A Cosy Alcove at Spry Wines
Spry Wines is a surprise. It was a rare sunny afternoon in Edinburgh, and I had just finished a fulfilling lunch with a friend at Montrose. We were walking down London Road towards Haddington Place, thinking perhaps of some iced matcha at Ante, when suddenly, perched on top of the well-known café’s yellowish walls, the large windows of Spry Wines caught our eyes (we only knew later that the two share the same owner). Slowing our steps, we peeked inside – wooden chairs scattered leisurely around low tables, a circular bar table with high stools, walls filled with bottles whose names I do not know.
It was a very impulsive decision, but one of the best I’ve made during my short stay in Edinburgh.
I immediately glanced around the space when we walked in, discovering a small room behind the counter – ‘Could we stay in there?’ I asked, to which our host replied yes, as long as there weren’t any large groups, since the room was usually reserved for more people.
It was two o’clock, with only one or two customers sitting around the front room. So I nodded and happily occupied the little room. Soft, leather couches surround a delicate fold of tables, each one smaller than the one on top so that you could pull out whichever size you like – such an ingenious design! At the end of the room is a black fireplace, a pair of lit candles casting slender shadows on the ground. A massive Victorian window looks out into what appears to be a tiny neighbourhood garden.
We ordered a glass of rosé and a rhubarb spritz, with a plate of chocolate mousse to share. The drinks and food themselves are good, but what I remember the most is the ambience, the joyous, peaceful experience of lying on the sofa, sipping wine whilst talking with my friend, occasionally flipping through some of the magazines on a nearby shelf, musing over interviews and photographs of vineyards and wine-makers. Fragmented pieces of sunlight lazily spread out across the room, while the crimson shade of the rosé sparkles against the dark furniture. ‘I could fall asleep in here,’ I once mumbled – not because of boredom but the feeling of utter relaxation despite being in an unfamiliar environment – and my friend could not agree more.
When I went up to the counter for the bill, I told our host that it’s like having wine at a friend’s house. He smiled and said that was the intention, and placed a small bowl of chocolate-covered raisins on our table.
We returned a week later, to try out the seats next to the bay windows at the front. More future visits are planned as we chat over orange wine and a seasonal panna cotta, the rumbling hustle of the historic city barely touching us in our newfound sanctuary.
