The Marmalade

Most of the second year of my undergraduate degree and on and off throughout my third year were spent eating some of the best sweet potato fries in a place called the "Marmalade". A jazz bar with neon lighting, wooden chairs and tables, great cocktails and a dim, cosy atmosphere was possibly one of the best ways to spend my time when I was out with a few friends or working on a paper, dressed in jeans and a backpack - I never felt out of place.

I had never really liked anything with sweet potato in it. I do not tend to like things that are overly sweet. But there was something about the sweet potato fries in the Marmalade that made it a whole lot better. I have to say, these were the fries that made me fall in love with sweet potato. Crisp and dry on the outside like a bone, crumpled up and rugged with texture whilst the inside was a soft, cushiony mash. It didn't taste too sweet, it didn't taste like anything extreme apart from a little pepper had been added to it. But I am sure that they were the best sweet potato fries I had ever tasted.

I worked on poetry in the Marmalade. I wrote my projects on poetry there. It was the atmosphere of everyone from the suits who sat near the fire exit to the small set of stairs which led up to the seating of four or more at a table where families would sit in the better lighting. The kids munching on fries and stealing each other's sweets and ice-cream. It was a cool mix of not an eerie quiet but also a nice theme for the family. I would sit in the middle where I could see others, back and forth. My back to a large glass window leading out on to the centre of my hometown, a city coated in sunset.

This was also the bar where I met poet and activist Benjamin Zephaniah. I sat down with him and we spoke about the poetry festival for about an hour before his live performance to which, I had tickets. We were both in the position of celebrations of diversity whilst also being the 'tokens' of our kind. Him, a Black Man and me, an Indian Woman. He signed a copy of the book I had in my pocket which was also by him. Little did I know that this man knew my family. Born and raised in Birmingham, he was familiar with some of my family members - some who are Indian and some who are Jamaican.

The Marmalade became a place I associated with happiness, meeting people, watching people and writing about people I saw. Constantly sources of inspiration were present from the moment it opened and children walked in with parents, looking for something to eat. All the way through to the moment it closed when the suits would get up, shut their briefcases and head for the nearest exit. The drunks sitting at the circular tables, trying to keep their head straight out of fear that they would be booted from the bar scene. Then there was me, alone. I would stay there and write, and read, and eat and down a cosmopolitan whilst the sun set behind me. The sweet potato fries and the cosmopolitan were finished, drink downed and bowl of fries empty. Before I knew it, the place was coated in dark and the only thing that was visible between me and the outer circle of the inner-city was the bright yellow neon lights which read: "Marmalade".

That place that made me fall in love with sweet potato shined its light upon the street to guide me back to the train station and send me home.