Multi-talented Morgan Meunier arrived at our table after the meal, presumably looking for a round of applause for his culinary artistry. “Was everything OK?” he wondered. Super. “Was there anything specific we particularly liked?”. The seabass with crayfish and tarragon ravioli and lobster velouté was my favourite, but why were all his dishes so bloody complicated?
When dining out, one well known restaurant critic makes a point of asking how the tips are distributed, always leaving cash, and encourages readers to do the same. So I dutifully asked the MO of one waiter at the Cornerhouse Grill and was stunned by his response.
In sleepy Grosvenor Square, just a Molotov cocktail throw from the American embassy, is yet another Gordon Ramsay place. It’s getting difficult to walk down a London street without seeing his name over some restaurant or other.
I was advised that Molotov was not on the aperitif list, but £12 for a tiny glass of Ayala champagne, even if poured at the table, set me off in an explosive mood. I think the sommelier noticed my look of disappointment, nay disdain, as he left me with barely enough liquid to create a damp patch if I spilled it on my trousers (I didn’t). I wanted to dislike this place – I don’t like being ripped off.
We met Jeffo and (pregnant) Michele in Didsbury (Manchester) for Sunday lunch. Jeffo knows these parts well and had tasted his “best lamb ever” at a place on Burton Road – Rhubarb.
It was small and well packed with tables, but pretty full of happy looking customers. A bistro type atmosphere but with the warming sense that you are visiting old friends.
We rejected the Sunday lunch special menu in favour of the à la carte. We were only there for one dish, “is the rump of spring lamb on?” Jeff enquired and was advised that we could order anything from the menu. So we ordered lamb all round.
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.
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