16th July 2014, Kopapa, Soho, London
There are a number of British dishes that I simply can not get my head around.
There's black pudding, pork pies and spotted dick pudding (come on, what's with the name?) - none of which I would ever dare to eat. It either looks or sounds scary.
Not to mention scotch eggs. We're talking egg, sausage filling and crust all wrapped in to a
brown ball. Who on earth came up with that and who tricked other people into eating it? So I figured that first thing's first - before I start complaining about how vile this so called food is, maybe I should at least try it.
As it turns out, the lovely restaurant that is Kopapa they serve this amongst their many actually edible dishes. I therefore decided to cheer up yet another rather dull date with trying this absurd travesty of an egg out. After all, it was clear that me and this guy was never seeing each other again before we were through the pre dinner drinks, so making a good first impression was not that high of a priority.
Being Kopapa, this was obviously a rather posh version of a scotch egg, served with asparagus and noisette ice cream. I guess that's a decent attempt to mask what you are really serving. It did not work as I expect they had planned it to.
It was not good. Sausage meat is not appetizing at the best of time and even less when wrapped around an egg. What actually made a person think of putting something so disgusting together? Was he or she bored? Or did someone just create this out of evil to gross people out? Was stuffing and eggs the only thing available in this person's fridge and he or she decided to experiment? Whichever reason, it is inexcusable.
Let's just let eggs be eggs please.
Monday 28 July 2014
Friday 25 July 2014
174. Damn Wright
14th July 2014, Wright Brothers Borough, Southwark, London
When you want a seafood dinner, Miss Ukraine is the dining companion that you want. And convincing her to come with me to and check out Wright Brothers was not a particularly difficult task.
On this potentially the hottest day of the year I made my way to the little cobbled streets around Borough Market and once more questioned why I don't go there more often. The market is great, but all the little pubs and restaurants around it is really what makes it such a lovely little area, especially in summer.
As I get to the restaurants, Miss Ukraine is awaiting my arrival with some cold bubbles - perfect seeing as we needed to cool down from the sauna that is apparently the Wright Brothers Restaurant. All those spaces under the railway tracks - it's cute, but oh my god is it sizzling. We convince the waitress to sneak us off to a table by the open windows where the seats were uncomfortable but the risk of dying from heat stroke lessened.
I go straight ahead and order the small portion of fruit de la mer. Whoever used the word 'small' in the same sentence as this dish, should have gone to Specsavers.
Oh goodness, there are probably whole lakes in the world with less organic activity than what was on my plate. I didn't even care about the lack of lobster and for the first time ever, a shellfish dish has truly filled me up.
Firstly, I am actually taking a liking to oysters. There's been massive improvement in my oyster eating since that first time and I'm really starting to enjoy swallowing those slimy bastards alive. There were also absolutely perfect razor clams, equally perfect langoustines, delicious mini prawns and gorgeous mussels.
The only thing not striking my fancy were the snail looking things that comes with every single seafood platter these days. What are they? How do you get them out of the stupid shell? Are they only adding these to fruit de la mer because they are cheap and it's the recession? Who would voluntarily put a thing in their mouth that looks like death and tastes like death?
Please solve the mystery of the sea snails so that I can come back real soon.
When you want a seafood dinner, Miss Ukraine is the dining companion that you want. And convincing her to come with me to and check out Wright Brothers was not a particularly difficult task.
On this potentially the hottest day of the year I made my way to the little cobbled streets around Borough Market and once more questioned why I don't go there more often. The market is great, but all the little pubs and restaurants around it is really what makes it such a lovely little area, especially in summer.
As I get to the restaurants, Miss Ukraine is awaiting my arrival with some cold bubbles - perfect seeing as we needed to cool down from the sauna that is apparently the Wright Brothers Restaurant. All those spaces under the railway tracks - it's cute, but oh my god is it sizzling. We convince the waitress to sneak us off to a table by the open windows where the seats were uncomfortable but the risk of dying from heat stroke lessened.
I go straight ahead and order the small portion of fruit de la mer. Whoever used the word 'small' in the same sentence as this dish, should have gone to Specsavers.
Oh goodness, there are probably whole lakes in the world with less organic activity than what was on my plate. I didn't even care about the lack of lobster and for the first time ever, a shellfish dish has truly filled me up.
Firstly, I am actually taking a liking to oysters. There's been massive improvement in my oyster eating since that first time and I'm really starting to enjoy swallowing those slimy bastards alive. There were also absolutely perfect razor clams, equally perfect langoustines, delicious mini prawns and gorgeous mussels.
The only thing not striking my fancy were the snail looking things that comes with every single seafood platter these days. What are they? How do you get them out of the stupid shell? Are they only adding these to fruit de la mer because they are cheap and it's the recession? Who would voluntarily put a thing in their mouth that looks like death and tastes like death?
Please solve the mystery of the sea snails so that I can come back real soon.
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| Fishy Starter |
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| Seafood Paradise |
Thursday 24 July 2014
173. Bulls, Brunch and Benedict.
13th July 2014, The Hide at The Bull, City of London
The area around Liverpool Street is packed with dodgy looking but classic pubs that have been there since the days of Jack The Ripper.
The Hide at the Bull is one of these and although it is probably more appropriate for beer heaving me and Miss Bubbles headed there for brunch on her last day in London this time around.
I guess the one thing that you can say about the staff is probably... Confused. Now there are two types of confused; cute and charming scatterbrain alternatively nonchalant with an attitude problem. In the Bull, we met both. We had the adorable Italian girl who in spite of forgetting what the difference between Eggs Benedict and Eggs Florentine and having to rush into the kitchen and ask the chef, completely won everyone in the place over by doing something as simple as laughing at herself being a bit all over the place. Then we have the grumpy and clearly hungover 22 year old who basically found everyone entering the pub annoying an unworthy of his paid time. I don't even demand politeness out of kids like him - I know that Sunday morning feeling too well - but after the fourth time asking for a plain tomato juice it would be nice if it didn't come out as a bad Bloody Mary. 'Can you not just drink that instead?'. No young man, I can not.
As with most bars in the area, there is nothing at The Bull that really sticks out. It's a pub, nothing more, nothing less and although our food was fine, it was nothing beyond that, history or no history.
Nevertheless, it was lovely to spend some time with Miss Bubbles one-on-one, seeing as hangout time with her is becoming a rarer and rarer occasion, just like staying out until last call on a school night. And although she and Mr Bubbles are very happy in their country side house I know they'll always come back to London for Bloody Mary brunches and summer Prosecco on Clapham Common.
Next time, we'll find a place where they know their eggs a tad better though.
The area around Liverpool Street is packed with dodgy looking but classic pubs that have been there since the days of Jack The Ripper.
The Hide at the Bull is one of these and although it is probably more appropriate for beer heaving me and Miss Bubbles headed there for brunch on her last day in London this time around.
I guess the one thing that you can say about the staff is probably... Confused. Now there are two types of confused; cute and charming scatterbrain alternatively nonchalant with an attitude problem. In the Bull, we met both. We had the adorable Italian girl who in spite of forgetting what the difference between Eggs Benedict and Eggs Florentine and having to rush into the kitchen and ask the chef, completely won everyone in the place over by doing something as simple as laughing at herself being a bit all over the place. Then we have the grumpy and clearly hungover 22 year old who basically found everyone entering the pub annoying an unworthy of his paid time. I don't even demand politeness out of kids like him - I know that Sunday morning feeling too well - but after the fourth time asking for a plain tomato juice it would be nice if it didn't come out as a bad Bloody Mary. 'Can you not just drink that instead?'. No young man, I can not.
As with most bars in the area, there is nothing at The Bull that really sticks out. It's a pub, nothing more, nothing less and although our food was fine, it was nothing beyond that, history or no history.
Nevertheless, it was lovely to spend some time with Miss Bubbles one-on-one, seeing as hangout time with her is becoming a rarer and rarer occasion, just like staying out until last call on a school night. And although she and Mr Bubbles are very happy in their country side house I know they'll always come back to London for Bloody Mary brunches and summer Prosecco on Clapham Common.
Next time, we'll find a place where they know their eggs a tad better though.
Wednesday 23 July 2014
172. Champagne Strike Be Gone
12th July 2014, New Street Grill, City of London
Being the Lady of Leisure have forced me to cut down on a few things. Two to be exact; champagne and personal training.
Following decisions made as to my work plans, one had finally come to an end this Saturday night out on the town with Hell's Bells. After a shocking three months off champagne, an even bigger achievement than the caffeine take down of 2013, boy was I excited to reunite with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot.
And my oh my, if anything was satisfying - this was it. For the 45 minutes it took us to polish that bottle off, Hell's Bells was basically dead to me. Oh, how I have missed this beautiful creation. I would even consider going to France for a box of this stuff. And as we all know, France is not my place on this planet.
Champagne really is the drink of Gods. And some very clumsy Vikings.
Being the Lady of Leisure have forced me to cut down on a few things. Two to be exact; champagne and personal training.
Following decisions made as to my work plans, one had finally come to an end this Saturday night out on the town with Hell's Bells. After a shocking three months off champagne, an even bigger achievement than the caffeine take down of 2013, boy was I excited to reunite with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot.
And my oh my, if anything was satisfying - this was it. For the 45 minutes it took us to polish that bottle off, Hell's Bells was basically dead to me. Oh, how I have missed this beautiful creation. I would even consider going to France for a box of this stuff. And as we all know, France is not my place on this planet.
Champagne really is the drink of Gods. And some very clumsy Vikings.
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| Hell's Bell getting in there! |
171. O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
11th July 2014, Callooh Callay, Shoreditch, London
So strictly speaking, I have been to Callooh Callay before. But let's just say that my recollection of that occasion is somewhat... Fussy.
There have however never been any doubt in my mind that I would love the place. It's named after a paragraph in Jabberwocky - the most nonsensical and wonderful poem ever written. That along with the fact that it's known and given awards for having some of the best cocktails in London and the fact that they have another secret bar in a cupboard will surely make this an amazing place?
Following our dinner at Penkul & Banks, coincidentally run by the same team as Callooh Callay, I did suggest to Miss Bubbles that we'd head home to leave her fresh for the hen do the following day. That suggestion was met with a look that can be described as both highly sceptical and lightly disgusted. She was after all my partner in crime the night before the only day I've called in sick from work due to party related exhaustion. Going home at 10.30 was clearly not an option.
So off to Callooh Callay we went and it was everything I wanted it to be. Firstly, the cocktails were amazing. I made my way through Mariposas, Kilner Me Softlies and Little Miss Sunshines and not once did I feel the urge to just go and order a Mojito. Combined with a full on Alice in Wonderland and Narnia inspired interior, I absolutely loved it! Even the cocktail menus were amazing!
I'll make sure not to forget having been there this time!
So strictly speaking, I have been to Callooh Callay before. But let's just say that my recollection of that occasion is somewhat... Fussy.
There have however never been any doubt in my mind that I would love the place. It's named after a paragraph in Jabberwocky - the most nonsensical and wonderful poem ever written. That along with the fact that it's known and given awards for having some of the best cocktails in London and the fact that they have another secret bar in a cupboard will surely make this an amazing place?
Following our dinner at Penkul & Banks, coincidentally run by the same team as Callooh Callay, I did suggest to Miss Bubbles that we'd head home to leave her fresh for the hen do the following day. That suggestion was met with a look that can be described as both highly sceptical and lightly disgusted. She was after all my partner in crime the night before the only day I've called in sick from work due to party related exhaustion. Going home at 10.30 was clearly not an option.
So off to Callooh Callay we went and it was everything I wanted it to be. Firstly, the cocktails were amazing. I made my way through Mariposas, Kilner Me Softlies and Little Miss Sunshines and not once did I feel the urge to just go and order a Mojito. Combined with a full on Alice in Wonderland and Narnia inspired interior, I absolutely loved it! Even the cocktail menus were amazing!
I'll make sure not to forget having been there this time!
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| The uber cool cocktail menu |
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| Mariposa. Quite literally. |
170. Marvellous Murderer
11th July 2014, Penkul & Banks, Shoreditch, London
Oh my God, they killed the Bloody Marvellous. Those bastards!
Miss Bubbles herself had finally come back to London for a lovely weekend and this of course had to be celebrated with cocktails, dinner and loads of gossip. Miss Bubbles is my original champagne drinking buddy and I have most certainly missed our crazy nights out across town, whether it was an accidental Wimbledon celebration on the streets of Clapham or 3 AM vodka shots in a posh Russian bar on a school night.
I was excited at the prospect of dining at the new list arrival, Penkul & Banks, at first. Not having looked particularly closely at the map before heading over there, I am shocked upon my arrival. Penkul & Banks is Beard to Tail. The Beard to Tail. How could they do this to me? Where will I get my Bloody Marvellous fixes from now? I have done nothing to deserve this.
Following my discovery that we could only have tapas at Penkul & Banks following the destruction of Beard to Tail, I was sulky to say the least. A lot of convincing from Hell's Bells helped me getting through the door, but I may not have been the most charming of guests:
Lovely Happy Waitress: Welcome to P&B guys, how are you this evening?
Me: Fine, whatever.
Lovely Happy Waitress: Can I get you something to drink?
Me: Pfffft. Whatever.
Hell's Bells: Please do excuse her.
Lovely Happy Waitress: How about some bacon popcorn? Would you like that?
Me: Fine, whatever.
And then the popcorn came out, tasting amazing. And then the cocktails came out, amazing. Finally we got the food. Amazing. I hated that waitress for ruining my sulking.
Against my will, I have to admit that this was a pretty great venue for our girlie night out, affordable, delicious and not so freakishly loud that you can't hear about Hell's Bells' odd apps and flatmate hunting or Miss Bubbles' life in the country side and her walk-in closet.
As it turns out though, Penkul & Banks are run by the same team as Beard to Tail, apparently the concept is based on a rotating pop up system. Surely this means that someone will still have the recipe. Anxiously awaiting my response from them as we speak.
Not all hope is lost.
Oh my God, they killed the Bloody Marvellous. Those bastards!
Miss Bubbles herself had finally come back to London for a lovely weekend and this of course had to be celebrated with cocktails, dinner and loads of gossip. Miss Bubbles is my original champagne drinking buddy and I have most certainly missed our crazy nights out across town, whether it was an accidental Wimbledon celebration on the streets of Clapham or 3 AM vodka shots in a posh Russian bar on a school night.
I was excited at the prospect of dining at the new list arrival, Penkul & Banks, at first. Not having looked particularly closely at the map before heading over there, I am shocked upon my arrival. Penkul & Banks is Beard to Tail. The Beard to Tail. How could they do this to me? Where will I get my Bloody Marvellous fixes from now? I have done nothing to deserve this.
Following my discovery that we could only have tapas at Penkul & Banks following the destruction of Beard to Tail, I was sulky to say the least. A lot of convincing from Hell's Bells helped me getting through the door, but I may not have been the most charming of guests:
Lovely Happy Waitress: Welcome to P&B guys, how are you this evening?
Me: Fine, whatever.
Lovely Happy Waitress: Can I get you something to drink?
Me: Pfffft. Whatever.
Hell's Bells: Please do excuse her.
Lovely Happy Waitress: How about some bacon popcorn? Would you like that?
Me: Fine, whatever.
And then the popcorn came out, tasting amazing. And then the cocktails came out, amazing. Finally we got the food. Amazing. I hated that waitress for ruining my sulking.
Against my will, I have to admit that this was a pretty great venue for our girlie night out, affordable, delicious and not so freakishly loud that you can't hear about Hell's Bells' odd apps and flatmate hunting or Miss Bubbles' life in the country side and her walk-in closet.
As it turns out though, Penkul & Banks are run by the same team as Beard to Tail, apparently the concept is based on a rotating pop up system. Surely this means that someone will still have the recipe. Anxiously awaiting my response from them as we speak.
Not all hope is lost.
 |
| Partial Swafia Reunion |
Tuesday 22 July 2014
169. Chocolate Men and Oklahoma Tourists
10th July 2014, M&M Store, Leicester Square, London
As much as I hate tourist attractions, sometimes I have to visit them in order to be able to whine about said tourist attractions.
The time had come to visit the M&M store on Leicester Square. I'd expect the one on Broadway could be the only thing worse as far as location, theme and crowdedness goes.
Thankfully I had great company to distract me from the Oklahoma Tourist and 'OMG, it's like English M&M's - they look just like American ones'. Following a fake birthday dinner at Rainforest Cafe with House Wife and her Little Lady and prior to the very important stop in the Scandinavian pickamix store, they tagged along as we stopped by the dreaded M&M store.
It's all things I fear; plastic gimmick merchandise, no-so-clever crowds and the M&M creatures. Seriously, is no one else creeped out by the M&M commercial and the two living M&M's? Cartoon characters being forced into a bowl to be eaten as a Friday night snack by a very skinny aerobics princess who definitely wouldn't eat chocolate, does not do it for me. Plus the orange one looks really grumpy. Then again, so would I if everyone were trying to take a bite out of my head.
I was lucky to have such great company to keep me from hyperventilating at the very sight of Leicester Square and at the out-of-towners' inability to walk in an efficient manner. Somehow, climbing the M&M bus with the world's coolest three-year-old will take your mind off all things horrendous.
Until next time Leicester Square - may it be in a time far, far away. Preferably after my death.
As much as I hate tourist attractions, sometimes I have to visit them in order to be able to whine about said tourist attractions.
The time had come to visit the M&M store on Leicester Square. I'd expect the one on Broadway could be the only thing worse as far as location, theme and crowdedness goes.
Thankfully I had great company to distract me from the Oklahoma Tourist and 'OMG, it's like English M&M's - they look just like American ones'. Following a fake birthday dinner at Rainforest Cafe with House Wife and her Little Lady and prior to the very important stop in the Scandinavian pickamix store, they tagged along as we stopped by the dreaded M&M store.
It's all things I fear; plastic gimmick merchandise, no-so-clever crowds and the M&M creatures. Seriously, is no one else creeped out by the M&M commercial and the two living M&M's? Cartoon characters being forced into a bowl to be eaten as a Friday night snack by a very skinny aerobics princess who definitely wouldn't eat chocolate, does not do it for me. Plus the orange one looks really grumpy. Then again, so would I if everyone were trying to take a bite out of my head.
I was lucky to have such great company to keep me from hyperventilating at the very sight of Leicester Square and at the out-of-towners' inability to walk in an efficient manner. Somehow, climbing the M&M bus with the world's coolest three-year-old will take your mind off all things horrendous.
Until next time Leicester Square - may it be in a time far, far away. Preferably after my death.
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| Little Lady, Big Bus. Creepy Driver. |
Monday 21 July 2014
168. Dead Cows, Dead Conversation
9th July 2014, Marco Pierre White Steak & Alehouse, City of London
Off on a first date, and I had to hand it to the guy - he had figured out my idea of a perfect date from a quick chat at a loud and crowded party, which is rather impressive.
Following a bottle of champagne at Catch we were off to Marco Pierre White Steak & Ale House for - you guessed it - steak. My two favourite things in the world along with first date butterflies. This looked promising.
Butterflies or no butterflies, I was most excited about visiting one of the Marco Pierre restaurants, which along with virtually every other somewhat known steak house in the world is an essential to try out in my book.
Sadly, it did not start off well - in spite of the bottle of pre dinner champagne, the first date butterflies were soon accompanied by first date awkward silence. I could practically hear the married couple next to us analyse our date, eavesdropping on our non conversation, concluding that we were clearly not a particularly established couple and taking comfort in the fact that in spite of the separate bedrooms that I'm sure they do not share, at least they were done with all those first dates of doom. And on this rare occasion, I would rather have been on the judging end with the separate bedrooms we'd blame on snoring.
Thankfully, the starter gave me something else to focus on - a truly delicious gravlax which is rare in this country but pleased my Swedish heart. Gravlax is usually hugely disappointing outside of Sweden and sometimes I think they just sprinkle some dill on smoked salmon.
The gravlax was however nothing compared to my delicious steak. Cooked to medium rare perfection, not overly salted and with the greatest béarnaise I've had in the UK. Great béarnaise is also something that is a big deal to us Swedes. In fact, if I could eat one dish and one dish alone for the rest of my life, you can bet it would come with béarnaise.
After the delicious first two courses and some great banter with the waiter as the table was still painfully quiet even after three glasses each of a divine Malbec, they could have served me gruel for dessert and I would still have been more than happy. Instead a close to perfect crème brulee was put in front of me, and it was another great distraction from the non chemistry surrounding our table.
There may not be a second date, but there will most certainly be a second steak one of these days.
Off on a first date, and I had to hand it to the guy - he had figured out my idea of a perfect date from a quick chat at a loud and crowded party, which is rather impressive.
Following a bottle of champagne at Catch we were off to Marco Pierre White Steak & Ale House for - you guessed it - steak. My two favourite things in the world along with first date butterflies. This looked promising.
Butterflies or no butterflies, I was most excited about visiting one of the Marco Pierre restaurants, which along with virtually every other somewhat known steak house in the world is an essential to try out in my book.
Sadly, it did not start off well - in spite of the bottle of pre dinner champagne, the first date butterflies were soon accompanied by first date awkward silence. I could practically hear the married couple next to us analyse our date, eavesdropping on our non conversation, concluding that we were clearly not a particularly established couple and taking comfort in the fact that in spite of the separate bedrooms that I'm sure they do not share, at least they were done with all those first dates of doom. And on this rare occasion, I would rather have been on the judging end with the separate bedrooms we'd blame on snoring.
Thankfully, the starter gave me something else to focus on - a truly delicious gravlax which is rare in this country but pleased my Swedish heart. Gravlax is usually hugely disappointing outside of Sweden and sometimes I think they just sprinkle some dill on smoked salmon.
The gravlax was however nothing compared to my delicious steak. Cooked to medium rare perfection, not overly salted and with the greatest béarnaise I've had in the UK. Great béarnaise is also something that is a big deal to us Swedes. In fact, if I could eat one dish and one dish alone for the rest of my life, you can bet it would come with béarnaise.
After the delicious first two courses and some great banter with the waiter as the table was still painfully quiet even after three glasses each of a divine Malbec, they could have served me gruel for dessert and I would still have been more than happy. Instead a close to perfect crème brulee was put in front of me, and it was another great distraction from the non chemistry surrounding our table.
There may not be a second date, but there will most certainly be a second steak one of these days.
167. The LSD Pony Obsession
4th July 2014, Primark, Oxford Street, London
Yes, I have a slight obsession with My Little Pony.
I mean, what is not to love about them? They look like ponies - my favourite fluffy animal after puppies - but on acid, they have a baby dragon for a pet and they think that friendship is magic!
This obsession have been ongoing for a long time. I believe it all started circa 1989 when my parents got me my first plastic pony with giant eyelashes, even more gigantic eyes and a pink mane that turned blue when you poured water on it. I was in love and continued down the route of Bridal Ponies, Flutter Ponies and Baby Ponies. Not to mention the pink Pony Dream Castle, the pink bejwelled carriages, the pink pony hair brushes and the pink furniture for the Dream Castle. My playroom was an explosion of pink plastic cuteness and probably every feminist mother's worse nightmare.
I also believe that the MLP obession slowly turned into another mother's worst nightmare, seeing that after 4000 odd views of My Little Pony - The Movie, that VHS tape mysteriously disappeared. I suspect my mother was not as fascinated and concerned with the blue clay monster killing the rainbow and leaving Flutterville in ruins as I was at age 5. Thankfully, Youtube has been invented since and my mother can't hide that behind an encyclopaedia.
I don't still have my pony figurines - even I have limitations as far as my immaturity and borderline insanity goes. I have however spent years of my nieces' childhood buying them large quantities of My Little Ponies, primarily so that I can play with them myself. They even have Pony Cinemas in the 4th generation!
With this former obsession with these psuchedelic creatures - surely I'm not asking for too much trying to find myself a t-shirt honouring it?
The world seems to think so. It's been an almost 10 year long hunt for this damn t-shirt and it's nowhere to be found. I have the Superman, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Bam Bam, Popeye and Super Ted t-shirts, but apparentlhy the retail industry are not as willing to give friendly and peaceful ponies any attention.
Until this sunny afternoon on Oxford Street. As I entered Primark under loud protests due to Sis-In-Law's urgent need for a cheap festival outfit, there she was. Pinkie Pie on turqoise cotton in the middle of the store that I normally refer to as Polyester Hell. And she was on sale. Poor Pinkie Pie being pimped out for spare change.
Primark - I will never pick on you and call you names again! This week.
Yes, I have a slight obsession with My Little Pony.
I mean, what is not to love about them? They look like ponies - my favourite fluffy animal after puppies - but on acid, they have a baby dragon for a pet and they think that friendship is magic!
This obsession have been ongoing for a long time. I believe it all started circa 1989 when my parents got me my first plastic pony with giant eyelashes, even more gigantic eyes and a pink mane that turned blue when you poured water on it. I was in love and continued down the route of Bridal Ponies, Flutter Ponies and Baby Ponies. Not to mention the pink Pony Dream Castle, the pink bejwelled carriages, the pink pony hair brushes and the pink furniture for the Dream Castle. My playroom was an explosion of pink plastic cuteness and probably every feminist mother's worse nightmare.
I also believe that the MLP obession slowly turned into another mother's worst nightmare, seeing that after 4000 odd views of My Little Pony - The Movie, that VHS tape mysteriously disappeared. I suspect my mother was not as fascinated and concerned with the blue clay monster killing the rainbow and leaving Flutterville in ruins as I was at age 5. Thankfully, Youtube has been invented since and my mother can't hide that behind an encyclopaedia.
I don't still have my pony figurines - even I have limitations as far as my immaturity and borderline insanity goes. I have however spent years of my nieces' childhood buying them large quantities of My Little Ponies, primarily so that I can play with them myself. They even have Pony Cinemas in the 4th generation!
With this former obsession with these psuchedelic creatures - surely I'm not asking for too much trying to find myself a t-shirt honouring it?
The world seems to think so. It's been an almost 10 year long hunt for this damn t-shirt and it's nowhere to be found. I have the Superman, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Bam Bam, Popeye and Super Ted t-shirts, but apparentlhy the retail industry are not as willing to give friendly and peaceful ponies any attention.
Until this sunny afternoon on Oxford Street. As I entered Primark under loud protests due to Sis-In-Law's urgent need for a cheap festival outfit, there she was. Pinkie Pie on turqoise cotton in the middle of the store that I normally refer to as Polyester Hell. And she was on sale. Poor Pinkie Pie being pimped out for spare change.
Primark - I will never pick on you and call you names again! This week.
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| Wrinkly and abused at Primark - now adopted into a caring home! |
Thursday 17 July 2014
166. Afternoon Tea for the Less-Than-Posh
4th July 2014, Kettner's, Soho, London
There are so many reasons the idea of my Baby Bro at afternoon tea made me chuckle. My Baby Bro likes man food, t-shirts & jeans and beer. Unfortunately for Baby Bro & Buddy and fortunately for me, they both have girlfriends who wanted to see more of London than pubs and football.
Upon the request from Sis-In-Law to go for afternoon tea when they were in town, I took it as a great opportunity to finally try out the high tea selection at Kettner's in Soho.
Now I'm a big lover of Kettner's Restaurant as a Sunday lunch destination with the girls and the Kettner's Champagne Bar for accidental gay pride celebrations. It is really the most beautiful venue and a true London social staple and I have never gone there and had a bad time in the four year's since I first stumbled across it. I also love afternoon tea and see it as a true pillar of British life, although the only people seemingly going for afternoon tea these days are tourists and people who can recall World War II.
So, the time had come to pick up the kids - my brother is a whopping 14 months younger than me - and walk to Soho for this wonderful, traditional afternoon outing. The girlfriends had dressed the part in dresses and cardigans and the boys wore... T-shirt, jeans and trainers. That's my brother in a nutshell and I love him for it.
He however did not love me too much as we walked through the hall of Kettner's, into the chandelier lit backroom filled with housewives planning charity events over tea. I do swear that one of the housewives kept topping up her tea out of a flask.
Needless to say, my brother was not crazy about this set up. No amounts of 'it looks awesome, really' through clenched teeth can hide the look of hatred I've known only too well since I stole my Baby Bro's Spider Man toy and buried it in the garden twenty odd years ago. The look that says 'this ain't over bitch, one of these days, you will wake up and find every single one of your Barbies without hair'. The prospect of sipping tea out of tiny cups whilst eating equally tiny sandwiches and equally tiny cakes just did not seem to strike his fancy.
After a gigantic Gin & Tonic however, he seemed to be over his initial scepticism and happily dug into the Wimbledon Cream Tea in honour of the tennis none of us understands the rules of. I love the outfits though. Essentially, Wimbledon Cream Team just means everything has strawberries in it as it turns out.
The afternoon tea at Kettner's did in no way disappoint, and this is from a person who counts afternoon tea as one of her top 3 food groups along with Ben&Jerry and Pizza East pizza, and is therefore rather picky with it. Filled with yummy finger sandwiches of both the classic and more inventive types, one of the most perfectly baked scones I've ever had, gorgeous macaroons and even more gorgeous strawberry parfait bites. Feast for the eyes, feast for my tummy.
And after finishing our tea and about a million pieces of cake, I believe my brother is now an afternoon tea convert who even got onboard with his girlfriend's plans for having people over for tea at her birthday. Amazing transformation in other words.
I knew you could do it Kettner's!
There are so many reasons the idea of my Baby Bro at afternoon tea made me chuckle. My Baby Bro likes man food, t-shirts & jeans and beer. Unfortunately for Baby Bro & Buddy and fortunately for me, they both have girlfriends who wanted to see more of London than pubs and football.
Upon the request from Sis-In-Law to go for afternoon tea when they were in town, I took it as a great opportunity to finally try out the high tea selection at Kettner's in Soho.
Now I'm a big lover of Kettner's Restaurant as a Sunday lunch destination with the girls and the Kettner's Champagne Bar for accidental gay pride celebrations. It is really the most beautiful venue and a true London social staple and I have never gone there and had a bad time in the four year's since I first stumbled across it. I also love afternoon tea and see it as a true pillar of British life, although the only people seemingly going for afternoon tea these days are tourists and people who can recall World War II.
So, the time had come to pick up the kids - my brother is a whopping 14 months younger than me - and walk to Soho for this wonderful, traditional afternoon outing. The girlfriends had dressed the part in dresses and cardigans and the boys wore... T-shirt, jeans and trainers. That's my brother in a nutshell and I love him for it.
He however did not love me too much as we walked through the hall of Kettner's, into the chandelier lit backroom filled with housewives planning charity events over tea. I do swear that one of the housewives kept topping up her tea out of a flask.
Needless to say, my brother was not crazy about this set up. No amounts of 'it looks awesome, really' through clenched teeth can hide the look of hatred I've known only too well since I stole my Baby Bro's Spider Man toy and buried it in the garden twenty odd years ago. The look that says 'this ain't over bitch, one of these days, you will wake up and find every single one of your Barbies without hair'. The prospect of sipping tea out of tiny cups whilst eating equally tiny sandwiches and equally tiny cakes just did not seem to strike his fancy.
After a gigantic Gin & Tonic however, he seemed to be over his initial scepticism and happily dug into the Wimbledon Cream Tea in honour of the tennis none of us understands the rules of. I love the outfits though. Essentially, Wimbledon Cream Team just means everything has strawberries in it as it turns out.
The afternoon tea at Kettner's did in no way disappoint, and this is from a person who counts afternoon tea as one of her top 3 food groups along with Ben&Jerry and Pizza East pizza, and is therefore rather picky with it. Filled with yummy finger sandwiches of both the classic and more inventive types, one of the most perfectly baked scones I've ever had, gorgeous macaroons and even more gorgeous strawberry parfait bites. Feast for the eyes, feast for my tummy.
And after finishing our tea and about a million pieces of cake, I believe my brother is now an afternoon tea convert who even got onboard with his girlfriend's plans for having people over for tea at her birthday. Amazing transformation in other words.
I knew you could do it Kettner's!
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| Afternoon Tea is always so much better with a glass of champagne. |
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| Amazing cake selection! |
Tuesday 15 July 2014
165. Breakfast for Giants
4th July 2014, City Café, City of London
The City Café on Worship Street was the first place where I ever had a proper Full English Breakfast.
It was on one of those dreadful rainy London days during one of those dreadful London hangovers one could only master up after 3 days of hard core partying I could still do at the age of 22. My friend the Canadian brought me to the City Café and it was the most fantastic thing ever. All that greasy and carby yumminess fixed me right up.
I have not been there since that time and no Full English has ever quite lived up to the expectations following that first one. That's why, when my brother requested a classically grubby English caff for breakfast following our prior night on hipster watch, I knew just the place.
So there we were, three hungover Swedes and 20 hungry builders all desperate for bacon, eggs and buttery toast.
I had forgotten that the portions at this place really does reflect the standard clientele - manual labourers who can get away with eating 2000 calories for breakfast. Sis-In-Law had ordered scrambled eggs and out from the kitchen a pile of egg the size of my egg came walking. I think that's when we all realised that this breakfast would not be good for anyone's health.
I'm sad to say that once I had my breakfast in front of me, I was actually quite disappointed. I think I have built up this idea of how great this City Mega Breakfast - yes that's the name - was, and once I had it again it just never reached that level of wonderful. I'd imagine it's a similar feeling to heroine addicts never being able to achieve that first ever high again in spite of chasing for it for years. Only that heroine addicts are skinny.
Is it possible to double your cholesterol in 20 minutes?
The City Café on Worship Street was the first place where I ever had a proper Full English Breakfast.
It was on one of those dreadful rainy London days during one of those dreadful London hangovers one could only master up after 3 days of hard core partying I could still do at the age of 22. My friend the Canadian brought me to the City Café and it was the most fantastic thing ever. All that greasy and carby yumminess fixed me right up.
I have not been there since that time and no Full English has ever quite lived up to the expectations following that first one. That's why, when my brother requested a classically grubby English caff for breakfast following our prior night on hipster watch, I knew just the place.
So there we were, three hungover Swedes and 20 hungry builders all desperate for bacon, eggs and buttery toast.
I had forgotten that the portions at this place really does reflect the standard clientele - manual labourers who can get away with eating 2000 calories for breakfast. Sis-In-Law had ordered scrambled eggs and out from the kitchen a pile of egg the size of my egg came walking. I think that's when we all realised that this breakfast would not be good for anyone's health.
I'm sad to say that once I had my breakfast in front of me, I was actually quite disappointed. I think I have built up this idea of how great this City Mega Breakfast - yes that's the name - was, and once I had it again it just never reached that level of wonderful. I'd imagine it's a similar feeling to heroine addicts never being able to achieve that first ever high again in spite of chasing for it for years. Only that heroine addicts are skinny.
Is it possible to double your cholesterol in 20 minutes?
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| Baby Bro, Sis-In-Law and Sis-In-Law's mountain of scrambled eggs. |
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| The vegetarian version - then imagine the full one... |
164. Bagel From Hell
3rd July 2014, Beigl Bake, Brick Lane, London
Beigl Bake is a Shoreditch institution to be counted on. Quite literally - it's open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Apart from the two days in May 2014 when the family members owning it apparently hated each other briefly and closed the place.
I doubt anyone just visiting London or Shoreditch would spot the place if it wasn't for the queue - it's a very plain looking hole in a Brick Lane wall. Still, there are so many things I love about this place; the misspelled sign that's been there for the past 40 years, the over the top cakes available next to the most delicious bagels I've ever eaten and even the borderline aggressive staff that are seemingly also there 24/7.
Now, it is obviously not the first time I'm in there. In fact, I blame the place for at least half of my Brick Lane pounds added on over the last year. Their bacon and cream cheese bagel is irresistible when staggering home at 3 AM. However, the bagel to have according to all other bagel lovers in London including Time Out and London Standard, is the salt beef bagel. So I decided to trust these other bagel lovers.
Now, for you so called bagel lovers... Why the effing hell do you put this in your mouths and keep it there?!?! And why do you trick other people into doing the same??? Why???
I started to change my mind about ticking this off The List the minute I had made my order and the angry lady at the counter starting to cut slabs of meat up. Meat hanging in the window. Meat looking the exact opposite from a nice steak at Hawksmoor. Don't get me wrong - even as an active non vegetarian I'm fully aware that meat is probably not from animals having gone happily in there sleep - but never have I had meat that looked so... Dead.
So I decided to do the mature thing and close my eyes, ignore the smell and just take a huge bite out of this supposed delicacy... I don't mean this in any sort of Freudian way, but it is by far the worst thing I have ever put in my mouth. And I have to ask again, why do people put this in their mouth voluntarily and then raves about it??? Are they masochists who wants the rest of us to suffer too? I. Do. No. Get. It.
So, to all my friends who have insisted that a salt beef bagel is the only bagel to go for - thank you for ruining 3 AM bagels for me forever!
Beigl Bake is a Shoreditch institution to be counted on. Quite literally - it's open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Apart from the two days in May 2014 when the family members owning it apparently hated each other briefly and closed the place.
I doubt anyone just visiting London or Shoreditch would spot the place if it wasn't for the queue - it's a very plain looking hole in a Brick Lane wall. Still, there are so many things I love about this place; the misspelled sign that's been there for the past 40 years, the over the top cakes available next to the most delicious bagels I've ever eaten and even the borderline aggressive staff that are seemingly also there 24/7.
Now, it is obviously not the first time I'm in there. In fact, I blame the place for at least half of my Brick Lane pounds added on over the last year. Their bacon and cream cheese bagel is irresistible when staggering home at 3 AM. However, the bagel to have according to all other bagel lovers in London including Time Out and London Standard, is the salt beef bagel. So I decided to trust these other bagel lovers.
Now, for you so called bagel lovers... Why the effing hell do you put this in your mouths and keep it there?!?! And why do you trick other people into doing the same??? Why???
I started to change my mind about ticking this off The List the minute I had made my order and the angry lady at the counter starting to cut slabs of meat up. Meat hanging in the window. Meat looking the exact opposite from a nice steak at Hawksmoor. Don't get me wrong - even as an active non vegetarian I'm fully aware that meat is probably not from animals having gone happily in there sleep - but never have I had meat that looked so... Dead.
So I decided to do the mature thing and close my eyes, ignore the smell and just take a huge bite out of this supposed delicacy... I don't mean this in any sort of Freudian way, but it is by far the worst thing I have ever put in my mouth. And I have to ask again, why do people put this in their mouth voluntarily and then raves about it??? Are they masochists who wants the rest of us to suffer too? I. Do. No. Get. It.
So, to all my friends who have insisted that a salt beef bagel is the only bagel to go for - thank you for ruining 3 AM bagels for me forever!
163. All is Well in Hipsterville
3rd July 2014, Well & Bucket, Shoreditch, London
I live in the Capital of Hipsterland and I need to keep up.
Usually I'm up to speed with the new pubs and bars of Shoreditch, but when I do miss them I do it to extremes. Well & Bucket is one of those places. It's been open for absolute ages, pretty much every single one of my London friends have been there both one and ten times and it is a four minute walk from my house. It is quite embarrassing to admit never having been even once. The cool kids would probably want to send me to a retirement home if they heard.
Well & Bucket is your typical Shoreditch hipster pub which is basically an ordinary pub with the most unusual twist the owners could think up. In the instance of Well & Bucket, the feature to separate them from the crowd, beyond having specialty beer stocked, are oysters and mini burgers.
As much as I mock the hipster digs of my little corner in London, I love all of the weird and wonderful finds on my doorstep in spite of the pretentiousness that comes with them. A burger and oyster pub is no exception! In the midst of all skinny jeans, vintage looking 50's style blouses, green hair dos and Buffalo platforms (yup, they're back) - it actually is a really lovely place.
It has that typical Shoreditch mix of rustic and quirky with a clientele made for people watching, which we all know I love. Baby Bro & Co also seemed to take a liking to the place - but then again, Baby Bro tends to take a liking to any place with a decent selection of odd looking beers. And whilst I enjoy watching hipsters in their natural environment, my brother enjoys mocking them in just about any surroundings, so this was a pretty decent fit for everyone involved! Apart from perhaps Sis-In-Law who was half asleep after her second beer. They've clearly had it tough on their holiday.
Leaving the place, I run into 10 boys and girls, all in complete lindy hop outfits. And things like that is why I love you Hipsterville.
I live in the Capital of Hipsterland and I need to keep up.
Usually I'm up to speed with the new pubs and bars of Shoreditch, but when I do miss them I do it to extremes. Well & Bucket is one of those places. It's been open for absolute ages, pretty much every single one of my London friends have been there both one and ten times and it is a four minute walk from my house. It is quite embarrassing to admit never having been even once. The cool kids would probably want to send me to a retirement home if they heard.
Well & Bucket is your typical Shoreditch hipster pub which is basically an ordinary pub with the most unusual twist the owners could think up. In the instance of Well & Bucket, the feature to separate them from the crowd, beyond having specialty beer stocked, are oysters and mini burgers.
As much as I mock the hipster digs of my little corner in London, I love all of the weird and wonderful finds on my doorstep in spite of the pretentiousness that comes with them. A burger and oyster pub is no exception! In the midst of all skinny jeans, vintage looking 50's style blouses, green hair dos and Buffalo platforms (yup, they're back) - it actually is a really lovely place.
It has that typical Shoreditch mix of rustic and quirky with a clientele made for people watching, which we all know I love. Baby Bro & Co also seemed to take a liking to the place - but then again, Baby Bro tends to take a liking to any place with a decent selection of odd looking beers. And whilst I enjoy watching hipsters in their natural environment, my brother enjoys mocking them in just about any surroundings, so this was a pretty decent fit for everyone involved! Apart from perhaps Sis-In-Law who was half asleep after her second beer. They've clearly had it tough on their holiday.
Leaving the place, I run into 10 boys and girls, all in complete lindy hop outfits. And things like that is why I love you Hipsterville.
Sunday 13 July 2014
162. Best Damn Burger in Town
3rd July 2014, Patty And Bun, Liverpool Street, London
Who doesn't love a good burger?
Following the successful hunt for the best Bloody Mary in London last year I have continued with searching for the best burger in town.
You'd think finding a good burger can not be that damn difficult right - at the end of the day it's just bread and meat? Wrong. People would be shocked at the levels of disgustingness burgers in this city with surroundings can be at. We're talking paper dry and paper tasting patties on equally paper dry and paper tasting bread. We're talking gourmet burgers that gave 4 people food poisoning. We're talking... McDonalds.
There has also been a few amazing ones. So, before getting to the best burger in London, these are the runner ups:
3. Boisdale, Canary Wharf: Their Truffle and Gruyere Burger will literally melt in your mouth, it has great grown up flavours whilst still tasting good old fashioned burger. It needs to be from the Canary Wharf branch though, The Boisdale one comes with off menu side effects that I can not recommend.
2. Draft House, Battersea: A surprise find in land of the posh. They have their amazing Rare Bread Burger that is close to perfection as far as burgers go, it has added bone marrow to make sure it's super juicy and delicious, perfect after a day in the park.
1. Patty And Bun, Liverpool Street: I stumbled across this burger master piece by pure coincidence whilst having my Baby Bro and his gang over for the weekend. With one of his friends also being a hamburger lover I found myself dragged down to Liverpool Street for dinner shortly following their arrival in my flat.
I must admit, I was rather sceptical at the idea of having a burger in the City of London out of a hole in the wall. Far too many lunches have been ruined that way whilst working in the prior primary finance district of London.
After ordering myself a Smokey Robinson Burger and queuing up behind what felt like every city worker commuting from Liverpool Street we sat down next to the war memorial in the chaos that is London rush hour to enjoy our burgers. And oh my god, this must be the food of gods. The perfect brioche bun, the perfect burger, the perfect seasoning and the perfect pickle. I'll take this over a Michelin star place any day of the week.
I will get so fat when I start working in the City again.
Who doesn't love a good burger?
Following the successful hunt for the best Bloody Mary in London last year I have continued with searching for the best burger in town.
You'd think finding a good burger can not be that damn difficult right - at the end of the day it's just bread and meat? Wrong. People would be shocked at the levels of disgustingness burgers in this city with surroundings can be at. We're talking paper dry and paper tasting patties on equally paper dry and paper tasting bread. We're talking gourmet burgers that gave 4 people food poisoning. We're talking... McDonalds.
There has also been a few amazing ones. So, before getting to the best burger in London, these are the runner ups:
3. Boisdale, Canary Wharf: Their Truffle and Gruyere Burger will literally melt in your mouth, it has great grown up flavours whilst still tasting good old fashioned burger. It needs to be from the Canary Wharf branch though, The Boisdale one comes with off menu side effects that I can not recommend.
2. Draft House, Battersea: A surprise find in land of the posh. They have their amazing Rare Bread Burger that is close to perfection as far as burgers go, it has added bone marrow to make sure it's super juicy and delicious, perfect after a day in the park.
1. Patty And Bun, Liverpool Street: I stumbled across this burger master piece by pure coincidence whilst having my Baby Bro and his gang over for the weekend. With one of his friends also being a hamburger lover I found myself dragged down to Liverpool Street for dinner shortly following their arrival in my flat.
I must admit, I was rather sceptical at the idea of having a burger in the City of London out of a hole in the wall. Far too many lunches have been ruined that way whilst working in the prior primary finance district of London.
After ordering myself a Smokey Robinson Burger and queuing up behind what felt like every city worker commuting from Liverpool Street we sat down next to the war memorial in the chaos that is London rush hour to enjoy our burgers. And oh my god, this must be the food of gods. The perfect brioche bun, the perfect burger, the perfect seasoning and the perfect pickle. I'll take this over a Michelin star place any day of the week.
I will get so fat when I start working in the City again.
Saturday 12 July 2014
161. French AND Funny? C'est impossible, non?
1st July 2014, Soho Theatre, Soho, London
It's not that I hate the French, some of them are just effing annoying.
My rumoured disliking of the French is bit of a reoccurring joke in my circle of friends but I need to clarify this again; I don't hate the French and I happen to have quite a few friends from the land of cheese and wine whom I care for dearly. However, there has also been a few too many unpleasant and thematic run ins with people from said country of cheese and wine to be a coincidence - the percentage of self loving personalities completely lacking in the sense of humour department is higher there. And to make my case even clearer, most of my Frenchie friends actually agree with me on this one.
For example, this romanticised idea people have about Paris and its' greatness - just get over it. It is not a nice city in any way, shape or form, and I am yet to meet a single individual, originally from Paris, who has a normal level of manners and decency. Paris is the city where I'm convinced that waiting staff actually gets bonuses paid out for being rude, where asking someone for direction is an equal action to slapping someone in the face and where people continuously refuse to speak English, if they have even agreed to learn it in the first place. Yes, French was the on trend language in the 18th and 19th centuries and internationally accepted, but the world has moved on - so should you.
Since I have struggled with the French limitations to self distance for some time, I have been very keen to go check out Gad Elmaleh - French comedian who can actually laugh at himself and his national origin. Let's face it, nationalities and their quirks are hilarious and I can not for the life of me understand why it is such a big deal joking about them.
Me and Hell's Bells met up for Gad Elmaleh's first ever show in English, at Soho Theatre along with the entire French population of London.
This guy is really, really funny. It's been a long time since I spent 90 minutes laughing and even longer since I could get away with agreeing to statements at that level of political incorrectness. There were the digs at Canadians, Moroccans, French and Brits, some hugely eye opening statement as to women's response to pick up lines and the bizarreness behind many contradictory religious values. On top of his ability to pick up on engaging and entertaining topics, he has facial expressions and a body language that takes the hilarity of what he is saying to a whole new level.
I wish there had been nothing in the theatre to distract me from such a great show. Sadly, the benches at Soho Theatre are the most uncomfortable things ever built - why is there a bump in the middle of the seat making you spend 90 otherwise pleasant minutes squirming in your seat. I swear, there have been people in the electrical chair more comfortable with their seating arrangements.
Dearest Gad - please make sure your next performance is not at Soho Theatre, my ass can not survive another minute on that bench of death.
It's not that I hate the French, some of them are just effing annoying.
My rumoured disliking of the French is bit of a reoccurring joke in my circle of friends but I need to clarify this again; I don't hate the French and I happen to have quite a few friends from the land of cheese and wine whom I care for dearly. However, there has also been a few too many unpleasant and thematic run ins with people from said country of cheese and wine to be a coincidence - the percentage of self loving personalities completely lacking in the sense of humour department is higher there. And to make my case even clearer, most of my Frenchie friends actually agree with me on this one.
For example, this romanticised idea people have about Paris and its' greatness - just get over it. It is not a nice city in any way, shape or form, and I am yet to meet a single individual, originally from Paris, who has a normal level of manners and decency. Paris is the city where I'm convinced that waiting staff actually gets bonuses paid out for being rude, where asking someone for direction is an equal action to slapping someone in the face and where people continuously refuse to speak English, if they have even agreed to learn it in the first place. Yes, French was the on trend language in the 18th and 19th centuries and internationally accepted, but the world has moved on - so should you.
Since I have struggled with the French limitations to self distance for some time, I have been very keen to go check out Gad Elmaleh - French comedian who can actually laugh at himself and his national origin. Let's face it, nationalities and their quirks are hilarious and I can not for the life of me understand why it is such a big deal joking about them.
Me and Hell's Bells met up for Gad Elmaleh's first ever show in English, at Soho Theatre along with the entire French population of London.
This guy is really, really funny. It's been a long time since I spent 90 minutes laughing and even longer since I could get away with agreeing to statements at that level of political incorrectness. There were the digs at Canadians, Moroccans, French and Brits, some hugely eye opening statement as to women's response to pick up lines and the bizarreness behind many contradictory religious values. On top of his ability to pick up on engaging and entertaining topics, he has facial expressions and a body language that takes the hilarity of what he is saying to a whole new level.
I wish there had been nothing in the theatre to distract me from such a great show. Sadly, the benches at Soho Theatre are the most uncomfortable things ever built - why is there a bump in the middle of the seat making you spend 90 otherwise pleasant minutes squirming in your seat. I swear, there have been people in the electrical chair more comfortable with their seating arrangements.
Dearest Gad - please make sure your next performance is not at Soho Theatre, my ass can not survive another minute on that bench of death.
Monday 7 July 2014
160. The One Restaurant In Town
28th June 2014, Nils Grill & Bar, Strängnäs, Sweden
My home town is lovely in summer. Full of bars and restaurants in the marina, gorgeous gardens and happy cheerful people everywhere.
In winter however, there is exactly one restaurant open in the central parts of town that is not a pizza or hot dog place. Needless to say, as someone who barely knows how to use her oven, I would not ever be successful living back home permanently again.
I have heard plenty of great things about this place since it opened and have been looking to check it out every time I've been home since it opened without success. This time however, I got lucky and got a dinner date booked in with two out of four girls from my original Team that made sure my childhood and teens were filled with so much fun and craziness.
As far as first impressions goes, I was sceptical from the moment I stepped out of the car. This restaurant is located in what used to be one of two high schools back home, and walking towards the old cafeteria to actually pay for food was one hell of an absurd feeling. Part of me did expect getting served questionable mash with questionable sausages by a questionable lunch lady.
Once inside though, I completely forgot I was in what used to be a school cafeteria. Which I assume was the plan when they set the place up. As it turns out, it is a really cosy venue with lovely attentive staff and a great selection of both food and wine. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised.
Every time I see my girls from back in the day, it always is one of those sort of great nights that you can only have with people who have known you throughout kindergarden, basketball practice and high school graduations. Throughout the night there were a lot of trips down memory lane (like the plastic dragon with pink wings in Bulgaria), a lot of updates on current events in all of our lives (like scientific discoveries and travels across the globe) and planning future gang outings (Copenhagen baby!) seeing as the only times we all got together these days are either for hen do's or weddings. Although we are loosing a third member of the Team to the institution of marriage shortly following an exciting proposal by the sea, we should not need people to tie the knot for us all to meet up.
And what a great venue for a night out with these girls. Delicious, fruity rose wine perfect for the summer months, one extremely helpful head waiter and the best steak I have ever had. Yes, I credit them with having better steaks than New York, Argentina, Australia and Japan. Absolutely amazing, it's worth going just for the sake if that steak.
If you ever happen to stop by Strängnäs, Sweden - go check this place out, it is absolutely worth the drive from Stockholm!
My home town is lovely in summer. Full of bars and restaurants in the marina, gorgeous gardens and happy cheerful people everywhere.
In winter however, there is exactly one restaurant open in the central parts of town that is not a pizza or hot dog place. Needless to say, as someone who barely knows how to use her oven, I would not ever be successful living back home permanently again.
I have heard plenty of great things about this place since it opened and have been looking to check it out every time I've been home since it opened without success. This time however, I got lucky and got a dinner date booked in with two out of four girls from my original Team that made sure my childhood and teens were filled with so much fun and craziness.
As far as first impressions goes, I was sceptical from the moment I stepped out of the car. This restaurant is located in what used to be one of two high schools back home, and walking towards the old cafeteria to actually pay for food was one hell of an absurd feeling. Part of me did expect getting served questionable mash with questionable sausages by a questionable lunch lady.
Once inside though, I completely forgot I was in what used to be a school cafeteria. Which I assume was the plan when they set the place up. As it turns out, it is a really cosy venue with lovely attentive staff and a great selection of both food and wine. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised.
Every time I see my girls from back in the day, it always is one of those sort of great nights that you can only have with people who have known you throughout kindergarden, basketball practice and high school graduations. Throughout the night there were a lot of trips down memory lane (like the plastic dragon with pink wings in Bulgaria), a lot of updates on current events in all of our lives (like scientific discoveries and travels across the globe) and planning future gang outings (Copenhagen baby!) seeing as the only times we all got together these days are either for hen do's or weddings. Although we are loosing a third member of the Team to the institution of marriage shortly following an exciting proposal by the sea, we should not need people to tie the knot for us all to meet up.
And what a great venue for a night out with these girls. Delicious, fruity rose wine perfect for the summer months, one extremely helpful head waiter and the best steak I have ever had. Yes, I credit them with having better steaks than New York, Argentina, Australia and Japan. Absolutely amazing, it's worth going just for the sake if that steak.
If you ever happen to stop by Strängnäs, Sweden - go check this place out, it is absolutely worth the drive from Stockholm!
 |
| Two out of four isn't too shabby! |
159. All Downhill From Here
26th June 2014, Gröna Lund, Stockholm, Sweden
Good thing my nieces love rollercoasters as much as I do!
When my youngest munchkin was offered the chance to choose between going horse back riding or going roller coaster riding for her 8th birthday present, the answer was without a doubt the rollercoasters. And as her aunt, it is my job to ride rollercoasters with my two favourite girls if they want to go ride roller coasters!
All said and done, we headed off to Stockholm on an early train to get as many rollercoasters in as possible. It was hard to tell who was more excited, auntie or nieces!
As icing on the cake, Bestie had taken time out of her busy schedule to come hang with us on my favourite amusement field of all. Sadly, I haven't been there for years and it really was bloody time to go back.
We're literally just through the gates when both nieces grab hold of me and leads me straight to a glorious creation entitled the Wild Mouse. Chances are the park bosses did not quite think the name through as the word 'mouse' in Swedish does not just mean the cheese eating rodent (well...), but a very specific part of female anatomy that would not only be illegal to pay and queue up for, but also go against a number of my feministic values. I did not enjoy being in that queue.
My nieces however, were not bothered by this unfortunate name and spent the 35 minutes waiting for our turn jumping up and down with excitement. To quote my littlest munchkin; 'I'm so excited my mouth is watering'. You get her point.
After the initial fear of death and the expectation of its' immediate occurrence, we went down our first hill and then it all came screaming back to me. I ABSOLUTELY LOVE ROLLERCOASTERS.
So, after the single cart premiere ride, we went one to suspended rollercoasters, kiddie rollercoasters, wooden roller coasters and best of all, the classic and original roller coaster that was the first of it's kind in Sweden. It was also coincidentally the first rollercoaster I ever went on. Also the first roller coaster my mother went on. I don't think she has quite forgiven me since I made her do that.
Early afternoon, we were joined by the second greatest roller coaster enthusiast of the family, a.k.a my BIg Sis. And after a refreshing beer in the sunshine for me, Sis and Bestie and a bumper car ride for the girls, the roller coaster riding got properly going and we managed us another 10 or so rides. Plus breaks for popcorn, plastic duck shooting, plastic elephant riding and a few more beer.
After a wonderful but rather exhausting day with four of my favourite ladies in the world, I bribed the kids with candy to get them to leave for the train home and we said goodbye to the roller coasters this time around.
Now I just need to find the best roller coasters in the UK to keep this habit going!
Good thing my nieces love rollercoasters as much as I do!
When my youngest munchkin was offered the chance to choose between going horse back riding or going roller coaster riding for her 8th birthday present, the answer was without a doubt the rollercoasters. And as her aunt, it is my job to ride rollercoasters with my two favourite girls if they want to go ride roller coasters!
All said and done, we headed off to Stockholm on an early train to get as many rollercoasters in as possible. It was hard to tell who was more excited, auntie or nieces!
As icing on the cake, Bestie had taken time out of her busy schedule to come hang with us on my favourite amusement field of all. Sadly, I haven't been there for years and it really was bloody time to go back.
We're literally just through the gates when both nieces grab hold of me and leads me straight to a glorious creation entitled the Wild Mouse. Chances are the park bosses did not quite think the name through as the word 'mouse' in Swedish does not just mean the cheese eating rodent (well...), but a very specific part of female anatomy that would not only be illegal to pay and queue up for, but also go against a number of my feministic values. I did not enjoy being in that queue.
My nieces however, were not bothered by this unfortunate name and spent the 35 minutes waiting for our turn jumping up and down with excitement. To quote my littlest munchkin; 'I'm so excited my mouth is watering'. You get her point.
After the initial fear of death and the expectation of its' immediate occurrence, we went down our first hill and then it all came screaming back to me. I ABSOLUTELY LOVE ROLLERCOASTERS.
So, after the single cart premiere ride, we went one to suspended rollercoasters, kiddie rollercoasters, wooden roller coasters and best of all, the classic and original roller coaster that was the first of it's kind in Sweden. It was also coincidentally the first rollercoaster I ever went on. Also the first roller coaster my mother went on. I don't think she has quite forgiven me since I made her do that.
Early afternoon, we were joined by the second greatest roller coaster enthusiast of the family, a.k.a my BIg Sis. And after a refreshing beer in the sunshine for me, Sis and Bestie and a bumper car ride for the girls, the roller coaster riding got properly going and we managed us another 10 or so rides. Plus breaks for popcorn, plastic duck shooting, plastic elephant riding and a few more beer.
After a wonderful but rather exhausting day with four of my favourite ladies in the world, I bribed the kids with candy to get them to leave for the train home and we said goodbye to the roller coasters this time around.
Now I just need to find the best roller coasters in the UK to keep this habit going!
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| Birthday Girl excited about the roller coasters to come! |
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| Biggest munchkin enjoying breakfast and gossip magazines on the train to Stockholm. |
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| Love Tunnel Ride |
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| Stuffed Animal Galore! |
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| Popcorn Break |
Sunday 6 July 2014
158. Strawberry Fields Forever
24th June 2014, Morrarö, Strängnäs, Sweden
Nothing says summer like Swedish strawberries.
Swedish strawberries are the most delicious thing there ever is and during the brief four week period in June and July that they are ripe you can eat them on the daily and still not get fed up.
What is even more amazing is the fact that you can head out to massive strawberry fields and pick your own berries whilst eating as many strawberries as you possibly can, fresh off the fields.
My parents did this a lot with us when we were little and school was out for summer, so whilst being home with my nieces for their school break it seemed like the thing to do.
Once out on the farm my nieces soon lost interest in the strawberry picking and went to check out the new lambs instead. And agreed, they were really cute lambs. It may be that strawberry picking was one of those childhood outings that adults found really lovely but as a kid you found them really rather boring. But nevertheless, those we remember as very picturesque. Now that I'm semi grown up, I'm loving it as much as my parents probably did and therefore felt the need to build false childhood memories for my nieces as well.
An hour of picking resulted in 2.5 kilograms of beautiful, bright red, sweet strawberries in our baskets and probably abut as much eaten in the same period of time.
If I had to survive on Swedish strawberries only for the rest of my life - I think I could be OK with that.
Nothing says summer like Swedish strawberries.
Swedish strawberries are the most delicious thing there ever is and during the brief four week period in June and July that they are ripe you can eat them on the daily and still not get fed up.
What is even more amazing is the fact that you can head out to massive strawberry fields and pick your own berries whilst eating as many strawberries as you possibly can, fresh off the fields.
My parents did this a lot with us when we were little and school was out for summer, so whilst being home with my nieces for their school break it seemed like the thing to do.
Once out on the farm my nieces soon lost interest in the strawberry picking and went to check out the new lambs instead. And agreed, they were really cute lambs. It may be that strawberry picking was one of those childhood outings that adults found really lovely but as a kid you found them really rather boring. But nevertheless, those we remember as very picturesque. Now that I'm semi grown up, I'm loving it as much as my parents probably did and therefore felt the need to build false childhood memories for my nieces as well.
An hour of picking resulted in 2.5 kilograms of beautiful, bright red, sweet strawberries in our baskets and probably abut as much eaten in the same period of time.
If I had to survive on Swedish strawberries only for the rest of my life - I think I could be OK with that.
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| Smallest niece before finding the lambs. |
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| Biggest niece at full speed strawberry picking. |
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| The harvest! |
157. If it Walks, Talks and Looks Like a Frog....
21st June 2014, Hyde Park, London
On the long list of weird Swedish midsummer traditions, there is the frog dance.
Although it isn't technically just a frog dance. The dancing and singing also cover foxes on ice, violin players and tripping crows. But for some reason the frogs are the ones that seem to stick with people.
The concept is very simple, there's a floral maypole that Dr Freud would have a thing or two to say about, and people will dance and sing around it in celebration of summer. Although very few of the songs relate to summer. The frog song for example is primarily about how funny the frogs look and that they have no tails or ears. It's quite mean to frogs really.
Anyone who know me will be very well aware that I do not enjoy dancing. At all. I do not go out with the intention of dancing and if it does happen it can be guaranteed that I am either extremely drunk or stuck in a social situation where dancing is required as part of the etiquette protocol. And even then I'm doing it under protest, wrapping it up as quickly as humanly possible.
The frog dancing however is not so much dancing, but jumping - so I joined in this time around. The last time that happened I was wearing a scrunchy, which means I was too young to have any sense and too old to blame not walking as a reason for refusing to dance.
So me, Hell's Bells, Babushka about a 1000 other people joined forces around the smallest maypole in the world. Another few thousands were watching the event of which the majority looked like they'd mistakenly wandered into a mental institution by mistake.
I decided the reasonable thing to do was grab the closest confused person and force them to join the festivities. In this case a semi naked Australian man. I really wish it had been someone wearing at least a shirt. But I have to hand it to semi naked Australian man, he did hell of an air violin and an even better air flute.
And guess what, frog dancing actually turned out to be a lot of fun. And great as cardio!
On the long list of weird Swedish midsummer traditions, there is the frog dance.
Although it isn't technically just a frog dance. The dancing and singing also cover foxes on ice, violin players and tripping crows. But for some reason the frogs are the ones that seem to stick with people.
The concept is very simple, there's a floral maypole that Dr Freud would have a thing or two to say about, and people will dance and sing around it in celebration of summer. Although very few of the songs relate to summer. The frog song for example is primarily about how funny the frogs look and that they have no tails or ears. It's quite mean to frogs really.
Anyone who know me will be very well aware that I do not enjoy dancing. At all. I do not go out with the intention of dancing and if it does happen it can be guaranteed that I am either extremely drunk or stuck in a social situation where dancing is required as part of the etiquette protocol. And even then I'm doing it under protest, wrapping it up as quickly as humanly possible.
The frog dancing however is not so much dancing, but jumping - so I joined in this time around. The last time that happened I was wearing a scrunchy, which means I was too young to have any sense and too old to blame not walking as a reason for refusing to dance.
So me, Hell's Bells, Babushka about a 1000 other people joined forces around the smallest maypole in the world. Another few thousands were watching the event of which the majority looked like they'd mistakenly wandered into a mental institution by mistake.
I decided the reasonable thing to do was grab the closest confused person and force them to join the festivities. In this case a semi naked Australian man. I really wish it had been someone wearing at least a shirt. But I have to hand it to semi naked Australian man, he did hell of an air violin and an even better air flute.
And guess what, frog dancing actually turned out to be a lot of fun. And great as cardio!
Wednesday 2 July 2014
156. Flower Power
21st June 2014, Hyde Park, London
For Swedish people, midsummer is a big freaking deal. Only beaten by Christmas in the importance ranks, and that is quite frankly only because you get presents at Christmas.
An ideal midsummer is a gorgeous Swedish feast eaten on the front porch of a country side cottage, dancing, singing and laughing in the glorious sunshine and to round things up at midnight; picking your seven types of flowers to place under your pillow with the expectation to dream of the man you'll marry, because that is obviously all us girls think about (it is also the only time Swedes are allowed to be sexist).
In reality, it will rain and then rain some more, it will even rain on the god damn mustard herring that no one likes anyway. No one will sing other than the guy with the guitar who really should find himself another hobby or at the very least learn a third song. There will frequently be at least one official row ending up with one spouse crying over the meatballs and the other finishing exactly all of the snaps before 9 pm. Oh, and after indulging in wine and vodka all day, the seven flowers will be weeds from the back garden of the cottage plus half of the bouquet you brought as a hostess gift and after a day of copious amounts of alcohol in the rain, your dreams will be nightmares often involving Alice Cooper. Or Ozzy Osbourne. Both if you're unlucky. Someone will also spill red wine on your white dress and proceed to tell you that it's ludicrous spending 250 pounds on a white dress. Someone will remain single forever.
I have since long given up the hope as far as the perfect midsummer goes. The less you try to make it perfect, the greater the chance of having an awesome day.
This time though, I was determined to at least have a flower garland, just like in the old paintings of midsummer celebrations from a time when people had nothing better to do than arrange flowers into crowns, stuff their own sausages and make sweaters from scratch. Whilst I will never knit or pretend to be a butcher, flower garlands are enough of a non commitment for me to get onboard with it.
Showing up at Hyde Park I shortly realise I have no god damn clue how to make a flower garland. We never did them in my house growing up - four kids in I suspect my parents considered midsummer a success as long as none of the kids killed each other in the car ride to the country.
Thankfully, another Swedish girl saw me attempting to tie four roses together to make a square and place it on my head after which she kindly took mercy on me and helped me get started with the process properly. I bet they made flower garlands in her house. I also bet she's an only child.
45 minutes later, I was no longer a flower garland virgin. And that is probably as close to an idyllic midsummer as I will ever get!
For Swedish people, midsummer is a big freaking deal. Only beaten by Christmas in the importance ranks, and that is quite frankly only because you get presents at Christmas.
An ideal midsummer is a gorgeous Swedish feast eaten on the front porch of a country side cottage, dancing, singing and laughing in the glorious sunshine and to round things up at midnight; picking your seven types of flowers to place under your pillow with the expectation to dream of the man you'll marry, because that is obviously all us girls think about (it is also the only time Swedes are allowed to be sexist).
In reality, it will rain and then rain some more, it will even rain on the god damn mustard herring that no one likes anyway. No one will sing other than the guy with the guitar who really should find himself another hobby or at the very least learn a third song. There will frequently be at least one official row ending up with one spouse crying over the meatballs and the other finishing exactly all of the snaps before 9 pm. Oh, and after indulging in wine and vodka all day, the seven flowers will be weeds from the back garden of the cottage plus half of the bouquet you brought as a hostess gift and after a day of copious amounts of alcohol in the rain, your dreams will be nightmares often involving Alice Cooper. Or Ozzy Osbourne. Both if you're unlucky. Someone will also spill red wine on your white dress and proceed to tell you that it's ludicrous spending 250 pounds on a white dress. Someone will remain single forever.
I have since long given up the hope as far as the perfect midsummer goes. The less you try to make it perfect, the greater the chance of having an awesome day.
This time though, I was determined to at least have a flower garland, just like in the old paintings of midsummer celebrations from a time when people had nothing better to do than arrange flowers into crowns, stuff their own sausages and make sweaters from scratch. Whilst I will never knit or pretend to be a butcher, flower garlands are enough of a non commitment for me to get onboard with it.
Showing up at Hyde Park I shortly realise I have no god damn clue how to make a flower garland. We never did them in my house growing up - four kids in I suspect my parents considered midsummer a success as long as none of the kids killed each other in the car ride to the country.
Thankfully, another Swedish girl saw me attempting to tie four roses together to make a square and place it on my head after which she kindly took mercy on me and helped me get started with the process properly. I bet they made flower garlands in her house. I also bet she's an only child.
45 minutes later, I was no longer a flower garland virgin. And that is probably as close to an idyllic midsummer as I will ever get!
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| Well worth 45 minutes of rose thorns in my fingers! |
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| My first flower garland student! |
Tuesday 1 July 2014
155. The Other Side of the Bank
20th June 2014, Northbank Restaurant, St Pauls, London
Shock and horror - me and Lollipop Woman have managed two dinner dates in less than two months, which for us is rather amazing... Granted, there were two cancellations between Date 1 and Date 2, but we are making some much needed progress in our catching up pace!
Northbank Restaurant is amazingly located on the north side (shockingly!) of the river overlooking the gorgeous bridges of London, and with these views you'd be crazy not to sit outside and enjoy them in the summer.
Defining 'summer' can however as many of us know be a tricky thing... Especially if you place a girl from sunny South Africa at the same table as a girl from chilly Sweden. By the time the former had started to turn a light shade of blue, the latter agreed that maybe it wasn't quite summer yet as far as dinner outside goes. With our without wine in our systems.
So we moved to the bar. Where the nice men with the alcohol live. That was a good, slash bad, decision. But ultimately an enjoyable one. And rather inspirational as that is where the nice men with the alcohol do their magic with the alcohol. That's what we needed. Inspiration to drink alcoholic beverages. We usually struggle with that.
There was food. At dinner. I have no idea what was eaten. I do however know that the nice men with the alcohol for some unknown reason did not only support our rather ridiculous behaviour, but also encouraged it by fuelling it with shots. Not just any shots, but the most amazing shots ever - the Cock Sucking Cowboys.
These shots made the conversation go from semi conservative yet silly to very open, loud and a whole other level of hilarious. There was the revisiting of absurd nights out in Edinburgh and being accidentally dry humped by a chicken turning out to be Homer Simpson, having an impromptu post birthday party dinner of chocolate pralines in bed and the dateability matrixes carefully constructed, tested and developed during working hours. Not sure the rest of the restaurant had intended to hear every single detail of our adventures throughout the last seven years, but we will happily blame the shots. Or the cocktails. Or the wine. One of those.
More cocksucking cowboys to the people!
Shock and horror - me and Lollipop Woman have managed two dinner dates in less than two months, which for us is rather amazing... Granted, there were two cancellations between Date 1 and Date 2, but we are making some much needed progress in our catching up pace!
Northbank Restaurant is amazingly located on the north side (shockingly!) of the river overlooking the gorgeous bridges of London, and with these views you'd be crazy not to sit outside and enjoy them in the summer.
Defining 'summer' can however as many of us know be a tricky thing... Especially if you place a girl from sunny South Africa at the same table as a girl from chilly Sweden. By the time the former had started to turn a light shade of blue, the latter agreed that maybe it wasn't quite summer yet as far as dinner outside goes. With our without wine in our systems.
So we moved to the bar. Where the nice men with the alcohol live. That was a good, slash bad, decision. But ultimately an enjoyable one. And rather inspirational as that is where the nice men with the alcohol do their magic with the alcohol. That's what we needed. Inspiration to drink alcoholic beverages. We usually struggle with that.
There was food. At dinner. I have no idea what was eaten. I do however know that the nice men with the alcohol for some unknown reason did not only support our rather ridiculous behaviour, but also encouraged it by fuelling it with shots. Not just any shots, but the most amazing shots ever - the Cock Sucking Cowboys.
These shots made the conversation go from semi conservative yet silly to very open, loud and a whole other level of hilarious. There was the revisiting of absurd nights out in Edinburgh and being accidentally dry humped by a chicken turning out to be Homer Simpson, having an impromptu post birthday party dinner of chocolate pralines in bed and the dateability matrixes carefully constructed, tested and developed during working hours. Not sure the rest of the restaurant had intended to hear every single detail of our adventures throughout the last seven years, but we will happily blame the shots. Or the cocktails. Or the wine. One of those.
More cocksucking cowboys to the people!
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| Lollipop Woman and one of the genius barmen's beautiful creations! |
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| Cock Sucking Cowboys! |
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