Much has been written about the Magpie. It is the doyenne of Fish ‘n’ Chip restaurants. Well, if you are from London. But what if you live in Yorkshire? What if you are well versed in high quality chippies with tablecloths. Does the Magpie stack up to the best Yorkshire can offer?
A free day in Vienna and a hatful of recommendations for lunch, many of which were either closed or impossible to find. My iPhone had given up on data so my life-raft (Google maps) was not the usual powerful tool in my weaponry. Relying on analogue techniques from ancient history: Metro maps, street plans and gut feel, I stumbled across a very posh place next to the KK Hofburg Theater.
The business card for Lucy’s carries the tagline “share in the experience”. Oh dear, looks like I’m washing up again…
Last time I wrote about the London food bloggers’ beefy hero of Shoreditch, I was accused of snobbery. I was unkind to the waiting staff who I described as ‘skateboarders’ lacking coordination and worse, more dishevelled in appearance than most customers.
However, my steak was so mouth-wateringly, drool dribblingly, bib wettingly luscious, that Truly Scrumptious couldn’t have tempted me away from it, even if she had offered to blow my Toot Sweet in the back of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Â I had to come back for another try.
Jersey is the most beautiful of islands but, let’s be honest, it’s a bit Wicker Man.  I feel like I am in a 1970’s time-warp. Even my beloved and essential iPhone is rendered useless by a lack of suitable networks. No voice, no data, no life.
Finding it is a bit like going to a rave. First, you need to know a local hombre to get the number. On tinkling, you are directed to another telephone box to wait for a call. Then, like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn, a taxi appears to pick you up from Alicante town centre and you are driven 20 minutes up the coast, blindfolded.
This sort of experience excites the hell out of me and has my salivary glands pissing like a Dutch dyke.
On a frenzied wine tour through Bordeaux it’s nice to take a relaxing break for a long lunch, and you could do much worse than stop in Pauillac during your Medoc leg.
La Salamandre, looking out directly over the river is charming, top quality, well presented, and has a great wine list.
Tucked away in a place so secret that only the French Foreign Legion knows of its existence, this place is more charming than Dartagnan and better for juicing up a hot date than a pair of George Clooney’s underpants.
You can expect French service, though, which is the exact opposite of New York service. That is to say, friendly but slow.
On a stinking hot sunny day, 36 lobster-skin inducing degrees, what is a pale Englishman to do but find a shady spot, some food and a petit pichet of local rosé?
The hyper-observant of you will notice that there is a sex shop a couple of doors up from this back street tapas joint. When I sat down to eat at La Taberna del Gourmet recently, I started to wonder whether “Pikante” might offer better value, and possibly have more edible items for sale.
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