Whilst bears everywhere are majestically prowling and growling to everybody that they told them so, stocks around the world continue their downward spiral. This does not affect Manchester as much as it used to, as the Stock Exchange here is now an Italian restaurant.
We regularly use the plural when we mean the singular. Nowhere is this more true than in Latin derived words used in a business context. For example “can you tell me the single criteria for success?”. Erm no I can’t, but I might be able to enlighten you with the criterion.
A gruff Yorkshireman with mixed ancestry by the name of Marco Pierre White clearly spotted that the single criterion for a good restaurant was to serve good food. This is certainly a baseline, but in my view there are other criteria. For one, there is history. Criterion pre-dates Piccadilly Circus itself by 4 years putting a big red tick in that particular box.
On the way home from Banús, and on Sundays many restos are shut. Our contorted journey this time, for some reason, comprised a bus to Marbella, a taxi to Fuengirola and a train to Malaga airport. Planes trains and automobiles! Good job we had the best part of a day to waste.
Apart from the travelling, our first waste of time was stopping at La Tasca de los Niños. The only excitement drawn from that place resulted from a couple of Spanish piss-heads already warming up for the European Cup Final (Spain were to deservedly beat Germany 1-0).
Fortunately tapas are served on small plates, so after the first two disappointments, we decamped to CervecerÃa Gambrinus right next door to the rail station.
There is no hiding place for the rich these days. All the summer High Society events are being gatecrashed by chavs. Royal Ascot this year even tried to enforce a new dress code that ladies must (amongst other things) wear knickers, and not on display.
We are supposed to be heading fast into the biggest recession since the 1920’s and yet I see no evidence of spending slowing. As every generation passes, it becomes more affordable to travel to, and participate in, the rich playgrounds of Europe. You don’t need a yacht to blend in at Puerto Banús, but if you haven’t got one, it helps if you have several tattoos and can chunder at top volume into the early hours, or simply pass out, drunk, on the front of some expensive clothes shop at 4am.
The world famous prostitutes of Puerto Banús draw similar class lines, with prices pitched accordingly, although at both price points there seems to be a massive over-supply problem that is being addressed by aggressive marketing tactics. A Brazilian, and by this I mean a woman from Brazil, approached me, “You is beautiful” she whispered in my ear. You are beautiful I corrected. “Oh thank you!” No, not at all what I meant, sorry, goodbye…
Another epic walk out of Manchester and we decided to see what had happened to beloved Maine Road on the way to Didsbury for lunch at Saints and Scholars.
Last year, we watched the yachts of the rich and infamous from La Bocana overlooking the harbour entrance. The food and wine were good enough to warrant a revisit in 2008.
Another weekend in London and another opportunity to knock off a “trophy” restaurant – this one from the effing Gordon Ramsay stable. If you swear by food as much as I do, then you start to appreciate that London is really the place in the UK to do fine dining. There simply isn’t the demand for it in Manchester, for example. Not one Michelin star in the city! Sure, there are plenty of good eateries, but the overall experience is just better in London, and surprisingly, not always that much more expensive.
When in dining mode, I am a grazer. I like to sample a range of flavours, and try new things as often as possible. Chinese banquets are great.  I like my Indian food to be served on as many plates as possible so I can play culinary Russian roulette with my taste buds. A spot of lime pickle on a spoonful of Vindaloo is like walking your tongue across hot coals, but this is far superior to pavement slabs of bland meat.
The ultimate grazer’s delight is a combination of three words: Spain, seafood and tapas. I think I may have found my mecca, ironically just to the west of the railway station in Fuengirola, Costa del Sol. This place is one of the best restaurants I’ve ever eaten in and almost certainly the best value.
If Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond, named this his favourite restaurant, and Adrian Gill, erstwhile restaurant critic of the Sunday Times, also raves about the place (albeit that he is presumably on a retainer for writing about the history of most of the major restos in Caprice Holdings Ltd), then any self respecting wino has to visit. Sunday lunch is just the perfect time to eat oysters, and my rocks were from Malden. I am embarrassed, though, to admit I had to ask the waiter to explain that Essex is where these crustacea were reared. I am such a northern oik!
The service at Scott’s is obviously superb, highly professional and (unusually) English. However, our waiter was having an off day. I had to ask three times for my wine to be topped up. You may be thinking “lazy so and so” but I would have had to walk about 300 yards to get to my bottle of Pouilly Fumé from where they parked it. Talking of which can you spot our car in the photo below?
No I can’t see it either.
We Will Rock You was a decent show, albeit mostly performed by under-studies on the wet Saturday afternoon we were in the audience. Fortunately it was dry inside the theatre and, whilst the programme (£4) did not reveal the storyline, the show turned out to be set in the long distant future and was a McLeanesque retrospective on the day the music died…or didn’t…yawn!
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