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.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Sunday, 6 January 2008
Brighton -
Pleasant night's sleep in L's very comfortable and big bed. Drove down yesterday in - it seemed - like double time, and will go back to London tomorrow via work.
Chinese take-away yesterday evening was less than successful - some middleman clearly thought he'd start an impromptu game of Chinese whispers with our order, and by the time it arrived at our door one giant seafood appetizer set for two had become two giant seafood appetizer sets. I wouldn't have minded so much but the damage to my bank account, which is looking beleaguered at the start of January, was more than I would have liked.
We struggled through the spring rolls, prawn toasts, dumplings and fish cakes, but the addition of beer, crackers, and seaweed into the equation means that we now have a quarter duck and pancakes in the fridge for tonight.
This morning is a bright and crisp winter morning, with the sky suffused with Brighton's incomparable light, and the white buildings glowing with the colour of honey. I have spent most of the day so far in bed with Michael Palin's diaries, which I bought to read on the aeroplane and never started. They really are very good, although heavy on the name-dropping. John Cleese and Eric Idle come out of it badly; they have quite monstrous egos and seem thoroughly unpleasant men. MP, always my favourite Python, comes out of it very well, but then that's to be expected.
My random factoid of the day; when Monty Python was sold to Japanese TV, the title translated as Gay Boys' Dragon Show.
Off for lunch at the glamorous marina soon.
Pleasant night's sleep in L's very comfortable and big bed. Drove down yesterday in - it seemed - like double time, and will go back to London tomorrow via work.
Chinese take-away yesterday evening was less than successful - some middleman clearly thought he'd start an impromptu game of Chinese whispers with our order, and by the time it arrived at our door one giant seafood appetizer set for two had become two giant seafood appetizer sets. I wouldn't have minded so much but the damage to my bank account, which is looking beleaguered at the start of January, was more than I would have liked.
We struggled through the spring rolls, prawn toasts, dumplings and fish cakes, but the addition of beer, crackers, and seaweed into the equation means that we now have a quarter duck and pancakes in the fridge for tonight.
This morning is a bright and crisp winter morning, with the sky suffused with Brighton's incomparable light, and the white buildings glowing with the colour of honey. I have spent most of the day so far in bed with Michael Palin's diaries, which I bought to read on the aeroplane and never started. They really are very good, although heavy on the name-dropping. John Cleese and Eric Idle come out of it badly; they have quite monstrous egos and seem thoroughly unpleasant men. MP, always my favourite Python, comes out of it very well, but then that's to be expected.
My random factoid of the day; when Monty Python was sold to Japanese TV, the title translated as Gay Boys' Dragon Show.
Off for lunch at the glamorous marina soon.
Monday, 15 October 2007
So here are some thoughts...
I obtained a new umbrella today. Half stole it in fact.... At Blackfriars Station on the way home from work the guy sitting on the bank of seats across from me jumped up, and as he got to the doors I spotted his umbrella on the seat. I jumped up too as he pushed the button and with a loud "excuse me!" tapped him on the shoulder, at which he looked back at me, gave me a glance that I can only describe as terrified, and left the train.
Well, I wrote about giving people the benefit of the doubt before, and if he's not prepared to believe that I wouldn't willfully attack a man with a good eight inches on me in a crowded London station, then fuck him sideways with a spoon, and I kept the umbrella, which is rather nice and I think may be designer.
I also consider it some recompense for what happened this morning, when the ticket office at Suburban Station was closed when I arrived with a good fifteen minutes on the 9:01 to find a queue of idiots by the automatic machine. I can be done with the automatic machine in a minute, because I have mad skills and am a fully paid-up member of the Web 2.0 society. But many people can't figure them out, and end up inserting their card the wrong way round and then accidentally buy a monthly saver to Luton Airport.
I missed my train and was an hour late to the office. We're putting out a big souvenir issue this week, and as a result we're kind of up against it, and this was not appreciated. It is for reasons like this that I worry a flat move may be on the cards next year, much as I like this place.
The shop by our tube station has reopened in the past week after a refit, and they seem to have got rid of Scowling Indian Man and replaced him with some absolutely ravishingly beautiful young Polish girls, who were I that way inclined I would make more of in this post. They have also got rid of the grotty lino and the cramped aisles and turned it into a mini home-from-home for Poles, Turks, Russians, Romanians, in fact, any passing shopper who wants nothing to do with the execrable Sainsbury's Local by the tube. There is even a deli counter and a small bakery that does baklava. Needless to say I have been having baklava for dessert all week. I also bought some sausage-meat and a brand of Polish yoghurt called Extra Krzemosy or something, which is actually really nice.
There is one thing about all the Poles and such round here which is quite sad, however, and that is that they seem to have driven out the Aussies. It used to be that you'd go into a bar and be served by some high-octane Antipodean who, despite possessing an accent that is almost as unattractive as Estuary English, could at least conduct a conversation. Now it's a glum eastern European emigre who, despite having six more degrees than I do, hasn't bothered learning English and can't tell the difference between Kronenbourg and a small glass of the house red.
That is not apocryphal either, that did actually happen to me in a pub in Uxbridge a few months ago.
My message to the Aussies; we've kept the bars just as you like them, we've made our climate warmer, and you can get Victoria Bitter in the offy, so where the bloody hell are you?
Well, I wrote about giving people the benefit of the doubt before, and if he's not prepared to believe that I wouldn't willfully attack a man with a good eight inches on me in a crowded London station, then fuck him sideways with a spoon, and I kept the umbrella, which is rather nice and I think may be designer.
I also consider it some recompense for what happened this morning, when the ticket office at Suburban Station was closed when I arrived with a good fifteen minutes on the 9:01 to find a queue of idiots by the automatic machine. I can be done with the automatic machine in a minute, because I have mad skills and am a fully paid-up member of the Web 2.0 society. But many people can't figure them out, and end up inserting their card the wrong way round and then accidentally buy a monthly saver to Luton Airport.
I missed my train and was an hour late to the office. We're putting out a big souvenir issue this week, and as a result we're kind of up against it, and this was not appreciated. It is for reasons like this that I worry a flat move may be on the cards next year, much as I like this place.
The shop by our tube station has reopened in the past week after a refit, and they seem to have got rid of Scowling Indian Man and replaced him with some absolutely ravishingly beautiful young Polish girls, who were I that way inclined I would make more of in this post. They have also got rid of the grotty lino and the cramped aisles and turned it into a mini home-from-home for Poles, Turks, Russians, Romanians, in fact, any passing shopper who wants nothing to do with the execrable Sainsbury's Local by the tube. There is even a deli counter and a small bakery that does baklava. Needless to say I have been having baklava for dessert all week. I also bought some sausage-meat and a brand of Polish yoghurt called Extra Krzemosy or something, which is actually really nice.
There is one thing about all the Poles and such round here which is quite sad, however, and that is that they seem to have driven out the Aussies. It used to be that you'd go into a bar and be served by some high-octane Antipodean who, despite possessing an accent that is almost as unattractive as Estuary English, could at least conduct a conversation. Now it's a glum eastern European emigre who, despite having six more degrees than I do, hasn't bothered learning English and can't tell the difference between Kronenbourg and a small glass of the house red.
That is not apocryphal either, that did actually happen to me in a pub in Uxbridge a few months ago.
My message to the Aussies; we've kept the bars just as you like them, we've made our climate warmer, and you can get Victoria Bitter in the offy, so where the bloody hell are you?
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