with slight tongue-in-cheek as “smart casual.”

Our waitress arrives with our warmed teapots and cups, complete with saucers, sugar in cubes, milk, and tea strainer. The tea is delightful and warming, but rationing it is difficult: it is so wonderful I practically want to bathe in it. Luckily our sandwiches, cut into triangles on poppyseed bread, arrive promptly. We nibble, debating the protocol on holding the triangle with one hand or two. Right before we finish, we are given our scone with spreads. The timing throughout our tea was wonderful: while the table never feels rushed and cluttered, we never wait long for our next course. The scone is my favorite part, and I slather both the clotted cream and the jam on the quarter I have sectioned for myself. The three girls behind us have left, and been replaced by a couple with a young boy, all speaking French. The three speak with animated gestures, tucking away their guidebooks for some refreshment. Too soon my scone is gone, and the light has left the sky a surreal combination of navy and pink. I am filling my teacup one more time, dropping in another sugar cube, when our cake arrives. Its essential ingredients are clear with the first bite: butter, sugar, lemon, and orange. I feel as though this is a glimpse of what heaven must taste like. I finally push my plate away, full and completely content. We are the last three left in restraint; the waiters are bringing in the chairs and tables from the outdoor patio. It is only five fifteen, but outside it is completely dark. After navigating our way out of Kensington Gardens’ gate (unbeknownst to us, the gardens and park close at dusk, only one far exit is left available) we saunter back to the Kensington High Street station. Our giggles and stories multiply, fueled by the rush of sugar to our bloodstream. Sharing our stories with our flatmates, we decide to make it a bi-weekly excursion, an expense justified by laughter, indulgence, and experience.