Being addressed as fucker would actually put me in a better frame of mind to enjoy a meal.
I suspect only Americans can genuinely get away with that. Though it might add a particularly interesting element to the English dining experience. A bit of light abuse with the soup de jour.
The cruel world of gentrification doesn't want you to eat egg and chips and relax with a cup of coffee that may not be fair trade and picked by one-legged virgins who read Coleridge.
I think that the English are great at cooking certain things. Between you and me, vegetables aren't usually one of them. My husband never really liked vegetables until I cooked for him.
Why do these things set my pulse racing a bit? It's ridiculous. That place is just lovely. It's heartening to see a sensitive conversion of an interior that's 'only' thirty-something years old. How telling that there are even 60s and 70s butchers to be converted in Paris. I don't suppose a new one has opened in Britain since the Suez Crisis.
We once had a really pompous meal in a Barcelona restaurant where the menu was delivered in the form of long nonsensical speeches, which were repeated when each course came. They all ended with things like "... overlaid with a SPUME of chlorophyll". Of course it was all tiny dolls house food. The restaurant was called Moo, and it was inside a hotel called Omm. Or maybe it was the other way round.
Somehow this is my all-time nightmare and ultimate fantasy dining experience combined:
i didn't actually believe it would ever close and then one day, it's light was out! so sad, so incredibly sad. thank you for lovely writing about it though.
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I suspect only Americans can genuinely get away with that. Though it might add a particularly interesting element to the English dining experience.
A bit of light abuse with the soup de jour.
The cruel world of gentrification doesn't want you to eat egg and chips and relax with a cup of coffee that may not be fair trade and picked by one-legged virgins who read Coleridge.
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Between you and me, vegetables aren't usually one of them.
My husband never really liked vegetables until I cooked for him.
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We once had a really pompous meal in a Barcelona restaurant where the menu was delivered in the form of long nonsensical speeches, which were repeated when each course came. They all ended with things like "... overlaid with a SPUME of chlorophyll". Of course it was all tiny dolls house food. The restaurant was called Moo, and it was inside a hotel called Omm. Or maybe it was the other way round.
Somehow this is my all-time nightmare and ultimate fantasy dining experience combined:
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