Yesterday, I had a lunch. It was at a restaurant. This is a review of that lunch.
Now, I'll be honest from the start, right? I don't know what this restaurant was called. I'm not even sure where it was. And I definitely had no fucking clue what I was eating. I was being schmoozed ragged by a big fancy ad agency who wanted my business and, frankly, they just tipped booze down my neck until I forgot that my name is Dave and I have a birthmark the shape of a penis on my penis.
So, I've had to guess at what I was served using my own culinary knowledge. With that in mind, here we go.
A restaurant, London.
Some restaurants, I always feel, are like a pair of slippers. By which I mean, they're not places I want eat. Then there are restaurants that are like a lady's foof. That is somewhere I would like to eat.
Er...I had a point here.
Oh yeah. This restaurant was a total and utter lady's foof. And a very nicely appointed one at that.
Once seated, several things happened. First, I made my standard request for balti which, as per cunting usual, was refused. (All restaurants should serve balti. All of them. If you disagree, you can stick a fist up your own flue.) Next, some booze was brought to the table, which I drank. And drank. And drank a bit more.
Then they started bringing me all these little bits of food. I thought at first that they were bringing me my dinner in fucking installments, but it turns out these were amuses bouches. There was a slice of smoked badger with cabbage sputum. There was a huge plate bearing a single pork scratching. There was a dainty little cup of beetroot and vitriol soup. There were pelican cheeks with butter drool.
(They're fucking FREE, these little bits of whatever. Where's the sense in it? What's in it for anyone? They're like Roger Federer's left arm, or post-cancer Kylie: tiny and a bit pointless.)
Next, a plate of nearly-proper food arrived. It was a square of something sort of brown on a square of something green. Sadly, someone had hawked up a massive slick of lung-gunk and flobbed it copiously across my food.
I called the waiter with a gentle 'OI! CUNT-BAGS!' and sent him scurrying back to the kitchen. He returned a minute later to explain that it wasn't actually the contents of the chef's sinuses, but a 'foam'. It tasted of foam, so I think it was a foam foam.
'It just disappears in the mouth, sir', the waiter explained.
'What's the fucking point of food that disappears in my mouth?' I asked.
'It's a textural thing,' he replied.
'Oh,' I countered.
Next, I was distracted by a bottle of booze, and then a plate of fish. It was fish, neatly and lovingly drizzled with the juice of a different fish. It came with a small salad of Faberge eggs, angel pubes and slices of seared Loch Ness Monster. At least, I'm assuming that was what was in it because I looked at the bill later and that dish alone cost more than I pay for a full massage at The Temple of Adulation in Prague. (And I don't fucking skimp.)
I saw that lot off in about 30 seconds, and then there was a bit of an incident where I fell off my chair and onto someone else's table sort of completely. Then I went to the lav for a while / ages, and then I sat down to the main course. It was an utter success. Smooth, unctuous slices of cow's back, or ears, or udders or something, were dabbed tenderly with a sauce of Bovril and HP, while a delightful scattering of crushed pickled onion Monster Munch added a wonderfully moreish crispness to the plate. That lot went in about a minute, and then I played this little game where I went round the table eating everyone else's too. They laughed and laughed!
The champagne turned up next, so I really can't remember whether I had dessert. There was nothing puddingy in the massive slick of puke I left on my front step, so I think I skipped it and moved straight onto drinking in earnest.
So, overall? Well, if I could remember what it was called, where it was or what I ate, I'd recommend this place heartily. Especially if you like stupid food that costs more per ounce than Simon Cowell's boob job.
Overall: 7 Knockles
Meat: 2 / 9 Knockles (depending on what it was)
Bristolas: 3 (very uptight waitresses who allow virtually no goosing)
Ability to rinse their customers for every penny they've got: 10 Knockles
There you go. Fucking good, that was. Stay tuned for more indispensable culinary insight. You know you want to!
Why? Because I AM THE RESTAURANT CRITIC!