24 February 2007
It’s a lunchtime dilemma – it’s quarter to two, I’ve got the steak sandwich craving, but the missus fancies soup. Hot Fuzz starts in three quarters of an hour, so while there’s not an overabundance of time to digest said cow, there’s certainly sufficient by any reasonable bistro’s reasonable standard. Café Rouge is just around the corner and by now, one would think, the lunchtime rush will have passed its peak.
Of course, that would assume that the busy peak is due to an excess of customers, rather than efforts on the part of the staff to hold on to their dear clientele until they expire from want. When George Romero makes Lunchtime of the Dead, it will surely be in Café Rouge. Twenty minutes after ordering, our drinks finally arrive. The spring water is served with slice and ice. I fail to see the logic in making fresh water taste like dishwater, but come the revolution, the proprietors of Café Rouge won’t be the only restaurateurs up against the wall for hydrovillainy. Although they’ll probably be last to arrive.
Forty minutes after ordering our food arrives. Yep, that’s soup of the day and a steak sandwich; heaven help anyone who ordered the Dordogne duck confit served with orange liqueur sauce, French beans and dauphinoise potatoes or the braised rack of lamb in a rich red wine sauce served with fresh herb mash and French beans.
To be fair, the onion soup went down well, but it certainly wasn’t an eight quid sandwich. Perhaps one pays for the ambience? With the bill arriving some ten minutes after requesting it, there’s certainly time to gorge on the surroundings.
The longer one sits in Café Rouge, the more the contrived décor begins to grate – the deliberately mismatched lampshades, the faux-rustic doodlings on the walls, and so forth. It’s not so much a *design vision*, as the gallic shrug of a designer broken by a committee that can’t decide between chic metropolitan bistro or rough village café.
Twenty quid might not be an almighty sum to pay for lunch, but if it only buys dishwater and a dog’s dinner, is it really worth it? Cross the road and hit the tapas bar instead.
Keywords: je n’ai pas le temps
Eat here: or die trying
28 February 2007
14 February 2007
Zaks Waterside Grill and Bar, Barrack Street
10 February 2007
Some hangovers only need paracetamol. Even after the lie-in, this one is going to take litres of coffee, orange juice and water, a couple of hours of self-pity/regret, a nap, prescription painkillers, hair of the dog and lots and lots of salt. I remember the exact whisky when this dawned on me, and then necking it anyway. Sometimes being right really sucks.
Rolling out of bed, I look like I’ve been thrown up after a Singapore-Heathrow flight, sitting next to tag-team bawling babies. I spend the next two hours welling up in front of Spiderman 2, clearly more drained and emotionally fraught than the initial diagnosis suggested.
Hangovers like this not only drive otherwise rational adults to McDonald’s, but also turn that Big Mac into the best burger *ever*. There’s a chemical reason for this, I know, but I don’t pretend to understand it. All I know is that I too need hot minced beef.
The options are thus getting washed, dressed and motivated, or staying in my bedclothes and fixing cat-food on toast.
Zaks is off the beaten track and a ten-minute walk from my house. Like Wimpy, they provide real cutlery. Unlike Wimpy, you can get a beer. It’s a no-brainer, which is fortunate, given my current absence of cerebral activity.
Zaks’ shtick is American memorabilia. The main room is arguably more A17 than Route 66, but the conservatory is nice – pleasantly warm and lined with old tin signs. It looks on to the terrace, which looks on to the river and Cow Tower. Even with today’s pizzling mist, it’s a good look.
Zaks’ burgers are all under a tenner. They are gigantic (the cutlery is indispensable). Mine is rare enough to taste the pink. There are more chips than I can possibly eat, but thanks to vulgar gluttony, I still do pretty well (experience recommends avoiding the wedges). My Corona hits the spot.
The service is friendly, helpful and courteous. Anyone expecting fawning ass-kissing will be disappointed. But then again, they shouldn’t be eating in diners in the first place.
Quibbles are negligible: (a) anaemic salad tomatoes (although this is a national problem, not limited to Zaks); and (b) the conservatory lighting is a bit, well, green, and makes a good pink steak look well done. It doesn’t detract from the flavour, but it does take part of the fun out of devouring raw-looking flesh.
Keywords: meat, chips, cutlery.
Eat here: when you’re a bit peaky.
Some hangovers only need paracetamol. Even after the lie-in, this one is going to take litres of coffee, orange juice and water, a couple of hours of self-pity/regret, a nap, prescription painkillers, hair of the dog and lots and lots of salt. I remember the exact whisky when this dawned on me, and then necking it anyway. Sometimes being right really sucks.
Rolling out of bed, I look like I’ve been thrown up after a Singapore-Heathrow flight, sitting next to tag-team bawling babies. I spend the next two hours welling up in front of Spiderman 2, clearly more drained and emotionally fraught than the initial diagnosis suggested.
Hangovers like this not only drive otherwise rational adults to McDonald’s, but also turn that Big Mac into the best burger *ever*. There’s a chemical reason for this, I know, but I don’t pretend to understand it. All I know is that I too need hot minced beef.
The options are thus getting washed, dressed and motivated, or staying in my bedclothes and fixing cat-food on toast.
Zaks is off the beaten track and a ten-minute walk from my house. Like Wimpy, they provide real cutlery. Unlike Wimpy, you can get a beer. It’s a no-brainer, which is fortunate, given my current absence of cerebral activity.
Zaks’ shtick is American memorabilia. The main room is arguably more A17 than Route 66, but the conservatory is nice – pleasantly warm and lined with old tin signs. It looks on to the terrace, which looks on to the river and Cow Tower. Even with today’s pizzling mist, it’s a good look.
Zaks’ burgers are all under a tenner. They are gigantic (the cutlery is indispensable). Mine is rare enough to taste the pink. There are more chips than I can possibly eat, but thanks to vulgar gluttony, I still do pretty well (experience recommends avoiding the wedges). My Corona hits the spot.
The service is friendly, helpful and courteous. Anyone expecting fawning ass-kissing will be disappointed. But then again, they shouldn’t be eating in diners in the first place.
Quibbles are negligible: (a) anaemic salad tomatoes (although this is a national problem, not limited to Zaks); and (b) the conservatory lighting is a bit, well, green, and makes a good pink steak look well done. It doesn’t detract from the flavour, but it does take part of the fun out of devouring raw-looking flesh.
Keywords: meat, chips, cutlery.
Eat here: when you’re a bit peaky.
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