Clearly I am losing the will to blog. We can discuss what this says about me another time.
I am going to tell you what you've missed in reverse chronological order.
Today I am counting down the hours until I can go to see Aida at the Royal Opera House.
Last night I had a racist French waiter at Les Deux Salons in Covent Garden. This was the conversation:
Waiter: I am afraid we are all out of the chicken on the menu tonight, but we do have a chicken special, it is black leg chicken served with leeks.
Jane: What is the difference between black leg chicken and normal chicken?
Chris: It's just a different type of chicken. Stop being difficult.
Waiter: [Thinks about it...] The black leg chicken he runs faster.
Jane: I think that might be racist.
Waiter: [Nervous giggle.]
Jane: [Grinning] It is! You're racist. I think you should leave before we have you fired.
Chris: Shut up Jane.
You see, it's weird, I've been putting off writing for days, and now that I'm doing it, it's really fun.
On Tuesday I went to see Kevin Eldon at the Soho Theatre - he is a stand-up comedian who was almost exactly 50% funny. I think I might recommend you go see him in about five years when he is a bit better at his job. Don't bother now. If you need to see stand-up comedy now and you want it to be funny, I think there is only one good one: Terry Alderton. Also Daniel Kitson.
Last Sunday evening my choir done a concert innit. We sang Bach and other stuff and it was really good. My life is a wonderfully varied cultural melting pot, sprinkled with croutons of self-doubt and interwoven with noodles of reality TV and a rouille of fake tan.
Last Sunday morning, I went to see David Eagleman speak about neuroscience and ting. He is amazing - I would pass on the pearls of my wisdom but I wrote them down on the handout, and the handout is in my bedroom. I am in my office. I have no memory. Something about there being as many neuron connectors in our brain as there are galaxies in the Milky Way. What was best though was that I got to feel really superior as he used all these anecdotal experiments in his talk to back up his points e.g. the runaway trolley one and the if-you-are-holding-a-cold-drink-you're-more-likely-to-be-grumpy-in-some-measurable-way-than-if-you're-holding-a-hot-drink one. And everyone was laughing in shock at these fascinating stories and I sat there smugly unimpressed, thinking 'I know this already' which is, like, my favourite state EVAH. I was not holding a cold drink.
Last Saturday, Kate and I finished the Capital Ring. It was an amazing achievement and we should be really proud. So we are. We went out to dinner in Highgate to celebrate, and I ate too much greasy food and drank some red wine, and then when I got home I was sick.
Last Friday, I went on a date. I don't want to discuss it, but I feel like I'm lying if I don't mention it.
So there you have it.
Showing posts with label Restaurants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Restaurants. Show all posts
Friday, 15 April 2011
Thursday, 24 March 2011
Sentence structure
Things I feel I would like to write: a review of my trip to see Clybourne Park at the theatre on Tuesday, a paean to vocabulary, a summary of yesterday's budget, a rousing call for Saturday's march, a record of my dinner at Bob Bob Ricard and a rant about the difficulties of hiring an RV in California in late August. Clearly I can't possibly get into all of those topics, I am far too distracted. Hmmmm. Drums fingers. Adds another line to the epic poem I am co-writing with Kate about the wonders of white wine. Hmmmm. Thinks again. Maybe I will do them all in one sentence. Depending on which ones are popular or generate feedback, I can then expand on them at a later date if necessary.
A play about changing attitudes to race in the Chicago suburbs, Clybourne Park disappointed me while seeming to delight ninety percent of the audience: they thought it was shocking and hilarious, while I felt jaded and unimpressed - the acting was patchy at best, the Big Shock moments weren't shocking, and there was no insight into current race divides that you couldn't find in an episode of The Office.
Partially inspired by this most amazing flowchart, I've realised that, possibly even more than my health, I am grateful for my vocabulary, a gift I received from my word-loving, crossword-solving parents - if you can't express your feelings, if you can't explain why you are thinking something or articulate your motivation, you're effectively rendered mute - I see it in teens who fight, not because they're violent, but because they can't tell the other person what they mean - and I'd argue that an ability to speak about the contents of one's head with precision is the greatest asset we can have.
I haven't really investigated the budget fully yet - my concentration levels are not at their highest at the moment - but it doesn't seem to have said anything too pleasing, and the thing that jumped out at me is that they are now going to tax private jet travel, to which I say, WHY THE FREAKING HECK WASN'T IT BEING TAXED BEFORE?
In the pub after choir on Monday, I became aware that none of my right-leaning singing friends had even heard of this Saturday's March for the Alternative, which a) means that they're not reading my blog (outrageous) and b) means that the right-wing press are not even covering it, even to slag it off - not something that should have surprised me, but since it's been on the front page of The Guardian's website pretty much daily since its announcement, the realisation that huge swathes of the populus don't even know it's happening is slightly frustrating - so for one last time (maybe), please read about it, and please come if you can.
I kind of don't want to tell anyone how much I like Bob Bob Ricard because obviously I am childishly possessive of a popular restaurant in central London and want it to be my place and no one else's except the people who know about it already, but in the spirit of sharing, it really is a gorgeous restaurant in Soho that has only become nicer since I was last there three years ago - the food is reliable, the menu has a good selection of prices and the atmosphere is basically my idea of eat-out perfection; on the downside, the wine list is a bit expensive, the waiting staff sometimes top up your glass even if you haven't taken a sip since thirty seconds ago when they last came round, and if there are celebrities present you can't see them because each table is curtained off, so opportunities for spying are limited - but basically, if I was richer and/or famous I'd go there constantly and if you want to take me out for a romantic meal, you could do worse than choose this place.
Hiring an RV in California in late August is freaking difficult, not just because there is a massive shortage of RVs for hire, but also because all the websites work like this: you type in your dates, they show you a list of possible vehicles that they may or may not have for hire, you are allowed to select one (and only one) of the vehicles that you're interested in (even if you'd be delighted to hire any of the twenty or so results they've found), and a new page loads asking for your details including your credit card number to secure the deposit, which you fill in, and then you get an email saying that they will look to see if the vehicle is available and then get back to you when they can, usually within 48 hours but no promises, and they can legitimately charge your card if the vehicle IS available, so you're loath to give your card details to anyone else, but you also know from experience that it's unlikely that that particular RV is going to be available and time is of the essence and there are possibly only two RVs available for that week on the whole of the West Coast, but you can't request a quote for any others because what if they all are available and your card gets charged twenty times and you end up paying a non-refundable 20% deposit on twenty RVs when you only want one?
OK that's it for now. I am bored and busy and grumpy and very happy all at once. Also: read Siddhartha, it's amazing. And this is brilliant too. Also, Boots own Skin, Hair & Nails supplements are just as good as Perfectil's and half the price. And I bought Pureology shampoo and conditioner for coloured hair - extra volume version - and it makes my hair really greasy. And I think one of the crayfish in my salad this lunchtime was funny. I spat it out but if I die in the next 12 hours, that's probably why. Also about a month ago, I got my highlights done by a girl and then quite soon after I saw my mum, who was like, 'When are you getting your hair done?' and I was all defensive and like, 'I just HAD it done!' and she was like, 'Oh! Sorry! Aren't they meant to dye the roots so you can't see them any more?' and I was like, 'They DID!' and she said, 'Hmmmm,' which she says quite often, and I said, 'It's HIGHLIGHTS, Mum - they take a section of the hair and then split it in half, and dye half of it and leave the other half undyed - it's meant to make it look more natural rather than just a block of solid colour.' And she nodded and realised she wasn't going to get anywhere with that argument, so she stayed quiet. And then I looked in the mirror, and my mum was right, I think the girl in the salon must have chosen each section, dyed about 10% of it and discarded 90%. And it's freaking annoying but it was too long ago to complain so now I'm going somewhere else to get it done again. Boring boring boring annoying. BYE.
A play about changing attitudes to race in the Chicago suburbs, Clybourne Park disappointed me while seeming to delight ninety percent of the audience: they thought it was shocking and hilarious, while I felt jaded and unimpressed - the acting was patchy at best, the Big Shock moments weren't shocking, and there was no insight into current race divides that you couldn't find in an episode of The Office.
Partially inspired by this most amazing flowchart, I've realised that, possibly even more than my health, I am grateful for my vocabulary, a gift I received from my word-loving, crossword-solving parents - if you can't express your feelings, if you can't explain why you are thinking something or articulate your motivation, you're effectively rendered mute - I see it in teens who fight, not because they're violent, but because they can't tell the other person what they mean - and I'd argue that an ability to speak about the contents of one's head with precision is the greatest asset we can have.
I haven't really investigated the budget fully yet - my concentration levels are not at their highest at the moment - but it doesn't seem to have said anything too pleasing, and the thing that jumped out at me is that they are now going to tax private jet travel, to which I say, WHY THE FREAKING HECK WASN'T IT BEING TAXED BEFORE?
In the pub after choir on Monday, I became aware that none of my right-leaning singing friends had even heard of this Saturday's March for the Alternative, which a) means that they're not reading my blog (outrageous) and b) means that the right-wing press are not even covering it, even to slag it off - not something that should have surprised me, but since it's been on the front page of The Guardian's website pretty much daily since its announcement, the realisation that huge swathes of the populus don't even know it's happening is slightly frustrating - so for one last time (maybe), please read about it, and please come if you can.
I kind of don't want to tell anyone how much I like Bob Bob Ricard because obviously I am childishly possessive of a popular restaurant in central London and want it to be my place and no one else's except the people who know about it already, but in the spirit of sharing, it really is a gorgeous restaurant in Soho that has only become nicer since I was last there three years ago - the food is reliable, the menu has a good selection of prices and the atmosphere is basically my idea of eat-out perfection; on the downside, the wine list is a bit expensive, the waiting staff sometimes top up your glass even if you haven't taken a sip since thirty seconds ago when they last came round, and if there are celebrities present you can't see them because each table is curtained off, so opportunities for spying are limited - but basically, if I was richer and/or famous I'd go there constantly and if you want to take me out for a romantic meal, you could do worse than choose this place.
Hiring an RV in California in late August is freaking difficult, not just because there is a massive shortage of RVs for hire, but also because all the websites work like this: you type in your dates, they show you a list of possible vehicles that they may or may not have for hire, you are allowed to select one (and only one) of the vehicles that you're interested in (even if you'd be delighted to hire any of the twenty or so results they've found), and a new page loads asking for your details including your credit card number to secure the deposit, which you fill in, and then you get an email saying that they will look to see if the vehicle is available and then get back to you when they can, usually within 48 hours but no promises, and they can legitimately charge your card if the vehicle IS available, so you're loath to give your card details to anyone else, but you also know from experience that it's unlikely that that particular RV is going to be available and time is of the essence and there are possibly only two RVs available for that week on the whole of the West Coast, but you can't request a quote for any others because what if they all are available and your card gets charged twenty times and you end up paying a non-refundable 20% deposit on twenty RVs when you only want one?
OK that's it for now. I am bored and busy and grumpy and very happy all at once. Also: read Siddhartha, it's amazing. And this is brilliant too. Also, Boots own Skin, Hair & Nails supplements are just as good as Perfectil's and half the price. And I bought Pureology shampoo and conditioner for coloured hair - extra volume version - and it makes my hair really greasy. And I think one of the crayfish in my salad this lunchtime was funny. I spat it out but if I die in the next 12 hours, that's probably why. Also about a month ago, I got my highlights done by a girl and then quite soon after I saw my mum, who was like, 'When are you getting your hair done?' and I was all defensive and like, 'I just HAD it done!' and she was like, 'Oh! Sorry! Aren't they meant to dye the roots so you can't see them any more?' and I was like, 'They DID!' and she said, 'Hmmmm,' which she says quite often, and I said, 'It's HIGHLIGHTS, Mum - they take a section of the hair and then split it in half, and dye half of it and leave the other half undyed - it's meant to make it look more natural rather than just a block of solid colour.' And she nodded and realised she wasn't going to get anywhere with that argument, so she stayed quiet. And then I looked in the mirror, and my mum was right, I think the girl in the salon must have chosen each section, dyed about 10% of it and discarded 90%. And it's freaking annoying but it was too long ago to complain so now I'm going somewhere else to get it done again. Boring boring boring annoying. BYE.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Tired Film Waitress Hen Complaint
So it's Monday afternoon, so of course I am doing my customary, weekly on a Monday-afternoon thing, where I sit and think 'I am so tired that I cannot possibly go on. How is it that I yearn, week after week, for a week when I look in my diary and find that I have not much on, but then look in my diary in real life, and find that every night this week is busy, and then I complain about it to myself, but then spend my working life making plans for future engagements, ensuring that my future is then filled up with engagements? Why would I be so silly?' but then I remember that I do enjoy the engagements. It's a hard knock life although I don't get kisses *or* kicks which I suppose makes my life a smidgen better than Miss Hannigan's orphans but fractionally worse than the average girl's.
So on Friday, I met up with Sara and we went to see In Our Name, a film showing as part of the London Film Festival. I'd read up about it in advance and thought it sounded interesting - the psychological impact of being on the front line for a woman who, after 18 months in Iraq, returns to her family in Middlesbrough. Annoyingly, though, the plot went a lot further - her husband was a horrible, violent, racist fuck-up, and what could have been an enlightening insight into the PTSD suffered by thousands of ex-servicemen was instead a very bleak, unpleasant look at one extreme, and extremely unpleasant, situation. I didn't like it. Superb acting though. The husband and wife came on for a Q&A at the end and I just couldn't imagine how his real-life girlfriend/wife, if he has one, would be able to separate the real him from what she'd seen on screen.
Then we went to Pizza Express in Soho, where we encountered the world's oddest waitress. She was tiny, around five foot tall, with thin, black, chin-length hair parted on the side and held back with a hairgrip. Her eyes were terrified, and on the corner of her alabaster forehead was a dark, shining bruise that looked both recent and painful. As we gave her our order, she gave a series of approx. 1000 tiny nods of her head, as though being charged with the most important mission of her life to date. There was an issue with one of our requests and she said she had to ask her manager. Several billion years later, she returned saying she was so sorry but she hadn't managed to find out the answer to our question because her manager had been talking to someone and she'd felt it would have been very tactless to interrupt. We said we understood, and asked if, while we were waiting, she would mind if we gave her the five branded Pizza Express advertisements that had been on our table - pizza of the month, special wines, another notice around the flower vase etc. etc. Her eyes became even wider, giving her the impression of one of the girls in Soundgarden's video for Black Hole Sun, and she nodded sympathetically, before explaining at some length (and we're talking several minutes here) that she was from Slovenia and felt like the amount of corporate branding and advertising in the west was a real problem and that she thought there should be strict controls on what, where, and how much. You can take the girl out of the former Communist bloc...
Saturday was another big day - my friend Emily's hen, where I and a few others were entrusted to spend the hard-earned cash of Emily's 14 closest friends on their behalf, an endeavour that I found challenging and enjoyable. I think that, in the end, we struck a good balance between boat rides, ritual humiliation, drunkenness, new skills, old photos, gifts and bad music. Or, at least, the balance was there. I did not strike the balance quite so well on a personal level, as I awoke on Sunday morning feeling as though I possibly had food poisoning and remain nauseous and exhausted to this moment. I managed to go to a three hour singing rehearsal, which showed a level of dedication I wasn't aware I possessed. And I watched a lot of The X Factor. And I ate. Good lord, did I eat.
As a public service, however, I do feel that I should mention the hen activity we did on Saturday afternoon: a cookery class with a company I'd found online called The Urban Kitchen. I wouldn't suggest you use them, should you be in the market for a relaxing, fun group activity. To save me typing it all out again, below is the email that I sent the boss this morning. On the upside, in comparison to her, I seemed carefree and even laissez-faire, which was excellent for my ego.
I've now transferred the £11.00 to you for the extra wine on Saturday night. Everyone agreed the food was delicious.
Having received a few questionable emails from you prior to the event, including one where you seemed to accuse Joanna of deliberately ignoring or losing the forms you'd sent through, and being more than terse that all 12 hens had not filled in the dietary requirements form only a couple of days after you'd provided us with the link - oh, and the one where you asked us to start late and then said actually no, let's start on time, but it might be difficult as there's another group directly before us (not the best way to make us feel special) - we were hoping that our issues were only in print, and that in person it would be a more pleasant experience.
However, I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that we won't be recommending The Urban Kitchen - several people overheard you making sarcastic remarks about us to your team, and the way you publically reprimanded people for accidental cooking errors was a long way from good client management. I had many comments from the group saying that they were terrified of you and that they'd been"told off" - it should surely go without saying that people don't pay nearly £70 to feel uncomfortable.
I wasn't sure whether or not to say anything, but I know repeat business is important for a small enterprise such as yours, and I felt it was important that you should hear that, at times, we found your manner very aggressive and unfriendly.
I am sure you can catalogue ways in which you didn't like me/us, but I'm afraid in this scenario, the customer should always be right!
I hope you can use this feedback to your advantage.
Between you and me, the above isn't the whole story. We did actually have a lot of fun - but it was no thanks to her. I've always agreed with Napoleon that it is important for group morale to have a common enemy (or was it Nelson? Isn't that where scapegoat came from...? OK... That was fascinating. Scapegoat comes from a mistranslation in the Septuagint, the early Greek version of the Bible. And I can't find anything on Google re. what I was talking about with common enemies. I remember reading somewhere that there was a captain at sea who, as a management tactic, deliberately made himself unpopular so that his crew would unite and work well together. Anyone know who or what I'm talking about? I clearly will never remember). Anyway, we all giggled a lot. It was a bit like being back at school: the more stressed the boss got, the more naughty and careless we became. We also ate extremely well (having cooked the food ourselves), so in many respects the event was excellent, but basically the woman in charge needs to sort her management skills out. That's all. I am now preparing myself for some sort of defamation case (which is not in any sense to imply that the above is inaccurate), so enjoy this blog entry while you can, I suspect it may not be here for long.
So on Friday, I met up with Sara and we went to see In Our Name, a film showing as part of the London Film Festival. I'd read up about it in advance and thought it sounded interesting - the psychological impact of being on the front line for a woman who, after 18 months in Iraq, returns to her family in Middlesbrough. Annoyingly, though, the plot went a lot further - her husband was a horrible, violent, racist fuck-up, and what could have been an enlightening insight into the PTSD suffered by thousands of ex-servicemen was instead a very bleak, unpleasant look at one extreme, and extremely unpleasant, situation. I didn't like it. Superb acting though. The husband and wife came on for a Q&A at the end and I just couldn't imagine how his real-life girlfriend/wife, if he has one, would be able to separate the real him from what she'd seen on screen.
Then we went to Pizza Express in Soho, where we encountered the world's oddest waitress. She was tiny, around five foot tall, with thin, black, chin-length hair parted on the side and held back with a hairgrip. Her eyes were terrified, and on the corner of her alabaster forehead was a dark, shining bruise that looked both recent and painful. As we gave her our order, she gave a series of approx. 1000 tiny nods of her head, as though being charged with the most important mission of her life to date. There was an issue with one of our requests and she said she had to ask her manager. Several billion years later, she returned saying she was so sorry but she hadn't managed to find out the answer to our question because her manager had been talking to someone and she'd felt it would have been very tactless to interrupt. We said we understood, and asked if, while we were waiting, she would mind if we gave her the five branded Pizza Express advertisements that had been on our table - pizza of the month, special wines, another notice around the flower vase etc. etc. Her eyes became even wider, giving her the impression of one of the girls in Soundgarden's video for Black Hole Sun, and she nodded sympathetically, before explaining at some length (and we're talking several minutes here) that she was from Slovenia and felt like the amount of corporate branding and advertising in the west was a real problem and that she thought there should be strict controls on what, where, and how much. You can take the girl out of the former Communist bloc...
Saturday was another big day - my friend Emily's hen, where I and a few others were entrusted to spend the hard-earned cash of Emily's 14 closest friends on their behalf, an endeavour that I found challenging and enjoyable. I think that, in the end, we struck a good balance between boat rides, ritual humiliation, drunkenness, new skills, old photos, gifts and bad music. Or, at least, the balance was there. I did not strike the balance quite so well on a personal level, as I awoke on Sunday morning feeling as though I possibly had food poisoning and remain nauseous and exhausted to this moment. I managed to go to a three hour singing rehearsal, which showed a level of dedication I wasn't aware I possessed. And I watched a lot of The X Factor. And I ate. Good lord, did I eat.
As a public service, however, I do feel that I should mention the hen activity we did on Saturday afternoon: a cookery class with a company I'd found online called The Urban Kitchen. I wouldn't suggest you use them, should you be in the market for a relaxing, fun group activity. To save me typing it all out again, below is the email that I sent the boss this morning. On the upside, in comparison to her, I seemed carefree and even laissez-faire, which was excellent for my ego.
I've now transferred the £11.00 to you for the extra wine on Saturday night. Everyone agreed the food was delicious.
Having received a few questionable emails from you prior to the event, including one where you seemed to accuse Joanna of deliberately ignoring or losing the forms you'd sent through, and being more than terse that all 12 hens had not filled in the dietary requirements form only a couple of days after you'd provided us with the link - oh, and the one where you asked us to start late and then said actually no, let's start on time, but it might be difficult as there's another group directly before us (not the best way to make us feel special) - we were hoping that our issues were only in print, and that in person it would be a more pleasant experience.
However, I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that we won't be recommending The Urban Kitchen - several people overheard you making sarcastic remarks about us to your team, and the way you publically reprimanded people for accidental cooking errors was a long way from good client management. I had many comments from the group saying that they were terrified of you and that they'd been"told off" - it should surely go without saying that people don't pay nearly £70 to feel uncomfortable.
I wasn't sure whether or not to say anything, but I know repeat business is important for a small enterprise such as yours, and I felt it was important that you should hear that, at times, we found your manner very aggressive and unfriendly.
I am sure you can catalogue ways in which you didn't like me/us, but I'm afraid in this scenario, the customer should always be right!
I hope you can use this feedback to your advantage.
Between you and me, the above isn't the whole story. We did actually have a lot of fun - but it was no thanks to her. I've always agreed with Napoleon that it is important for group morale to have a common enemy (or was it Nelson? Isn't that where scapegoat came from...? OK... That was fascinating. Scapegoat comes from a mistranslation in the Septuagint, the early Greek version of the Bible. And I can't find anything on Google re. what I was talking about with common enemies. I remember reading somewhere that there was a captain at sea who, as a management tactic, deliberately made himself unpopular so that his crew would unite and work well together. Anyone know who or what I'm talking about? I clearly will never remember). Anyway, we all giggled a lot. It was a bit like being back at school: the more stressed the boss got, the more naughty and careless we became. We also ate extremely well (having cooked the food ourselves), so in many respects the event was excellent, but basically the woman in charge needs to sort her management skills out. That's all. I am now preparing myself for some sort of defamation case (which is not in any sense to imply that the above is inaccurate), so enjoy this blog entry while you can, I suspect it may not be here for long.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
I cannot write about last Friday.
The only thing I really want to tell you about is my Friday night. I went to Marcus Wareing at The Berkeley, a Michelin two-star restaurant and a treat and a half. Only problem is, I have no angle. Every pseudo-writer knows that there is no story without some sort of character development. I can't just say 'I went to this place and had a really nice time. The End.' That's not why you read LLFF. Unfortunately, that seems to be precisely what did happen. It was amazing. I didn't fall over, or see a celebrity, or get dumped while I was there. I just went, and it was amazing, and then I left. I've had my head in my hands for the last twenty minutes, trying to find a way in which to write about it, muttering, 'But how did it change me?' and the only thing I can think of is that my bank balance is now substantially lighter.
Imagine, I told myself, that you had to write about it. Imagine you were writing a restaurant review for a national magazine, what would you say then? What would be your angle? That it was really nice, I thought. It could be some indication of how perfect the evening was if I tell you that my only - and I mean literally the ONLY - gripe was that the wine menu, displayed in a thick black photo album, was quite heavy and difficult to hold. That was less than irritating, a barely-registered nark, that vanished when the sommelier brought me precisely the wine I wanted, a fact made all the more miraculous given that the help I'd given him consisted of handing back the wine list, saying I didn't know what to order, but that I knew I wanted my wine to be white, a bit oaked, a bit fruity, very dry, strong enough to counterbalance the powerful flavours of the food I was about to enjoy, and that I was sick of New Zealand Sauvignon. A moment later, there it was, in my glass. I fervently wish that all of life were that simple.
So yeah. The wine list was a bit cumbersome. But that was it. Aside from that, it was perfect. The lighting was perfect. The starters, main course, inter-course snackettes and desserts were perfect. The wine was perfect. The service was perfect. The furniture was perfect. The other guests were perfect. The truffles-to-go in their cellophane bag were perfect. The tour around the kitchen at the end was perfect. The bill, I'll admit, was not perfect. But it was really nice and worth every penny. I have no angle. So I'll stop writing.
The End. (Unless you want to read on.)
WARNING: as opposed to the edge-of-your-seat paragraphs above, the below is a literal description of what we ate and has absolutely no literary merit whatsoever. It is recommended that you only continue if you actually want to know exactly what was on the tasting menu at Marcus Wareing last Friday. On no account read the below and expect to be entertained.
So you sit down and you are brought canapes - one was pork balls, a bowl of four (two each), about the size of an average gobstopper, crispy thin breadcrumby batter around delicious moist pork mixed with pine nuts, like a really posh hot Scotch egg without the egg. The other was this weird amazing thing - like one of those rectangular ice-cream sandwich things you used to get but tiny - actually, it wasn't anything like that. OK, so it was these two small rectangles of crispy cheese wafer, about the size of the long side of a small matchbox. Between them was sandwiched the most out of this world truffle moussey stuff, tanged with mustard, light and rich and deliriously delicious. It was probably my highlight of the entire meal, depressing to start so high but there's a middle class gripe if ever I wrote one ("My canape was too nice, the rest of my two Michelin-starred tasting menu was slightly less exciting"). Two of those each. Then the amuse bouche proper - their 'witty' take on fish and chips (it being Friday) - a shot glass of fish soup topped with chip foam, which was beyond compare. Beautiful, fine salt and pepper breadsticks (two each) in a third shot glass. Then the fish course - heritage tomatoes - this turned out to mean a slice of red, yellow and green tomato - topped with clam and crab and some delicious potato croutons. Oh shit, I forgot the bread. The bread was potato and something else... god, I can't remember, but it was amazingly soft, although I guess at heart just posh ciabatta. What was unbeLIEVAbly exciting was the fact that you were offered your choice of salted or unsalted butter. Anyway. Despite knowing the amount of food I was about to consume, I still had two slices of bread. I know, call the obesity police. That was a joke.
So yeah, the fish course I could take or leave, to be honest. It was very fresh and healthy and had moments of niceness but it's nothing to write home about, nor, indeed, on a semi-popular blog. Too late. Then was another serious peak, the quail. Two tiny quail breasts, skin-on, crispy on the outside, so tender beneath, sitting atop some sort of parmesan frothy sauce, and sweetcorn kernals and another sauce, and then these adorable and perfect-in-every-way shallot onion rings, two of them, stacked on the top like the best glace cherry of all time. Oh and some coriander but I picked it off. One of those plates of food where all the individual ingredients are pretty good, but together it creates an oral sensation akin to bliss. The combination of textures, the crunch of the quail skin, the smoothness of the flesh, the burst of the sweetcorn, the creaminess of the parmesan, the sticky bite of the shallot ring... it was a work of art. We ate slowly and with many sighs of pleasure. Emily found a small fragment of onion ring in her teeth a few minutes after our plates had been cleared and let out a woop of delight.
Then the main course, which I lost. There was a choice of two, and I felt like we should sample them both, so I ordered what Emily didn't. She had the lamb (which would have been my staple choice) so I had the beef. Mine was good, hers was exceptional. The beef was served with baby turnips and red onion hearts, lightly roasted I think. And some delicious carrots. But the lamb was served with some sort of yoghurt and roasted peaches and something else - I can't remember as I only had one mouthful, but blimey it was tear-jerking. Then a pre-dessert, an immaculate layered chocolate and sponge creation that must have been made by the Borrowers, so precise was it. And an almond jelly I think. And another shot glass with their version of a virgin mojito - crushed ice, mint, a cucumber jelly layer and something else. A sorbet to cleanse and refresh our battered palates.
Then the cheese course, one portion between two, six slivers of fromage selected from a trolley the size of a child's bed, there must have been fifty or sixty on offer, our selection beautifully presented on a heavy dark brown plate in a circle, to be eaten clockwise, from mild to strong, with a streak of the ambrosia that is apple sauce down the middle. Heaven. Then back from the savoury to more sweet - a supreme tarte tatin shared between two, with a pot of creme fraiche and a pot of ginger crunch ice cream, the pastry layers sticky, dense but crispy, the apples caramalised just the right amount. Then coffees and the truffle trolley, a five foot high silver wheeled beast with hooks holidng silver baskets filled with six or seven types of homemade truffles. I forced two down and we got the rest to go, taking our cue from the next door table.
And that was how we celebrated Em's engagement, me keeping a promise made several years ago. I will be fat forever.
Imagine, I told myself, that you had to write about it. Imagine you were writing a restaurant review for a national magazine, what would you say then? What would be your angle? That it was really nice, I thought. It could be some indication of how perfect the evening was if I tell you that my only - and I mean literally the ONLY - gripe was that the wine menu, displayed in a thick black photo album, was quite heavy and difficult to hold. That was less than irritating, a barely-registered nark, that vanished when the sommelier brought me precisely the wine I wanted, a fact made all the more miraculous given that the help I'd given him consisted of handing back the wine list, saying I didn't know what to order, but that I knew I wanted my wine to be white, a bit oaked, a bit fruity, very dry, strong enough to counterbalance the powerful flavours of the food I was about to enjoy, and that I was sick of New Zealand Sauvignon. A moment later, there it was, in my glass. I fervently wish that all of life were that simple.
So yeah. The wine list was a bit cumbersome. But that was it. Aside from that, it was perfect. The lighting was perfect. The starters, main course, inter-course snackettes and desserts were perfect. The wine was perfect. The service was perfect. The furniture was perfect. The other guests were perfect. The truffles-to-go in their cellophane bag were perfect. The tour around the kitchen at the end was perfect. The bill, I'll admit, was not perfect. But it was really nice and worth every penny. I have no angle. So I'll stop writing.
The End. (Unless you want to read on.)
WARNING: as opposed to the edge-of-your-seat paragraphs above, the below is a literal description of what we ate and has absolutely no literary merit whatsoever. It is recommended that you only continue if you actually want to know exactly what was on the tasting menu at Marcus Wareing last Friday. On no account read the below and expect to be entertained.
So you sit down and you are brought canapes - one was pork balls, a bowl of four (two each), about the size of an average gobstopper, crispy thin breadcrumby batter around delicious moist pork mixed with pine nuts, like a really posh hot Scotch egg without the egg. The other was this weird amazing thing - like one of those rectangular ice-cream sandwich things you used to get but tiny - actually, it wasn't anything like that. OK, so it was these two small rectangles of crispy cheese wafer, about the size of the long side of a small matchbox. Between them was sandwiched the most out of this world truffle moussey stuff, tanged with mustard, light and rich and deliriously delicious. It was probably my highlight of the entire meal, depressing to start so high but there's a middle class gripe if ever I wrote one ("My canape was too nice, the rest of my two Michelin-starred tasting menu was slightly less exciting"). Two of those each. Then the amuse bouche proper - their 'witty' take on fish and chips (it being Friday) - a shot glass of fish soup topped with chip foam, which was beyond compare. Beautiful, fine salt and pepper breadsticks (two each) in a third shot glass. Then the fish course - heritage tomatoes - this turned out to mean a slice of red, yellow and green tomato - topped with clam and crab and some delicious potato croutons. Oh shit, I forgot the bread. The bread was potato and something else... god, I can't remember, but it was amazingly soft, although I guess at heart just posh ciabatta. What was unbeLIEVAbly exciting was the fact that you were offered your choice of salted or unsalted butter. Anyway. Despite knowing the amount of food I was about to consume, I still had two slices of bread. I know, call the obesity police. That was a joke.
So yeah, the fish course I could take or leave, to be honest. It was very fresh and healthy and had moments of niceness but it's nothing to write home about, nor, indeed, on a semi-popular blog. Too late. Then was another serious peak, the quail. Two tiny quail breasts, skin-on, crispy on the outside, so tender beneath, sitting atop some sort of parmesan frothy sauce, and sweetcorn kernals and another sauce, and then these adorable and perfect-in-every-way shallot onion rings, two of them, stacked on the top like the best glace cherry of all time. Oh and some coriander but I picked it off. One of those plates of food where all the individual ingredients are pretty good, but together it creates an oral sensation akin to bliss. The combination of textures, the crunch of the quail skin, the smoothness of the flesh, the burst of the sweetcorn, the creaminess of the parmesan, the sticky bite of the shallot ring... it was a work of art. We ate slowly and with many sighs of pleasure. Emily found a small fragment of onion ring in her teeth a few minutes after our plates had been cleared and let out a woop of delight.
Then the main course, which I lost. There was a choice of two, and I felt like we should sample them both, so I ordered what Emily didn't. She had the lamb (which would have been my staple choice) so I had the beef. Mine was good, hers was exceptional. The beef was served with baby turnips and red onion hearts, lightly roasted I think. And some delicious carrots. But the lamb was served with some sort of yoghurt and roasted peaches and something else - I can't remember as I only had one mouthful, but blimey it was tear-jerking. Then a pre-dessert, an immaculate layered chocolate and sponge creation that must have been made by the Borrowers, so precise was it. And an almond jelly I think. And another shot glass with their version of a virgin mojito - crushed ice, mint, a cucumber jelly layer and something else. A sorbet to cleanse and refresh our battered palates.
Then the cheese course, one portion between two, six slivers of fromage selected from a trolley the size of a child's bed, there must have been fifty or sixty on offer, our selection beautifully presented on a heavy dark brown plate in a circle, to be eaten clockwise, from mild to strong, with a streak of the ambrosia that is apple sauce down the middle. Heaven. Then back from the savoury to more sweet - a supreme tarte tatin shared between two, with a pot of creme fraiche and a pot of ginger crunch ice cream, the pastry layers sticky, dense but crispy, the apples caramalised just the right amount. Then coffees and the truffle trolley, a five foot high silver wheeled beast with hooks holidng silver baskets filled with six or seven types of homemade truffles. I forced two down and we got the rest to go, taking our cue from the next door table.
And that was how we celebrated Em's engagement, me keeping a promise made several years ago. I will be fat forever.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Ash decisions
Ohgodohgodohgod, I love blogging, you know I do, but every now and then it feels like homework and I wish I could just employ some hilarious and articulate minion to write it for me so that I could get on with vital things like packing and watching American Idol, and now is definitely one of those times.
So the last you heard, I was rambling on about politics and then this FREAKING volcano started erupting, but obviously I thought it was just quite funny and cool and different, and then I realised that it might actually affect ME and suddenly it became completely unfunny and highly irritating, because I was meant to be flying to the south of France this very day to stay in the Pyrenees for two nights and then on to somewhere else to stay for two nights for Emily's wedding, and it was all going to be brilliant and a magical adventure and then the cocksucking ash started spewing and our flights were cancelled and then we had to start thinking about ferry trips and hire cars and overlong minibus journeys with strangers including other people's mothers and possibly attractive band members, and then the flights were uncancelled and the airports reopened but it was impossible to know whether the volcano was going to carry on slowing down or suddenly speed up again and we STILL DON'T KNOW and the uncertainty is GRADUALLY KILLING ME. However, I am determined to be optimistic and if I don't get on my Sleazyjet flight tomorrow morning I will laugh and be calm and everyone in the airport will be drawn to my relaxed good humour and incredible laissez-faire joie-de-vivre.
Anyway, other than that, since last Friday I have been doing billions of unparalleledly brilliant and uniquely quirky things, including taking incredible photos of London in the sun (admittedly I was poss. not the only person doing this on Saturday) and going on the fourth link of the Capital Ring walk with Kate on Sunday, where we managed to cover twelve miles from Falconwood, via Eltham Palace and... some other AMAZING places that I've completely forgotten, ending up at Crystal Palace, taking in a delicious pub lunch on the way and, critically, getting sunburned shoulders that have basically ruined my look for the wedding this weekend, as I am wearing a halterneck dress but my body clearly states I should wear something that covers my white strap marks. Once again, I live on the edge of the fashion grain and it is perilous up here, I can tell you.
I went to see Rufus Wainwright's opera, Prima Donna, at Sadler's Wells with Grania last Friday - a great evening out but not, perhaps, the best opera I've ever seen. A fantastic effort for a first go, however, and shedloads better than I could ever manage in my wildest dreams, so I am really not criticising. I'm glad I went but I'm also glad I didn't spend more than £10 on my ticket. After the show, we went to Dollar Grills in Exmouth Market, which was a cool venue and recommended, and at the table next to us was a very attractive girl in her mid-twenties, curvy, dark and sensual. I didn't have a clear view of the guy she was with and asked Grania if he was worthy of her. She nodded her assent. They were clearly a glamorous pairing. Then, about thirty minutes later, with her burger unbitten and his frankly terrifying rack of ribs undented, he grabbed his duffle coat and his rucksack and stropped out. We looked at Curvy McBuxom with sympathy. "Nightmare," I said to her, and smiled in what I hoped was a kind, unpatronising fashion. She nodded, and said, "I'm getting a bit bored of it now, though." Apparently this particular argument had been caused because he'd bought her tickets to Prima Donna and she hadn't liked it - the opera, not the gift. He, however, had taken her rejection of the opera as a personal affront. It was the kind of exhausting, pointless row I've had hundreds of times in my life, indicative of absolutely nothing on the surface and, underneath, firm evidence that the relationship is simply not meant to be. After the boy returned, tight-jawed, he sat in virtual silence, wiggling the rack of ribs disconsolately for a few minutes until the girl eventually caved and they got their food to go and stood up. We wished them luck as they left the restaurant and they laughed ruefully, and then I drunkenly told Grania how ecstatic I was to be there in Dollar Grills with her rather than stuck in the wrong relationship, and she agreed and it was lovely.
Monday I had my haircut in my usual imperceptible way, and then last night was Tuesday and Lucy came down to the smoke from t'country, and we went to Camden for a delicious dinner in a Turkish restaurant near Koko, and then to watch the Fuck Buttons (they're a band of sorts, mother. No actual fucking involved.) who were good enough for an hour or so, but we were a bit drunk from dinner, I was spinning out about something unrelated and distracted by trying to coordinate ferry bookings with very kind, very posh man who was being lovely and offering Kate and I a lift to the wedding, and it was all a bit confusing what with the fact that they were playing ridiculously loud dance music but no one was dancing, so we left after an hour and returned back to my flat to safety, cereal, mini Magnums and a last, absurdly unnecessary glass of wine. Today I thought I was leaving for France and then I wasn't, so I spent a long time in bed, threw a few unrelated items into my suitcase and passed a very pleasant two hours bathing in the wonderfully me-sized rectangle of sun that falls bang in the middle of my living room floor for about three hours every bright afternoon. I heave up the venetian blind, open the gigantic window and lie on my carpet, spreadeagled, often starkers as no one can see me but the birds and any particularly fortunate plane passengers looking down with binoculars. Tomorrow I have every hope that I'll be up there myself. A bientot et honh-he-honh.
So the last you heard, I was rambling on about politics and then this FREAKING volcano started erupting, but obviously I thought it was just quite funny and cool and different, and then I realised that it might actually affect ME and suddenly it became completely unfunny and highly irritating, because I was meant to be flying to the south of France this very day to stay in the Pyrenees for two nights and then on to somewhere else to stay for two nights for Emily's wedding, and it was all going to be brilliant and a magical adventure and then the cocksucking ash started spewing and our flights were cancelled and then we had to start thinking about ferry trips and hire cars and overlong minibus journeys with strangers including other people's mothers and possibly attractive band members, and then the flights were uncancelled and the airports reopened but it was impossible to know whether the volcano was going to carry on slowing down or suddenly speed up again and we STILL DON'T KNOW and the uncertainty is GRADUALLY KILLING ME. However, I am determined to be optimistic and if I don't get on my Sleazyjet flight tomorrow morning I will laugh and be calm and everyone in the airport will be drawn to my relaxed good humour and incredible laissez-faire joie-de-vivre.
Anyway, other than that, since last Friday I have been doing billions of unparalleledly brilliant and uniquely quirky things, including taking incredible photos of London in the sun (admittedly I was poss. not the only person doing this on Saturday) and going on the fourth link of the Capital Ring walk with Kate on Sunday, where we managed to cover twelve miles from Falconwood, via Eltham Palace and... some other AMAZING places that I've completely forgotten, ending up at Crystal Palace, taking in a delicious pub lunch on the way and, critically, getting sunburned shoulders that have basically ruined my look for the wedding this weekend, as I am wearing a halterneck dress but my body clearly states I should wear something that covers my white strap marks. Once again, I live on the edge of the fashion grain and it is perilous up here, I can tell you.I went to see Rufus Wainwright's opera, Prima Donna, at Sadler's Wells with Grania last Friday - a great evening out but not, perhaps, the best opera I've ever seen. A fantastic effort for a first go, however, and shedloads better than I could ever manage in my wildest dreams, so I am really not criticising. I'm glad I went but I'm also glad I didn't spend more than £10 on my ticket. After the show, we went to Dollar Grills in Exmouth Market, which was a cool venue and recommended, and at the table next to us was a very attractive girl in her mid-twenties, curvy, dark and sensual. I didn't have a clear view of the guy she was with and asked Grania if he was worthy of her. She nodded her assent. They were clearly a glamorous pairing. Then, about thirty minutes later, with her burger unbitten and his frankly terrifying rack of ribs undented, he grabbed his duffle coat and his rucksack and stropped out. We looked at Curvy McBuxom with sympathy. "Nightmare," I said to her, and smiled in what I hoped was a kind, unpatronising fashion. She nodded, and said, "I'm getting a bit bored of it now, though." Apparently this particular argument had been caused because he'd bought her tickets to Prima Donna and she hadn't liked it - the opera, not the gift. He, however, had taken her rejection of the opera as a personal affront. It was the kind of exhausting, pointless row I've had hundreds of times in my life, indicative of absolutely nothing on the surface and, underneath, firm evidence that the relationship is simply not meant to be. After the boy returned, tight-jawed, he sat in virtual silence, wiggling the rack of ribs disconsolately for a few minutes until the girl eventually caved and they got their food to go and stood up. We wished them luck as they left the restaurant and they laughed ruefully, and then I drunkenly told Grania how ecstatic I was to be there in Dollar Grills with her rather than stuck in the wrong relationship, and she agreed and it was lovely.
Monday I had my haircut in my usual imperceptible way, and then last night was Tuesday and Lucy came down to the smoke from t'country, and we went to Camden for a delicious dinner in a Turkish restaurant near Koko, and then to watch the Fuck Buttons (they're a band of sorts, mother. No actual fucking involved.) who were good enough for an hour or so, but we were a bit drunk from dinner, I was spinning out about something unrelated and distracted by trying to coordinate ferry bookings with very kind, very posh man who was being lovely and offering Kate and I a lift to the wedding, and it was all a bit confusing what with the fact that they were playing ridiculously loud dance music but no one was dancing, so we left after an hour and returned back to my flat to safety, cereal, mini Magnums and a last, absurdly unnecessary glass of wine. Today I thought I was leaving for France and then I wasn't, so I spent a long time in bed, threw a few unrelated items into my suitcase and passed a very pleasant two hours bathing in the wonderfully me-sized rectangle of sun that falls bang in the middle of my living room floor for about three hours every bright afternoon. I heave up the venetian blind, open the gigantic window and lie on my carpet, spreadeagled, often starkers as no one can see me but the birds and any particularly fortunate plane passengers looking down with binoculars. Tomorrow I have every hope that I'll be up there myself. A bientot et honh-he-honh.
Thursday, 24 September 2009
Middle Class Public Service Announcement
Shock announcement: Toptable, London's premier FREE restaurant booking site (because in the old days it used to be, like, soooo expensive to make a reservation), might be a sham.
For those Faithful who have better things to do than scour the internet for 3 courses for £15 deals, the way it works is that you book a table on the site, using their recommendations and other diners' reviews to help you out. Then afterwards, you write your own review. As a reward for writing the review, you get some points. When you have enough points, you get a free meal. Everyone's a winner - the site gets hundreds of up-to-date reviews each week and every now and then, the punter gets to go to Quaglino's (or A.N. Other life-threatening restaurant) for free. Well, free except booze. So not remotely free, then. But still.
Aaaaaaaaanyway. It was all going well, until I went to Bertorelli's with Joanna last month and wrote a slightly terse - but very fair - review. And then I went to lunch with my mum at Luc's in Leadenhall Market, and I wrote a mixed review, saying that the service had been fantastic but the food was a bit meh. Although more articulate than that. Then I was bored at work and, in my vanity, decided to reread my old reviews, and found that none of my recent ones had been published. So, in my boredom, I decided to complain. "I wouldn't like to think that only positive reviews are getting put on the site," I said, in true Disgruntled of Tunbridge Wells style.
The email reply I received certainly did little to assuage my concerns. Well-written and courteous, it explained that "restaurateurs are much more open to criticism if we take it to them directly rather than posting it publicly [sic] (have always wanted to do that. God it's patronising)."
I wrote back expressing my bored outrage:
"Thanks for your response. I feel very strongly that all feedback - negative or not - should appear on the site. It is good that you take it up with the restaurant, but this should be in addition to, not instead of, posting it on the site. I wrote that review to benefit other Toptable users. If I'd wanted to complain to the restaurant, I would have. I don't like to think of all the other negative reviews that people might have written that aren't visible on the site itself. What use are the reviews if the only ones that are posted are positive?"
So. There you go. It's not funny. It's probably not even useful for most of you, since the majority of my readers don't seem to live in the UK. But for those Toptable users out there - be warned. Things aren't as unbiased as they seem. I'm quite surprised that I was naive enough to have believed otherwise, but am choosing to celebrate a brief lapse in my characteristic world-weariness rather than berating myself for a lack of cynicism.
In other news: I have decided that, much as I love the smoking ban, there is one element of it that really sucks. The small areas outside pubs have now become absolutely uninhabitable. On a pleasant evening, it used to be enjoyable to sit outside having a glass of wine with a friend. Now it is akin to getting into a bath filled with fag butts while smoking six Marlboro reds simultaneously. I was at the Fitzroy Tavern yesterday and despite the gorgeous, temperate late afternoon weather, I was forced inside by the stench of cigarettes in the congregation outside. When urine cubes are a favourable aroma, you know something has gone badly awry.
For those Faithful who have better things to do than scour the internet for 3 courses for £15 deals, the way it works is that you book a table on the site, using their recommendations and other diners' reviews to help you out. Then afterwards, you write your own review. As a reward for writing the review, you get some points. When you have enough points, you get a free meal. Everyone's a winner - the site gets hundreds of up-to-date reviews each week and every now and then, the punter gets to go to Quaglino's (or A.N. Other life-threatening restaurant) for free. Well, free except booze. So not remotely free, then. But still.
Aaaaaaaaanyway. It was all going well, until I went to Bertorelli's with Joanna last month and wrote a slightly terse - but very fair - review. And then I went to lunch with my mum at Luc's in Leadenhall Market, and I wrote a mixed review, saying that the service had been fantastic but the food was a bit meh. Although more articulate than that. Then I was bored at work and, in my vanity, decided to reread my old reviews, and found that none of my recent ones had been published. So, in my boredom, I decided to complain. "I wouldn't like to think that only positive reviews are getting put on the site," I said, in true Disgruntled of Tunbridge Wells style.
The email reply I received certainly did little to assuage my concerns. Well-written and courteous, it explained that "restaurateurs are much more open to criticism if we take it to them directly rather than posting it publicly [sic] (have always wanted to do that. God it's patronising)."
I wrote back expressing my bored outrage:
"Thanks for your response. I feel very strongly that all feedback - negative or not - should appear on the site. It is good that you take it up with the restaurant, but this should be in addition to, not instead of, posting it on the site. I wrote that review to benefit other Toptable users. If I'd wanted to complain to the restaurant, I would have. I don't like to think of all the other negative reviews that people might have written that aren't visible on the site itself. What use are the reviews if the only ones that are posted are positive?"
So. There you go. It's not funny. It's probably not even useful for most of you, since the majority of my readers don't seem to live in the UK. But for those Toptable users out there - be warned. Things aren't as unbiased as they seem. I'm quite surprised that I was naive enough to have believed otherwise, but am choosing to celebrate a brief lapse in my characteristic world-weariness rather than berating myself for a lack of cynicism.
In other news: I have decided that, much as I love the smoking ban, there is one element of it that really sucks. The small areas outside pubs have now become absolutely uninhabitable. On a pleasant evening, it used to be enjoyable to sit outside having a glass of wine with a friend. Now it is akin to getting into a bath filled with fag butts while smoking six Marlboro reds simultaneously. I was at the Fitzroy Tavern yesterday and despite the gorgeous, temperate late afternoon weather, I was forced inside by the stench of cigarettes in the congregation outside. When urine cubes are a favourable aroma, you know something has gone badly awry.
Friday, 4 September 2009
Non et in Arcadia ego
OK, so I met up with Joanna at Bertorelli's, and we sat at our table, excited about wining and dining before the showing of Arcadia. I had arrived first and thus was seated on the banquette (sp?) and she was facing me. Within about seven seconds of her joining me at the table, members of the waiting 'team' had banged into the back of Joanna's chair approximately eleven times, so we moved. Joanna, having been on the outside edge of the first table, reached the new table first and so got the coveted not-in-a-thoroughfare seat, but being nice, I didn't comment. Until now. But I'm not bitter.
At approximately 18:17 hours we ordered our food. It arrived at approximately 19:06. By this time I was about to have a hernia and had lost my appetite, although needless to say, when my tagliatelle carbonara (yes, I am that adventurous) finally reached me, I somehow managed to force it down in a matter of seconds. To the best of my knowledge, they didn't show Johnny 5 eating in Short Circuit, probably because, being a robot, he doesn't eat or have a digestive system, but if Johnny 5 had eaten tagliatelle carbonara, he would have looked a bit like me. Although I have better boobs.
The manager was very apologetic about the delay we had suffered and, without us having to ask for a discount, gave us our wine on the house, which was brrrrrrrrilliant and definitely worth the stress, although obviously I then wished I'd ordered a more expensive bottle. So we paid for our food and went across the road to the theatre. I then got embroiled in a sarcastic exchange with the woman on the door who insisted on double checking that her colleague had checked my ticket correctly and then looked at me accusingly when she discovered that my ticket stub had not been torn off, as if I was deliberately trying to enter the theatre with my stub still intact. What purpose this random act of subterfuge might serve, I have no idea. Then after a further stress (where Joanna and I were trying to order interval drinks and the announcer said 'This evening's performance will begin in one minute' and we panic bought wine and ditched the Minstrels idea, even though I wanted chocolate WAY more than I wanted booze, and then hotfooted it back to our seats only to find that the curtain didn't go up for at least seven or eight more minutes, during which time elderly theatre goers wobbled in as if going for a stroll, not a care in the world, and I wondered (not for the first time) if my perception of punctuality is actually flawed and if I should realign it so that it is more consistent with the remaining 99% of Western civilization), we were finally in our massively uncomfortable seats and the show began.
And it really wasn't that good. Everyone has been raving about it, so with irritating yet characteristic contrariness, I sat there looking for flaws, but it sadly wasn't difficult to find them. The playwright, Tom Stoppard, is undoubtedly very, very clever indeed. I mean, seriously, seriously clever. But why does he feel the need to ram his intelligence down everyone's throats all the time? Sure, do it once. Write one play so that everyone knows how brilliant you are. But then, after that, must you keep doing it? I was sad, because there were lines in the play that were brilliantly funny, moments of Wodehouse that I just wished would continue, but then he had to go all high-horsey and talk about Fermat's Last Theorum (does that Need To Be Capitalised?) and algebra and academia and science vs. nature and all these things, which are all valid preoccupations of course, but must they all be crammed into one play, along with the whole 1800s vs. modern day setting? It was all just a bit exhausting. And not that well cast, IMHO. But what do I know? And maybe I missed the best bit while I was asleep. The carbonara caught up with me at the end of Act 1 and I had a bit of a snooze during what was inevitably the key scene that had all the critics wetting their pants. Anyway, everyone else loved it and I'm glad I went.
On our way out I noticed that Dr Robert Winstone of Child of Our Time fame was in the audience, which made me perk up, but then this morning I found out that Mick Jagger had also been in the audience just a few rows further forward, which made even my celeb spot feel markedly B list. So - another night out in London. Off t'country in a minute and can't wait. See you on the other side.
At approximately 18:17 hours we ordered our food. It arrived at approximately 19:06. By this time I was about to have a hernia and had lost my appetite, although needless to say, when my tagliatelle carbonara (yes, I am that adventurous) finally reached me, I somehow managed to force it down in a matter of seconds. To the best of my knowledge, they didn't show Johnny 5 eating in Short Circuit, probably because, being a robot, he doesn't eat or have a digestive system, but if Johnny 5 had eaten tagliatelle carbonara, he would have looked a bit like me. Although I have better boobs.
The manager was very apologetic about the delay we had suffered and, without us having to ask for a discount, gave us our wine on the house, which was brrrrrrrrilliant and definitely worth the stress, although obviously I then wished I'd ordered a more expensive bottle. So we paid for our food and went across the road to the theatre. I then got embroiled in a sarcastic exchange with the woman on the door who insisted on double checking that her colleague had checked my ticket correctly and then looked at me accusingly when she discovered that my ticket stub had not been torn off, as if I was deliberately trying to enter the theatre with my stub still intact. What purpose this random act of subterfuge might serve, I have no idea. Then after a further stress (where Joanna and I were trying to order interval drinks and the announcer said 'This evening's performance will begin in one minute' and we panic bought wine and ditched the Minstrels idea, even though I wanted chocolate WAY more than I wanted booze, and then hotfooted it back to our seats only to find that the curtain didn't go up for at least seven or eight more minutes, during which time elderly theatre goers wobbled in as if going for a stroll, not a care in the world, and I wondered (not for the first time) if my perception of punctuality is actually flawed and if I should realign it so that it is more consistent with the remaining 99% of Western civilization), we were finally in our massively uncomfortable seats and the show began.
And it really wasn't that good. Everyone has been raving about it, so with irritating yet characteristic contrariness, I sat there looking for flaws, but it sadly wasn't difficult to find them. The playwright, Tom Stoppard, is undoubtedly very, very clever indeed. I mean, seriously, seriously clever. But why does he feel the need to ram his intelligence down everyone's throats all the time? Sure, do it once. Write one play so that everyone knows how brilliant you are. But then, after that, must you keep doing it? I was sad, because there were lines in the play that were brilliantly funny, moments of Wodehouse that I just wished would continue, but then he had to go all high-horsey and talk about Fermat's Last Theorum (does that Need To Be Capitalised?) and algebra and academia and science vs. nature and all these things, which are all valid preoccupations of course, but must they all be crammed into one play, along with the whole 1800s vs. modern day setting? It was all just a bit exhausting. And not that well cast, IMHO. But what do I know? And maybe I missed the best bit while I was asleep. The carbonara caught up with me at the end of Act 1 and I had a bit of a snooze during what was inevitably the key scene that had all the critics wetting their pants. Anyway, everyone else loved it and I'm glad I went.
On our way out I noticed that Dr Robert Winstone of Child of Our Time fame was in the audience, which made me perk up, but then this morning I found out that Mick Jagger had also been in the audience just a few rows further forward, which made even my celeb spot feel markedly B list. So - another night out in London. Off t'country in a minute and can't wait. See you on the other side.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Tuesday melange
After a busy weekend, I woke up startlingly early on Monday morning. I tentatively opened one eye and was thrilled that my digital clock read 06:50 - another hour of snoozing before I needed to sit upright. A short doze later, I reawoke feeling strangely refreshed and knew something was amiss. I opened my eyes, and saw that my clock now read 08:29. My alarm had decided that it was going to sleep in, and didn't go off. And I don't know how I did it, but I made it into the office by 09:03, 34 minutes from bed to desk, unshowered and with bed remaining unmade, but teeth brushed, clothes donned, make-up applied, hair tidied and choir folder remembered. I briefly felt like a B-grade superhero.
Friday night I went to see L'Elisir d'amore at Covent Garden with Arabee. I'd never seen a comic opera before, and I really enjoyed it from our £8 standing tickets. I don't know if it was due to the opera being less well-known or the credit crunch, but there were large swathes of empty red velvet in the stalls and lower circles, and the boxes were almost all empty. All the cheap seats were rammed, however, so I think it says more about the financial climate than the popularity of Donizetti. We had a good ol' natter in the interval and over wine in a pub beforehand, and all in all it was a delicious evening. Saturday was down to Tooting with Em for bargain threading (Feroza is ditched) and then dinner with Kate at the delicious and very funky Village East in Bermondsey - will definitely be returning - and finally on to Shunt. It pains me to admit it, and apologies to anyone to whom I've lied and said I've been there loads, but this is the first time I've gone to this self-consciously cool underground lair beneath London Bridge train station. I've intended to visit for years, but this was the first time that good intentions and willing third parties combined simultaneously, and Kate and I set off for the gloom of the arches with excitement. It was every bit as random and cool as I'd hoped, although the clientele was definitely in their mid-twenties, on average, and it was a little unexpected to find that the guys we'd been chatting to were still at university and aged 23. I don't know if they were unusually mature, or if the loud music meant I couldn't hear how idiotic they really were. Still, it was a brilliant night, involving white wine, fancy dress, throwing plastic balls at the head of ska band guitarists and pretending to be usherettes in a screenless cinema.
Since then I've spent time with two members of my extended US relations, had a day at work, gone to the gym, bought some scales in Boots, gone to choir, been reluctantly gobsmacked by Tim's impromptu magic display at the pub afterwards, woken up on time this morning, weighed myself, and enjoyed another half day at work. The scales and the weighing are on account of my decision, post last Friday, to try Weight Watchers for a few weeks. And the past 36 hours since I began, under Laura's beady eye, to count calories and calculate point allowances, have been shocking. My quantities weren't too bad, I knew that - but it appears that my main dietary treats, including smoked mackerel, halloumi and Pret's yoghurt with berries and granola, healthy though they sometimes are, are also so high in points that it is a miracle I haven't been recruited by Sumo UK for their summer extravaganza. One medium mackerel fillet, a staple part of my lunchtime diet, counts as 10 points, the same as a Big Mac. I am allowed 21 points in an entire day. A 40g block of halloumi, the size of a small matchbox, is 3.5 points, which sounds OK, until you realise that the average halloumi salad probably contains around 150-200g of grilled cheese. Oh. That may explain why I haven't lost quite so much weight as I expected in the past six weeks since I went on my pre-holiday diet.
Don't get me wrong. I am not crying into my Ryvita, feeling like a social outcast. I am generally a happy lass, and I do believe that I'm attractive and healthy as I am. But there's no denying that I'd like to shift a wee bit of weight before I have to prance about in my bikini in just under three weeks - so this seems like a fun thing to do between now and then. Call me odd, but so far, I'm enjoying it.
I went on this website last week to try and firm up my allegiances in advance of the European elections in June. On many issues I was confident that I had a fair bit of information in my filing cabinets, and I felt confident that I was clicking the right buttons. But on a few topics, namely EU integration and immigration, I felt pathetically ill-informed. I know what my gut tells me about these topics, but if there's anything my three weeks of politics course have taught me, it's that your instinct is all well and good, but if you aren't able to see or explain how these proposals can be practically implemented, then you're just a fantasist, which is nice for you and fun escapism, but really doesn't help the situation much. I'm now waiting for this book to arrive from Amazon; I saw the author speak a year or two ago and he was impressive and really quite fanciable. For some insane reason, due in part to the fact that I was feeling a bit needy having had a sweetly romantic but unsaucy dream about some total stranger on Sunday night, I ended up stalking him online yesterday and sent him an email asking him out for a drink. This morning, I received his reply saying that he was in New Zealand, which, as far as excuses go, is pretty solid. I almost imploded with cringe, deleted the email and have resolved to think no more on't.
Friday night I went to see L'Elisir d'amore at Covent Garden with Arabee. I'd never seen a comic opera before, and I really enjoyed it from our £8 standing tickets. I don't know if it was due to the opera being less well-known or the credit crunch, but there were large swathes of empty red velvet in the stalls and lower circles, and the boxes were almost all empty. All the cheap seats were rammed, however, so I think it says more about the financial climate than the popularity of Donizetti. We had a good ol' natter in the interval and over wine in a pub beforehand, and all in all it was a delicious evening. Saturday was down to Tooting with Em for bargain threading (Feroza is ditched) and then dinner with Kate at the delicious and very funky Village East in Bermondsey - will definitely be returning - and finally on to Shunt. It pains me to admit it, and apologies to anyone to whom I've lied and said I've been there loads, but this is the first time I've gone to this self-consciously cool underground lair beneath London Bridge train station. I've intended to visit for years, but this was the first time that good intentions and willing third parties combined simultaneously, and Kate and I set off for the gloom of the arches with excitement. It was every bit as random and cool as I'd hoped, although the clientele was definitely in their mid-twenties, on average, and it was a little unexpected to find that the guys we'd been chatting to were still at university and aged 23. I don't know if they were unusually mature, or if the loud music meant I couldn't hear how idiotic they really were. Still, it was a brilliant night, involving white wine, fancy dress, throwing plastic balls at the head of ska band guitarists and pretending to be usherettes in a screenless cinema.
Since then I've spent time with two members of my extended US relations, had a day at work, gone to the gym, bought some scales in Boots, gone to choir, been reluctantly gobsmacked by Tim's impromptu magic display at the pub afterwards, woken up on time this morning, weighed myself, and enjoyed another half day at work. The scales and the weighing are on account of my decision, post last Friday, to try Weight Watchers for a few weeks. And the past 36 hours since I began, under Laura's beady eye, to count calories and calculate point allowances, have been shocking. My quantities weren't too bad, I knew that - but it appears that my main dietary treats, including smoked mackerel, halloumi and Pret's yoghurt with berries and granola, healthy though they sometimes are, are also so high in points that it is a miracle I haven't been recruited by Sumo UK for their summer extravaganza. One medium mackerel fillet, a staple part of my lunchtime diet, counts as 10 points, the same as a Big Mac. I am allowed 21 points in an entire day. A 40g block of halloumi, the size of a small matchbox, is 3.5 points, which sounds OK, until you realise that the average halloumi salad probably contains around 150-200g of grilled cheese. Oh. That may explain why I haven't lost quite so much weight as I expected in the past six weeks since I went on my pre-holiday diet.
Don't get me wrong. I am not crying into my Ryvita, feeling like a social outcast. I am generally a happy lass, and I do believe that I'm attractive and healthy as I am. But there's no denying that I'd like to shift a wee bit of weight before I have to prance about in my bikini in just under three weeks - so this seems like a fun thing to do between now and then. Call me odd, but so far, I'm enjoying it.
I went on this website last week to try and firm up my allegiances in advance of the European elections in June. On many issues I was confident that I had a fair bit of information in my filing cabinets, and I felt confident that I was clicking the right buttons. But on a few topics, namely EU integration and immigration, I felt pathetically ill-informed. I know what my gut tells me about these topics, but if there's anything my three weeks of politics course have taught me, it's that your instinct is all well and good, but if you aren't able to see or explain how these proposals can be practically implemented, then you're just a fantasist, which is nice for you and fun escapism, but really doesn't help the situation much. I'm now waiting for this book to arrive from Amazon; I saw the author speak a year or two ago and he was impressive and really quite fanciable. For some insane reason, due in part to the fact that I was feeling a bit needy having had a sweetly romantic but unsaucy dream about some total stranger on Sunday night, I ended up stalking him online yesterday and sent him an email asking him out for a drink. This morning, I received his reply saying that he was in New Zealand, which, as far as excuses go, is pretty solid. I almost imploded with cringe, deleted the email and have resolved to think no more on't.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
Feeling groovy
After a tough week, my perkiness levels were fully replenished last night with a spectacular meal at the impeccable L'Atelier de Joel Robuchon in Covent Garden, where I was lucky enough to be treated to the unforgettable tasting menu and accompanying wines by a young man. Now, obviously, I'm not particularly fussed whether he keeps in touch because I am extremely desirable and have many hundreds of eligible bachelors queuing to take me out for similar dining experiences. Plus I am perfectly happy on my own, yadda yadda. But completely off the record, I'd quite like to see him again. To redress the financial balance, I'd offered to buy us cocktails in the upstairs bar beforehand - I had one called a Peach Bison which I ordered partially because the name made me laugh, but apparently it's pronounced Bee-son, not Buy-son, which wasn't nearly so funny. Our drinks were served on black napkins and a red rose petal. Nice.
Today I woke up with a spring in my step and bounced off for a run down by the river where I managed to jog continuously for almost 45 minutes. This was momentous. Then I went into town and was worthy, and now I'm back home in bed feeling exhausted but extremely happy. Isn't it nice when you feel in need of a little pick-me-up and one comes along?
In a visual echo of this, I was on the bus earlier and spotted this jolly addition to a slightly dour message - somehow the young mother and elderly gent look slightly less disgruntled with huge smiles scratched onto their otherwise blank visages although their demonic eyes are a little threatening. I do love the ankle detail on the lady too - some sort of pixie boot perhaps? Or maybe an electronic tag from a recent stint in the clink. Shame that the toddler's smaller face was too tiny for detail - instead the child has been scarred/bisected for eternity, a helpless victim of modern graffiti. Having had two glasses of wine in the pub this evening, I was feeling a bit blurry and possibly weirded out the two other passengers by singing along to the Alto 2 part of Frank Martin's Mass a little louder than I should have done. Now I'm off to sleep - it may only be 10.40pm but I think I could sleep for several decades; there's lots to do tomorrow and a bumper episode of American Idol to watch so I need to be perfectly fresh for that. A bientot.
Today I woke up with a spring in my step and bounced off for a run down by the river where I managed to jog continuously for almost 45 minutes. This was momentous. Then I went into town and was worthy, and now I'm back home in bed feeling exhausted but extremely happy. Isn't it nice when you feel in need of a little pick-me-up and one comes along?
In a visual echo of this, I was on the bus earlier and spotted this jolly addition to a slightly dour message - somehow the young mother and elderly gent look slightly less disgruntled with huge smiles scratched onto their otherwise blank visages although their demonic eyes are a little threatening. I do love the ankle detail on the lady too - some sort of pixie boot perhaps? Or maybe an electronic tag from a recent stint in the clink. Shame that the toddler's smaller face was too tiny for detail - instead the child has been scarred/bisected for eternity, a helpless victim of modern graffiti. Having had two glasses of wine in the pub this evening, I was feeling a bit blurry and possibly weirded out the two other passengers by singing along to the Alto 2 part of Frank Martin's Mass a little louder than I should have done. Now I'm off to sleep - it may only be 10.40pm but I think I could sleep for several decades; there's lots to do tomorrow and a bumper episode of American Idol to watch so I need to be perfectly fresh for that. A bientot.
Monday, 23 April 2007
Lunch at The Whyvy
As a birthday surprise for my beloved, I booked a table at The Ivy, a restaurant whose reputation precedes it like a pair of large but well-supported breasts, the name as familiar to most Londoners as the name of their own mothers.
And really, I wasn’t much bothered whether I liked it – I just wanted to go. After years of hearing second and third hand reports, I fancied witnessing the truth for myself. And I’ll admit that the ringing endorsement on the restaurant’s website from the mouth-watering A.A. Gill did a fair bit to whet my appetite further. Any friend of Adrian’s is a friend of mine. Apart from his girlfriend/mother of his children. She can get stuffed.
Anyway, The Ivy. It was nice. The staff was friendly and unpatronising. We had a good table where we could see everyone coming in and Alistair Campbell going out although the birthday boy was frustrated to miss my sole celebrity spot. Our herb salad starter was delicious. The Sunday lunch was fine – the roast beef was a perfect specimen – but serve the veg on the plate instead of in a silver dish and the whole meal could easily have been prepared in an average gastropub. My rhubarb pudding bordered on sickly, although perhaps the fact that it was called ‘Lardy Cake’ should have been enough for me to consider myself forewarned.
There’s nothing much wrong with The Ivy but there’s not enough right with it to justify the hype. The necessity of booking weeks in advance for what is, in all, a pretty unextraordinary dining experience will be enough to put me off in future. Still glad I went though. And fortunately, Simon seemed to enjoy himself which, difficult though it is for a self-centred only child to admit, is really all that matters.
And really, I wasn’t much bothered whether I liked it – I just wanted to go. After years of hearing second and third hand reports, I fancied witnessing the truth for myself. And I’ll admit that the ringing endorsement on the restaurant’s website from the mouth-watering A.A. Gill did a fair bit to whet my appetite further. Any friend of Adrian’s is a friend of mine. Apart from his girlfriend/mother of his children. She can get stuffed.
Anyway, The Ivy. It was nice. The staff was friendly and unpatronising. We had a good table where we could see everyone coming in and Alistair Campbell going out although the birthday boy was frustrated to miss my sole celebrity spot. Our herb salad starter was delicious. The Sunday lunch was fine – the roast beef was a perfect specimen – but serve the veg on the plate instead of in a silver dish and the whole meal could easily have been prepared in an average gastropub. My rhubarb pudding bordered on sickly, although perhaps the fact that it was called ‘Lardy Cake’ should have been enough for me to consider myself forewarned.
There’s nothing much wrong with The Ivy but there’s not enough right with it to justify the hype. The necessity of booking weeks in advance for what is, in all, a pretty unextraordinary dining experience will be enough to put me off in future. Still glad I went though. And fortunately, Simon seemed to enjoy himself which, difficult though it is for a self-centred only child to admit, is really all that matters.
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