day out east

Yesterday was a lovely day, sunny, dry and the brilliant blue sky scattered with a few random clouds. They say it was the hottest day of the year. Here, that means just about scratching 30°C. Fine by me, though I could do hotter. But being out on Sunday reminded me, for the first time since I moved to London, how much I love a proper summer, with sweat, thirst and burning skin.

We went out to East London to take some pictures. Brick Lane, the traditional heart of the Bangladeshi immigrant community, was our destination. Since the rebirth of the East London line as part of London Overground, the underpass that links Spitalfields with Shoreditch has turned from a bottleneck of shoving pedestrians to a colorful food and drinks market. A half-naked Jamaican hacked open coconuts for people to drink, a big canopy sheltered half a dozen tables holding carrom boards and a juice bar of philanthropic pursuit, and a French bakery flogged baguettes and pains campailloux where there used to be dust, gravel and building-site fences only months before. In a nod to tradition, the ad-hoc workshop fencing stolen bicycles is still there.

I experimented with my super-wide angle lens and didn't take any pictures to take note of. But I had a good time – and I was focused. We didn't go inside much, though there is so much there, and more on every visit. It seems that soon enough every single building, warehouse and yard of what used to be the Old Truman Brewery will be a market, gallery, world food hall or vintage clothes exchange. There's a bike shop specializing in single-speed, highly fashionable though not very practical; live music venues that double as organic burger joints or fair-trade coffee shops during the day; and Rough Trade, the only recorded-music retailer that's hip and making money.

It's a cool place for a leisurely Sunday afternoon, especially if you're looking to buy quirky t-shirts or gifts that are one-of-a-kind. Brick Lane itself is lined with blankets and tarps on which drifters, low-downs and art students bridging a rough patch barter second-hand treasures of breathtaking variety. Books, broken cameras and fogged lenses, peacock feathers, faded undershirts, and boxes full of domestic detritus, smelling foul after years in a damp basement, are all hopefully looking for a new home. When we were walking back from the northern end of Brick Lane, the decrepit traders had just been busted by the borough police, proving that the disorganized and alternative flair of the area is nothing more than a carefully maintained mask.

We didn't stop to watch the proceedings or pity two devastated Japanese girls; we were hungry. More than for its market, Brick Lane is famous for its restaurants. On its southern end, one curry house abuts the next, each one advertising the Best curry in London in bright letters. Each one was also frighteningly empty, as if all the locals and even all the tourists knew something we didn't and had cautiously avoided Curry Lane.

We were unsure, but then a waiter strategically placed outside one of the restaurants approached us and made us an offer we couldn't refuse. Two free drinks for each of us and 30% off our food bill. It sounded like a deal too good to be true, but my companions of subcontinental heritage bravely took the plunge and me along with them. We had a great lunch, got the free drinks and in the end the discount we were promised. All the while we were eating, no other customer set food inside the rather nicely decorated place. It felt like economic meltdown, financial crisis and global recession all over again.

After lunch, the sun was shining even stronger than before. With two (slightly watery) beers buzzing around our heads, we ambled down to the Whitechapel Gallery, but didn't make it far beyond that. Just next door, in fact, was a smashing bar, with low tables, black leather sofas and two big screens hanging from the ceiling. We settled down for another drink – and for ninety minutes of World Cup action. It was to be the loveliest part of the day.