24 March 2007
Getting out of bed on Saturday is already hard enough, but without comprehensive emergency assistance from the fire service, Jack Bauer and, very likely, the AA, my leaving the house with any degree of haste is less likely than Joss Stone scoring a barefoot hattrick in the FA Cup final, for Norwich.
Due to the locally prescribed lunch period (thass jus’ saavage ter ea' arfter 2 o’claark) this significantly reduces lunching options to the faster variety.
I’m not one to dismiss the virtues of the hot sausage, but (heavens!) there’s a time and a place for such vulgarity. I am therefore grateful for the noodle coming to Norwich.
The Wagamama window affords the opportunity to observe the hoodie phenomenon in its natural habitat (‘See how the alpha male flirts with his harem by successively grabbing each by the crotch. One day the younger males will challenge the alpha for his authority, but for now they look on, their whooping and grunting signalling respect and admiration…’)
Between machine-gunned interrogations from our waitress, the semi-circular eyebrows of a nearby customer caused me much distraction. When men shave off eyebrows, (a) it’s done for the craic and (b) they generally belong to other people. As she didn’t look the type for such behaviour, I was left to speculate why she chose this look of perpetual astonishment. Does she choose her daily expression between ablutions and breakfast? (‘Today, Matthew, my brow is balancing dreamy sophistication and ruthless determination. Think Impressionism meets kamikaze pilot…’)
The noodles arrived and spoiled the conjecture. I also ordered pickles and extra chillies, a good idea and entirely pointless, respectively. I’ve no idea what those pickles were, other than that they weren’t gherkins or silverskin onions. I have every idea what the extra chilli was, however. It was a red chilli, cut into tiny pieces. With hindsight, I should have thought this through better.
The stir-fry ginger chicken in the miso soup was delicately charred, and along with everything else, very well received. The chicken chilli men also went down well. In fact, it was still going down as my plate was taken away. Her bowl still quite full, Mrs Wifey signalled displeasure at our being hounded out using her expressive (natural) eyebrows.
She was allowed to finish swallowing before her bowl was also snatched.
Eat here: quickly
Keywords: good chow (noodles) high brow doodles
25 March 2007
11 March 2007
La Tasca, Tombland
10 March 2007
Buffets, for me, bring to mind an overabundance of sausage rolls and dearth of decent salad. They invariably leave me full of pastry and protein, with a possible baby tomato or two as a nod to the five-a-day vegetable pushing fascists (*Twenty* grapes is one portion? Come off it!) – But I digress.
Mrs wifey doesn’t like buffets. She doesn’t know when she’s eaten enough. We recently found out that this is something to do with the difference between hunger and appetite. As Jeffrey Steingarten describes:
This partly explains how you can be fit to burst with lasagne yet somehow still have space for tiramisu. Or, in the case of tapas, how you (read I) just don’t know when to stop.
With tapas, experience has taught me to exercise restraint. It’s like a buffet with less pastry and more meatballs. And salad. Oh, and you can get it on your plate without having to get out of your chair.
Of course, you’ll not get much on your plate at any one moment, as La Tasca support the tiny plate technique, probably to maximise the other dishes on the table, as it does seem to fill very quickly.
The menu seems a little tamer than the last time we went – possibly it’s a seasonal thing, possibly it has been dumbed down. Either way, there’s no platter of whitebait to gnaw at. Instead we have fresh anchovies. It’s a naïve choice – despite the day’s glorious sun, one swallow does not a summer make. They would have been much better for a July lunch.
We also have the ‘famous’ meatballs, ribs, tortilla and salad. The ribs are tasty, if a bit scanty, but everything else (even the salad) ticks its food group box. The music, however, sucks. Techno-carnival beats do not facilitate digestion or conversation. But neither are they the end of the world.
La Tasca does not offer most exciting, authentic Spanish experience in Norwich, but it’s perfectly serviceable for the money, I’ve never had to book, and (this might be all in the mind) it feels a damn sight warmer than La Torero.
Eat here: For meatballs, brandy and flamenco techno
Keywords: Got your big plate Alan?
Buffets, for me, bring to mind an overabundance of sausage rolls and dearth of decent salad. They invariably leave me full of pastry and protein, with a possible baby tomato or two as a nod to the five-a-day vegetable pushing fascists (*Twenty* grapes is one portion? Come off it!) – But I digress.
Mrs wifey doesn’t like buffets. She doesn’t know when she’s eaten enough. We recently found out that this is something to do with the difference between hunger and appetite. As Jeffrey Steingarten describes:
‘hunger is an nagging sensation that triggers constant thoughts of food and
reminds you that your body wants to eat … Appetite is simply the tendency to eat.’
This partly explains how you can be fit to burst with lasagne yet somehow still have space for tiramisu. Or, in the case of tapas, how you (read I) just don’t know when to stop.
With tapas, experience has taught me to exercise restraint. It’s like a buffet with less pastry and more meatballs. And salad. Oh, and you can get it on your plate without having to get out of your chair.
Of course, you’ll not get much on your plate at any one moment, as La Tasca support the tiny plate technique, probably to maximise the other dishes on the table, as it does seem to fill very quickly.
The menu seems a little tamer than the last time we went – possibly it’s a seasonal thing, possibly it has been dumbed down. Either way, there’s no platter of whitebait to gnaw at. Instead we have fresh anchovies. It’s a naïve choice – despite the day’s glorious sun, one swallow does not a summer make. They would have been much better for a July lunch.
We also have the ‘famous’ meatballs, ribs, tortilla and salad. The ribs are tasty, if a bit scanty, but everything else (even the salad) ticks its food group box. The music, however, sucks. Techno-carnival beats do not facilitate digestion or conversation. But neither are they the end of the world.
La Tasca does not offer most exciting, authentic Spanish experience in Norwich, but it’s perfectly serviceable for the money, I’ve never had to book, and (this might be all in the mind) it feels a damn sight warmer than La Torero.
Eat here: For meatballs, brandy and flamenco techno
Keywords: Got your big plate Alan?
04 March 2007
The Inn Plaice, Silver Street
3 March 2007
I don’t recall my worst ever Saturday. Sure, there’s been a couple of times when Jose Cuervo’s Friday partying has kicked the following days into touch, but away from the sauce, nothing sticks in mind. That’s not to say that this Saturday was the worst on record, but it was a contender.
A six-day working week sucks. That much is undisputed. But when the first five days have been 12-hour shifts, so that working a mere five hours on Saturday seems blessedly light, you know something’s gone to cock. However, I’ve got it easy. Mrs wifey adds another day on the front of that, tailing it off by finishing a seven-hour Saturday at 2130. And then she’s thinking about making dinner.
A truly modern man would have used his two-hour lead time to prepare some fancy chow to present his better half as she crossed the finish line. Not this man though. My kitchen expertise extends to a full English (no beans), sandwiches, and washing up. I excel at washing up. My dish-washing game is up. My technique is fully academic shaolin temple black belt ninja Tokyo-stomping Godzilla Krypton Factor good. But you can’t eat it.
But you *can* eat chips.
I think this through. (1) She will appreciate not having to cook, but (2) she will be perfectly within her rights to dismiss a Saturday night chip supper as a disappointing, unhealthy, peasant-like manner of capping off a generally dismal day. Even if we eat off crockery.
The addition of champagne, however, changes that equation. Suddenly the whole package is tied together with enough profane decadence to stick two fingers up at the day.
This is partly because champagne is so grossly overpriced that it would be cheaper to wash down the chips with a pint of Bells; but also because the fizzy dryness cuts through the grease so much better than you could reasonably expect.
And what is it about chip butties that makes them hit the spot so well? You don’t put pasta on toast. You don’t put rice in your pitta. But ‘Fries? In a sandwich?!’, as I’m told John Cusack greeted his first chip butty – you’re on to a winner.
Grinning like gravy-sated Bisto kids, we pat our swollen bellies and pass out from exhaustion.
Keywords: decadent trash
Eat here: when you know you shouldn’t but you’re hella gonna
I don’t recall my worst ever Saturday. Sure, there’s been a couple of times when Jose Cuervo’s Friday partying has kicked the following days into touch, but away from the sauce, nothing sticks in mind. That’s not to say that this Saturday was the worst on record, but it was a contender.
A six-day working week sucks. That much is undisputed. But when the first five days have been 12-hour shifts, so that working a mere five hours on Saturday seems blessedly light, you know something’s gone to cock. However, I’ve got it easy. Mrs wifey adds another day on the front of that, tailing it off by finishing a seven-hour Saturday at 2130. And then she’s thinking about making dinner.
A truly modern man would have used his two-hour lead time to prepare some fancy chow to present his better half as she crossed the finish line. Not this man though. My kitchen expertise extends to a full English (no beans), sandwiches, and washing up. I excel at washing up. My dish-washing game is up. My technique is fully academic shaolin temple black belt ninja Tokyo-stomping Godzilla Krypton Factor good. But you can’t eat it.
But you *can* eat chips.
I think this through. (1) She will appreciate not having to cook, but (2) she will be perfectly within her rights to dismiss a Saturday night chip supper as a disappointing, unhealthy, peasant-like manner of capping off a generally dismal day. Even if we eat off crockery.
The addition of champagne, however, changes that equation. Suddenly the whole package is tied together with enough profane decadence to stick two fingers up at the day.
This is partly because champagne is so grossly overpriced that it would be cheaper to wash down the chips with a pint of Bells; but also because the fizzy dryness cuts through the grease so much better than you could reasonably expect.
And what is it about chip butties that makes them hit the spot so well? You don’t put pasta on toast. You don’t put rice in your pitta. But ‘Fries? In a sandwich?!’, as I’m told John Cusack greeted his first chip butty – you’re on to a winner.
Grinning like gravy-sated Bisto kids, we pat our swollen bellies and pass out from exhaustion.
Keywords: decadent trash
Eat here: when you know you shouldn’t but you’re hella gonna
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