Pulp

For a pocket of village life in London look no further than Pulp. The cafe is a 10-minute walk from Ealing Broadway station, but worlds apart from the urban high street. Outside, tables spill onto the pavement and dachshunds shuffle around ankles trying to catch the crumbs of a scrollsant—a tasty, flaky, laminated brioche scroll stuffed with ‘things from the allotment.’ Regulars drop by with the familiarity of old friends—their coffee orders remembered and favourite bottle of wine plucked from the shelves lining one side of the cafe. Towards the front, students from the local college set up their laptops next to a table of provisions—fancy chocolate, plants, olives. The essentials, naturally. On any given day a dog walker could be refuelling with a spicy, oozy tuna melt, while the person on the table next to them pours over a broadsheet and sips a glass of wine. The comforting toasties alone are worth the walk from the high street. That, and the feeling of sitting in the country kitchen of someone with an open-door policy.

photo credit: Koray Firat

photo credit: Koray Firat

photo credit: Koray Firat

photo credit: Koray Firat