Sunday, 6 January 2008

Twelfth Night

Disappointing lunch at Prezzo on Brighton Marina. My linguine con polpette lacked for the kind of herby, sausagemeat-laden meatballs that good Italian-American restaurants have spoiled me for, tasting more of actual sausage. All in all, average food for the price, and you were left with the feeling that you could have got better in a trattoria that hadn't been decorated since 1975, all raffia wine holders and what-not.

A very "normal" meal was compounded by utterly indifferent service from morose Poles who messed up the drinks order and A's side and then left us to stew for a good fifteen minutes while waiting for the bill. Which made us feel a whole lot better about not leaving a tip, the first time I've done this in a while.

I suppose the best things I can say about it are a) that you get what you pay for in a chain restaurant and b) it was better than a slap in the face with a wet halibut.

Back to R and A's for chat, chocolate, telly and wine, and we are now back at L's clifftop aerie waiting out the remains of the day with a beer and our remaindered Peking duck.

It's Twelfth Night, which means Christmas is just now getting underway in Russia. Here, it always feels like a damp squib of the end of the holiday season; there now is really nothing to look forward to for a good two months. Wouldn't it be nice to go out at the end of Christmas with a bang, rather than just tailing off six days after New Years? I think so. I might think about having a party next year; we could do it properly and have a Lord of Misrule.

Apparently Twelfth Night is also the time to go wassailing, which largely involves finding an apple tree and drinking at it, such is my understanding.

No comments: