Love Notes #1: Jolene

Look, it’s silly to romanticise a restaurant this much, but she just feels like home

It’s hard not to sound trite or earnest. I won’t even try.

Like all great romances, it began in summer, when the city was thick with heat. 27th July 2019: I had picked up my first ever bike earlier that day, and Ky was scoping out London before she moved. I had booked dinner at 8.15pm, and from memory we walked: one straight, long road from the estate to Newington Green. 20 minutes. No turns. We sat at the bar drinking Muscadet and eating burrata with peaches and focaccia and a plate of beets, beans and greens. Silently we decided to tether ourselves to each other like sisters.

The next time was a month later. Dinner with my brother, who I was desperately trying to impress. After years of roaming and roving, months of crashing on his couch in Archway, countless hours relying on him, I was ready to prove myself an adult. I remember arriving by bike, probably the first time he’d seen me on one since we were kids and he and my dad taught me how to ride. We ate a bowl of mustardy lentils with a hake loin so perfectly seasoned, flaky, soft and delicious, I’ve had dreams about it.

27th July, 2019. 22:56

Since then there have been over 25 more meals and too many takeaway coffee-and-sausage-roll-combos to count. There have been solo lunches sat at the bar with a book, a glass of wine and a plate of polenta topped with pork ragu. Many meals shared at my favourite corner table that Zoe always puts me in when she sees my name on the bookings – right by the curtain where the words Jolene and magic machine are embroidered.

It’s the place where I met my childhood best friend’s new partner, smiling across the table and nodding in approval. The first restaurant I went to with my first love; and the first place I came to when that love was lost and my heart was breaking. Where I’ve sheltered from the biting wind on winter nights; where I’ve sat outside on the patio smoking with friends on hot summer evenings. Where friends have met lovers thanks to chance encounters with strangers on the table next to us. Where I’ve told secrets and planned trips and cried violently and sighed wistfully at the romance of this place.

Something about the lighting at night smudges the lines of reality and takes you into your own little world. Something about the consistency of ordering the cloud-like cavatelli pasta topped with pangrattato. Something about waiting for the pasta alla gricia to return to the menu and booking any table you can that night. Something about the chalky wine-lined walls. Something about pillowy focaccia. Something about feeling like a local. Something about feeling like you could fall in love again here.

It’s hard for me not to romanticise Jolene.

I’ve threatened to get her tattooed on my arm.

I’ll probably have my wedding meal here.

I’ll probably come here when my heart gets broken again.

I’ll never tire of her sausage rolls.

Look, it’s silly to love a restaurant this much, but she feels like home and she’s never disappointed me; and in this swirling, chaotic world, that’s truly something.