On Sunday I ran down to Columbia Road’s famous flower market, but on the way home I went a different way. I have a very, very short attention span, and if I don’t switch routes up I get bored and start focusing on my thighs, which wobble violently with every flat-footed slap of the pavement. […]
I haven’t posted too much recently because I’m on a mission to eat a bit less and move around a bit more, partly in anticipation of the impending party season with all its fatladen festivities, and partly because my liver was beginning to resemble meatloaf. Or possibly Meatloaf.
My tongue is having the best time lately. I’ve been rolling it in cheese, bathing it in tea and dousing it in wine, and now it’s been tickled senseless by the glorious cocoa bean at Hotel Chocolat’s School of Chocolate. Honestly, it’s been utterly spoiled. I may have to go and force down some gruel […]
Aah, the Wellcome Collection, my favourite museum in London. I like it so much, in fact, that I named my other blog after their tagline: “the free destination for the incurably curious”. It’s within pissing distance of Euston station, yet hardly anybody seems to know it’s there. It’s hiding like plain sight, like a…er, Panamanian […]
I am currently writing this from my bed of shame and guilt after an epic episode of what my fun and fruity workmate would describe as ‘carbicide’. I’d gone along to the new branch of Vapiano in Soho with the ever-trusty Carla Juniper, and we’d accidentally eaten, well, everything. We had to be practically bowled out […]
Five minutes’ walk to the west of Highbury & Islington station you’ll find Sunday on Hemingford Road, which – misleadingly – is actually not only open on Sundays. And, regardless of its founders’ woeful grasp of basic SEO principles, it makes the best pancakes I have ever had, anywhere. Brace yourselves; I’ve got photos.
Words cannot describe how excited we were to visit L’Atelier de Joel Rubuchon. We’d put on proper shoes, strapped ourselves in to our big girl pants and made a pact not to swear for at least two hours, or at least not loudly. For a brief while, we were going to be Ladies.
“This,” I announced to the Robert, the head chef of Clockjack Oven, Soho, after two glasses of wine and a faceful of its signature rotisserie chicken, “is the wettest bird I’ve ever had.”
“Have you guys decided what you want to order yet?” asked the waiter. “Yes,” I said. “Steak please.” And laughed myself senseless. The waiter, who must have heard the joke about 50,000 times before, made a half-hearted attempt at a guffaw before asking how I’d like it cooked.
Shoryu Ramen on Kingly Street is so new Google Maps hasn’t even got it yet, which is how I accidentally ended up at their branch on Regent Street. Luckily, the noodly micro-chain’s latest addition was just up the road, so by the time I’d ridden my boneshaker up Regent Street I’d only kept my dinner […]