Squally showers and insistent rain beat down a tattoo on the pavement beneath our feet. The glistening slabs, uniform in their grey municipality, are punctuated only by a discarded fried chicken wing here, a sad single shoe there.
“With its low lighting, shabby chic whitewashed interior and wooden chairs, not to mention Jill greeting guests with “Bonsoir!”, you could almost convince me that I was in France.”
“Outlaw’s at The Capital sounds rather dramatic, like a Sam Pekinpah Western. It is not; it is a very calm, well-mannered, perfectly turned out restaurant in Knightsbridge…”
“The ox is one of those plentiful beasts who just keeps on giving. If we’re not using it for ploughing or threshing, then it’s pulling carts in India. If you’re not in India, then you’re probably eating the thing alongside a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pâpe.”
“When a new restaurant opens in St James, critics from leftie-communist-vegetarian newspapers sigh heavily; they reach for the thesaurus to find a superfluity of words to describe what was an overpriced, mediocre meal…”
“Launceston Place in Kensington is best known for being Princess Diana’s favourite restaurant. Tucked away in a pretty townhouse on a quiet street far from the madding crowd…”
“You’re in Hoxton of a Thursday evening. It’s time for dinner. One of two things is probably true: either you’re a hipster, so you don’t eat, or you’re in a Vietnamese restaurant, disappointed that you couldn’t bring your own booze…”
Estella visits the latest outpost of the Obika mozzarella empire on Charlotte Street, where she samples the finest white stuff known to mankind…
Veteran American actor, comedian and director Mel Brooks reportedly stated “sex is like pizza, even when it’s bad, it’s good” and I am inclined to sort-of agree, although the focus of my attentions in this context falls on the pizza.