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.
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| 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. |
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