9 June 2007
Saturday was bland. The sky was bland. The weather? Bland. Between breakfast and lunch, the highlight was the inserts in the free paper.
We drew up the agenda for the trip to town. The most exciting item was a visit to the building society to update Mrs Wifey’s contact details. This was two years overdue.
Lost in the thrill of executing this administrative exercise, we found we had drifted to Pulse, the vegetarian café bar.
I generally consider vegetarianism to be wrong. Not *wrong* like Nazism, but nonetheless, an unnecessary crime against the palate. Still, I try not to be prejudiced (hey, some of my best friends are vegetarian!). On reading the menu, however, my excitement was measured, contained and humanely destroyed.
Vegetarian food is not strictly required to be tedious, but then one could say the same for house music. The day had already had blandness in spades; the last thing it needed was a chickpea burger too.
Instead we took the toro by the horns and headed for tapas.
Bar Tapas is another restaurant without ground-floor space – this being dedicated to Brambles instead. It’s also a personal favourite where, due to my tapas menu disorder, I inevitably order more than is sensible or healthy.
The walls are covered in posters for bullfights and similar Spanish paraphernalia; the ceiling is populated with football shirts, possibly from former Norwich City FC players. The smokers’ den is chock-full, but we have the no-smoking room to ourselves, and sit under a window that offers daylight but no view.
Due to the price of real estate and the onerous restrictions of health and safety legislation, the sardines were grilled rather than flame-charred in a scuttled fishing boat. However, they were still mighty fine, and an excellent reminder of everything good on the Costa del Sol.
The ham and artichoke was also tasty, with a garlic and butter sauce so glorious that gluten-intolerants would queue to dip their bread in it.
As for the meatballs cooked with potatoes, peppers and peas, I’d probably describe them as a new all-time favourite in the world-series meatball rankings. However, my meatballistic fickleness is notoriously bad, and I reserve the right to change my mind next week.
In all, it’s a wholesome experience, and as a paisano on a modest budget, that suits me down to the ground.
Eat here: don’t wait till manana
Keywords: ostentatious carnivorousness
10 June 2007
03 June 2007
St Benedicts Restaurant, St Benedicts St.
1 June 2007
The massively pregnant Sloane and her husband had stolen our table. This was particularly galling – it was *our* table, and we had specifically booked it. OK, so we’d only ever sat there a couple of times over the last four years or so, but still, I felt we had a claim.
I am, however, a true gent, and avoided a scene by simply harrumphing under my breath and looking momentarily unsettled, before sitting a few feet away.
‘I *am* heavily pregnant, you know,’ she announced at the end of each course, clearly believing the staff to be both blind and stupid. Pregnancy was also the basis for her complaining about each dish, with logic as sound as ‘I can’t eat this! I have a yacht!’ At least her pinot grigio was agreeable.
Despite this, we were not about to let our anniversary be spoiled by furniture annexation and horsey claptrap. Neither were we going to be upset by the middle-aged chap and his well-heeled strumpet kicking up stink and walking out after their drinks hadn’t arrived within five minutes of arrival. We were going to enjoy ourselves even if we were to be the only happy clientele that evening.
The fried goat cheese starter was unapologetically good, but the slice of delicious plump-breasted pigeon was exceptional – seared outside, but raw ruddy-pink and tender within, like the inside of an infant’s cheek.
At this point I should stress that I do not, and never have eaten *any* part of an infant. Eating children is illegal – even in France.
The pigeon was a tough act to follow, and so the duck and merguez main course, though perfectly competent, were almost a let down by comparison. Much like the man in *my* chair, haggling down his bill, it was also a bit too rich and greasy for my taste.
An extra long pause was required before cramming down the champagne cheesecake and rhubarb, followed by the cheese plate. We waddled off a few calories on the way home, possibly enough to offset the petit fours that came with the coffee.
Waking up at about 1AM, it occurred to me that the massive ingestion of dairy produce wasn’t going to do our cholesterol levels any favours. It certainly wasn’t good for the bedroom’s air quality either – it smelled like we were sleeping in a methane capsule. Who says romance is dead?
Eat here: but not at my table
Keywords: cheese
The massively pregnant Sloane and her husband had stolen our table. This was particularly galling – it was *our* table, and we had specifically booked it. OK, so we’d only ever sat there a couple of times over the last four years or so, but still, I felt we had a claim.
I am, however, a true gent, and avoided a scene by simply harrumphing under my breath and looking momentarily unsettled, before sitting a few feet away.
‘I *am* heavily pregnant, you know,’ she announced at the end of each course, clearly believing the staff to be both blind and stupid. Pregnancy was also the basis for her complaining about each dish, with logic as sound as ‘I can’t eat this! I have a yacht!’ At least her pinot grigio was agreeable.
Despite this, we were not about to let our anniversary be spoiled by furniture annexation and horsey claptrap. Neither were we going to be upset by the middle-aged chap and his well-heeled strumpet kicking up stink and walking out after their drinks hadn’t arrived within five minutes of arrival. We were going to enjoy ourselves even if we were to be the only happy clientele that evening.
The fried goat cheese starter was unapologetically good, but the slice of delicious plump-breasted pigeon was exceptional – seared outside, but raw ruddy-pink and tender within, like the inside of an infant’s cheek.
At this point I should stress that I do not, and never have eaten *any* part of an infant. Eating children is illegal – even in France.
The pigeon was a tough act to follow, and so the duck and merguez main course, though perfectly competent, were almost a let down by comparison. Much like the man in *my* chair, haggling down his bill, it was also a bit too rich and greasy for my taste.
An extra long pause was required before cramming down the champagne cheesecake and rhubarb, followed by the cheese plate. We waddled off a few calories on the way home, possibly enough to offset the petit fours that came with the coffee.
Waking up at about 1AM, it occurred to me that the massive ingestion of dairy produce wasn’t going to do our cholesterol levels any favours. It certainly wasn’t good for the bedroom’s air quality either – it smelled like we were sleeping in a methane capsule. Who says romance is dead?
Eat here: but not at my table
Keywords: cheese
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