8 March
The thrill of playing chicken with the rain passes midway round the UEA broad, as we are belly-punched by the sort of hunger found only in the great outdoors, at least twenty minutes from the nearest cake. Torn between the Sainsbury Centre or a gobfull of bulrushes, we take the path more trodden.
With only three sandwiches to choose between, I grab one round of Norfolk Dapple and chutney, and, despite myself, one of prawns with lemon and dill mayonnaise.
“Why the reticence?”, you may ask. The answer is simple: after estate agents and people with exceptionally small eyes, there is nothing I distrust more than prawn sandwiches.
Unlike Mrs Wifey’s fear of aviaries (ie the birds will tunnel out and batter her) or her fear of convertibles (ie they all flip upside down), this prejudice is quite rational. Statistically speaking, I’ve just had too many dodgy experiences (ie with estate agents, prawn sandwiches, and people with exceptionally small eyes).
In the event, however, the prawns are fresh and meaty, while the tartness of the lemon prevents the mayonnaise from getting richly out of hand. Likewise, the sweetness of the chutney checks the umami of the local cheese, again making a perfectly balanced sandwich.
Of course, man cannot live on bread alone. Before I’m ready to face the elements once more it’s going to take (a) sugar (a whole bunch of) and (b) caffeine (a clinically dangerous dose).
I slug back an Americano. Mildly bitter, like the memory of a history detention circa 1987, it doesn’t just pep me up, it hits like a battering ram made of Jackie Chans. My pulse races as my veins swell with electricity and I become slightly panicky about something indefinable.
Mrs Wifey’s hot chocolate, meanwhile, is a work of art: hot creamy milk in a cup thickly lined with a dark cocoa-rich fondue, topped off with a cappuccino-like froth and chocolate powder. Other café proprietors could learn much from this.
Bolstering the beverages we choose two coaster-sized squares of shortcake (not too sweet, not too dry, not too greasy) and wad of date flapjack (again, a possible contender for best in class).
As the coffee and cake hit the digestive system during the subsequent march around the cloth and culture exhibition, I realise that while I may not know much about art, I certainly do know what makes me nervous around textiles.
Keywords: biscuits and pictures
Eat here: hearty arty lunches
23 March 2008
24 February 2008
Trattoria Rustica, Princes Street
26 January 2007
The table wasn’t ready so they jammed us in the crypt for best part of an hour. Thirty minutes later (at best) they took our order. Half an hour later we got our first glimpse of the starters.
That was October 2006, the last time we ate at Trattoria Rustica. While collectively certain the meal was exquisite, our recall likely lacks objectivity. All I know for sure is that the youngest member of our party had been polished off by the time we saw the antipasto and it looked like I would be eaten next.
Perhaps unsurprisingly then, Trattoria Rustica wasn’t our first choice of venue tonight. What we actually wanted was steak – to be precise, the meatier than thou Kobe steak they peddle at Rare. This – our long scheduled Christmas treat – had been twice scotched by ongoing sickness, and we were mainlining Bisto in order to reach that beefy high.
Things weren’t looking up: Rare was fully booked, and so rather than getting third-time-lucky we actually got three strikes and out. As for the hot beef injection contingency plan, the less said the better. Thus, with magnanimity and desperation in equal measure, we returned to Trattoria Rustica.
This time, we knew to book an early table. Sure enough, the restaurant was brimming by seven; it was no place for last-minute chancers or chubby waiting staff.
A string of waitresses offered us drinks, darting hither and thither with much more pronto to their pace than we recognised from last time (or, for that matter, Italy in general).
Our starters arrived within minutes, and as per the prime directive of all British trattorias, the Robocondimentor threatened everything but the wine with pepper and parmesan.
Having shooed away the pepper donna, Mrs Wifey got stuck into the delicious spread of baby spinach, raisins, almonds and prosciutto doused in a balsamic dressing. Meanwhile, I chose the Parma ham, mozzarella and tomato on crostini. Anyone who can make a better cheese and bacon sandwich, please start that orderly queue right now.
Matters bovine as yet unaddressed, we both refuelled with beef medallions, cooked with cognac, mustard and barello wine. It may not have been the flesh of pampered spa-retreat cows, but was still soft, pink and plentiful. A bit like Dawn French’s buttocks.
So is everything forgiven? Oh yes. Although visions of a mooning Vicar of Dibley I can do without.
Keywords: do you want cheese with that?
Eat here: in pairs and early
The table wasn’t ready so they jammed us in the crypt for best part of an hour. Thirty minutes later (at best) they took our order. Half an hour later we got our first glimpse of the starters.
That was October 2006, the last time we ate at Trattoria Rustica. While collectively certain the meal was exquisite, our recall likely lacks objectivity. All I know for sure is that the youngest member of our party had been polished off by the time we saw the antipasto and it looked like I would be eaten next.
Perhaps unsurprisingly then, Trattoria Rustica wasn’t our first choice of venue tonight. What we actually wanted was steak – to be precise, the meatier than thou Kobe steak they peddle at Rare. This – our long scheduled Christmas treat – had been twice scotched by ongoing sickness, and we were mainlining Bisto in order to reach that beefy high.
Things weren’t looking up: Rare was fully booked, and so rather than getting third-time-lucky we actually got three strikes and out. As for the hot beef injection contingency plan, the less said the better. Thus, with magnanimity and desperation in equal measure, we returned to Trattoria Rustica.
This time, we knew to book an early table. Sure enough, the restaurant was brimming by seven; it was no place for last-minute chancers or chubby waiting staff.
A string of waitresses offered us drinks, darting hither and thither with much more pronto to their pace than we recognised from last time (or, for that matter, Italy in general).
Our starters arrived within minutes, and as per the prime directive of all British trattorias, the Robocondimentor threatened everything but the wine with pepper and parmesan.
Having shooed away the pepper donna, Mrs Wifey got stuck into the delicious spread of baby spinach, raisins, almonds and prosciutto doused in a balsamic dressing. Meanwhile, I chose the Parma ham, mozzarella and tomato on crostini. Anyone who can make a better cheese and bacon sandwich, please start that orderly queue right now.
Matters bovine as yet unaddressed, we both refuelled with beef medallions, cooked with cognac, mustard and barello wine. It may not have been the flesh of pampered spa-retreat cows, but was still soft, pink and plentiful. A bit like Dawn French’s buttocks.
So is everything forgiven? Oh yes. Although visions of a mooning Vicar of Dibley I can do without.
Keywords: do you want cheese with that?
Eat here: in pairs and early
12 January 2008
Nando’s, Red Lion Street
31 December 2007
Christmas sales: the best of times, the worst of times. The primal urge to hunt and gather after a season of avarice, sloth and binge drinking; the hysteria of the great unwashed, sharpening their teeth for the Primark Battle Royale and camping outside Curry’s for a billboard-sized plasma TV.
While I’d normally rather chew batteries than endure the bedlam, the need to acquire a mattress is pressing. And so, into the valley of discount we ride, braced for an afternoon of feigning sleep in successive department stores.
The absurdity is not lost on us – after all, mattress testing is to mattress usage what the Pride Festival is to the Soviet May Day Parade.
It’s not that I’m above sleeping fully dressed, or, for that matter, getting into bed without first removing my shoes (although I’ve only got Mrs Wifey’s word on that).
What I will not support, however, is sweaty shoppers watching me spoon the wife. It’s just undignified. Several dormitories later, I therefore dig in my heels, and (in the name of realism) refuse to continue until she fetches the duvet.
With no comfort blanket forthcoming, I vote for comfort eating instead, and, having seen Nando’s purportedly famous chicken across the road, suggest we pop over and roost a while.
Inside, it’s not what I was expecting. From the looks of it, I’d assumed it was a restaurant. Having been shown to our seats, we’re directed back to the till to order and pay.
‘Pay before I eat?!’ cries my inner bourgeois pig. ‘What kind of a half-cocked chicken shack is this?!’
Reason overcomes my middle-class prejudices After all, is a fast-food joint that looks like a restaurant really that odd? I mean, in Paris, so they tell me, you can buy a beer in McDonald’s…
…while in Norwich you can buy mash with your chicken.
As combinations go, it sounds as intuitive as custard and vinegar. I choose not to choose mash.
It’s a classic rock/hard place trade-off. The fries are uninspiring – like low-calorie communion wafers without the spiritual benefits – not a good look for a joint specialising in chicken and chips.
The peri-peri chicken, by contrast, is wolfable, and easily worth the paltry £16 it costs for a so-called “whole chicken” and a couple of side orders. Coming in four quarters, however, said chicken is mathematically rather than physically complete. Expect pedants to cry fowl.
Keywords: hot chicks
Eat here: chilli sauce
Christmas sales: the best of times, the worst of times. The primal urge to hunt and gather after a season of avarice, sloth and binge drinking; the hysteria of the great unwashed, sharpening their teeth for the Primark Battle Royale and camping outside Curry’s for a billboard-sized plasma TV.
While I’d normally rather chew batteries than endure the bedlam, the need to acquire a mattress is pressing. And so, into the valley of discount we ride, braced for an afternoon of feigning sleep in successive department stores.
The absurdity is not lost on us – after all, mattress testing is to mattress usage what the Pride Festival is to the Soviet May Day Parade.
It’s not that I’m above sleeping fully dressed, or, for that matter, getting into bed without first removing my shoes (although I’ve only got Mrs Wifey’s word on that).
What I will not support, however, is sweaty shoppers watching me spoon the wife. It’s just undignified. Several dormitories later, I therefore dig in my heels, and (in the name of realism) refuse to continue until she fetches the duvet.
With no comfort blanket forthcoming, I vote for comfort eating instead, and, having seen Nando’s purportedly famous chicken across the road, suggest we pop over and roost a while.
Inside, it’s not what I was expecting. From the looks of it, I’d assumed it was a restaurant. Having been shown to our seats, we’re directed back to the till to order and pay.
‘Pay before I eat?!’ cries my inner bourgeois pig. ‘What kind of a half-cocked chicken shack is this?!’
Reason overcomes my middle-class prejudices After all, is a fast-food joint that looks like a restaurant really that odd? I mean, in Paris, so they tell me, you can buy a beer in McDonald’s…
…while in Norwich you can buy mash with your chicken.
As combinations go, it sounds as intuitive as custard and vinegar. I choose not to choose mash.
It’s a classic rock/hard place trade-off. The fries are uninspiring – like low-calorie communion wafers without the spiritual benefits – not a good look for a joint specialising in chicken and chips.
The peri-peri chicken, by contrast, is wolfable, and easily worth the paltry £16 it costs for a so-called “whole chicken” and a couple of side orders. Coming in four quarters, however, said chicken is mathematically rather than physically complete. Expect pedants to cry fowl.
Keywords: hot chicks
Eat here: chilli sauce
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