Where the wise people go

The venue under the arches had been getting more packed each week, but they still kept on coming in bigger numbers. Once so empty and dingy that it could only be used on period film sets, the place had quietly been regenerating itself. Now it was heaving and everybody wanted a piece of the new thing. Tourists and locals, posh and poor, mingled happily, even the early adopters of the scene seemed happy to share the knowledge. That’s what I liked about the place, people talking loudly about what they’d had and what it did to them in a co-operative spirit of open source information (as long as their go-to man had plentiful stock). They did this mainly because they were all walking round in a liberated and beatific haze having been able to feed their head. Sure, the prices seemed high at times for the goods, but the variety of stuff on offer just boggled the mind. I overheard a trio of excited girls talking about how ‘that’s how they do it in Marrakech’ and ‘that’s where you go to get the real stuff’, so I knew what we were getting here was not the authentic vibe but close enough to it to mean something. Tens of thousands of people at each session, their senses gladly violated, couldn’t be wrong.

Before I was forced to stop to a walking pace and actually check the place out due to the crowds I never knew people could stake so much happiness on eating. But Borough Market, and the foodie tribe who come to perform their indulgent rituals here, corrected that misapprehension and affirmed that this was one of the best experiences a modern consumer could get.