21 September 2007
At six and three quarters, being the oldest person in the room affords a certain air of esteem. One can look down on one’s peers with lofty arrogance informed by world-weary experience. *Tch* and *tut*, my little rugrat friends, what little you know of the world! Kathryn White asked me to sit next to her in assembly yesterday, and I said, like, no way lady! Dude, I’m a P-L-A-Y-A, and ain’t no crazy ho gonna cramp my style – HELL NO!
At thirty-three (minus one day), the same does not hold true. First of all, sitting next to Kathryn White does *not* mean I’m going to marry her. Second, propping up the bar at the Mustard Lounge, I fear I may well be old enough to have fathered some of the punters. Third, it’s way past my bedtime.
Come the morning, I am not feeling sprightly. By the grace of God, however, I’m not hungover, as such, and can at least mooch into town without too much ado.
I’ve been meaning to eat at The Library for a while, but have never managed to arrive in time for lunch. Today, however, I can sit there, warm and fuzzy with smugness, if a little woozy from sleep deprivation and the really high ceiling.
The fish options look good, but for reasons self-evident to anyone but vegetarians and teetotallers, the curative properties of the lah-di-dah fry-up seem more appropriate. We both order the hand-cut chips, thick-cut bacon and fried egg: it is triumphant, standing us in good stead for another night of acting half our age.
The combination of book-lined shelves and purple décor make the place an ideal location for nerdy goths. Nerdy nerds, however, will despair at the filing of said books, which have been lined up with wanton disregard for any established classification system, happily marrying Bruce Lee with crochet and motor racing with Middlemarch.
Such irregularity was echoed in the friendly, if erratic service, and the disappointing dessert. The espresso mousse was relatively feeble, with texture like bread in a swimming pool and a flavour more in line with Revels than tiramisu; frankly, I was more excited by my subsequent trip to the toilet.
This not to damn the dish unfairly, however, as The Library’s exquisite toilets are perfect for restroom aficionados, and are surely shortlisted among the finest in Norwich.
I’ve seen the future of blogging, and it’s everywhere I’ve peed in norwich.
Keywords: books, bacon and, er, bog?
Eat here: on your purple day
30 September 2007
18 September 2007
Norwegian Blue, Riverside Leisure Park
15 September 2007
The Cumbersome Gift sounds very exciting. I’ve not received a truly cumbersome birthday present since my Action GT Crossbows and Catapults Battleset, and if this is fifty per cent as exciting, it’ll be, well, *very* exciting.
It’s virtually 4 o’clock by the time The Cumbersome Gift arrives home. Sure, it may have kyboshed our Plan A lunch date, but having (I’m told) been approvingly cooed over by shoppers with Less Cumbersome Items, I am quite prepared to forgive it.
With the Cumbersome Gift safely docked in Mrs Wifey’s wardrobe, Plan B demands somewhere (a) prepared to provide lunch and (b) willing to let us soak up the last drops of sun. We stumbled to Norwegian Blue.
The next half an hour held interesting times: either we had breached our credit at the Bank of Karma, or the chef was too busy pining for the fjords to concentrate on the task in hand.
Mrs Wifey’s roast chicken arrived in an unconventional form, namely a butterflied, griddled breast. With a moisture level of zero and the structural integrity of HMS Belfast, any bacteria it may once have contained had quite certainly ceased to be.
Primary school dinners excepted, it was the third worst meal I’d ever seen. (The worst was a chicken sandwich on a Ryanair flight; the second worst was the burger sitting in front of me right now.)
Like the ‘roast’ chicken, my burger was as dry as a prohibition desert rat gorged on silica gel. On the plus side, at least I had a tablespoon of warm coleslaw to help it down.
Getting it down would of course assume that one could dissect the food into bite-size chunks in the first place. In the present instance, the outside of the burger was scorched solid, like a leather pasty. It would have been simpler, and no doubt more tasty, to tuck into my wallet.
With so many urban myths about kitchen staff vandalising food, I prefer never to send back my meal (being more an E. coli culture than a foodstuff, the aforementioned sandwich doesn’t count).
Exhibit A crossed that line. I got a refund instead – they couldn’t tamper with that.
Although if they did, it’d still be tastier than their pre-match menu.
Keywords: dead parrot
Eat here: if you’ve been nailed there
The Cumbersome Gift sounds very exciting. I’ve not received a truly cumbersome birthday present since my Action GT Crossbows and Catapults Battleset, and if this is fifty per cent as exciting, it’ll be, well, *very* exciting.
It’s virtually 4 o’clock by the time The Cumbersome Gift arrives home. Sure, it may have kyboshed our Plan A lunch date, but having (I’m told) been approvingly cooed over by shoppers with Less Cumbersome Items, I am quite prepared to forgive it.
With the Cumbersome Gift safely docked in Mrs Wifey’s wardrobe, Plan B demands somewhere (a) prepared to provide lunch and (b) willing to let us soak up the last drops of sun. We stumbled to Norwegian Blue.
The next half an hour held interesting times: either we had breached our credit at the Bank of Karma, or the chef was too busy pining for the fjords to concentrate on the task in hand.
Mrs Wifey’s roast chicken arrived in an unconventional form, namely a butterflied, griddled breast. With a moisture level of zero and the structural integrity of HMS Belfast, any bacteria it may once have contained had quite certainly ceased to be.
Primary school dinners excepted, it was the third worst meal I’d ever seen. (The worst was a chicken sandwich on a Ryanair flight; the second worst was the burger sitting in front of me right now.)
Like the ‘roast’ chicken, my burger was as dry as a prohibition desert rat gorged on silica gel. On the plus side, at least I had a tablespoon of warm coleslaw to help it down.
Getting it down would of course assume that one could dissect the food into bite-size chunks in the first place. In the present instance, the outside of the burger was scorched solid, like a leather pasty. It would have been simpler, and no doubt more tasty, to tuck into my wallet.
With so many urban myths about kitchen staff vandalising food, I prefer never to send back my meal (being more an E. coli culture than a foodstuff, the aforementioned sandwich doesn’t count).
Exhibit A crossed that line. I got a refund instead – they couldn’t tamper with that.
Although if they did, it’d still be tastier than their pre-match menu.
Keywords: dead parrot
Eat here: if you’ve been nailed there
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