Afternoon Tea with the Sun God, Ra

“Hahahaha! That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” I say, as I slap the maitre d’ on the back. Alas, it is lost to the sands of time as I introduce my review a line too late. Today I’m in Chelsea for afternoon tea at the Cadogan Hotel. Since February 2019 it’s been run by Adam Handling, a multi-award-winning chef, who’s now added to his awards collection with an award for Best Contemporary Afternoon Tea at the Afternoon Tea Awards 2019.

 

Afternoon tea was designed as a mini-meal to bridge the gap between lunch and dinner, a tiny treat to stave off afternoon hunger. With its origins in the mid-19th century, it really took off after Queen Victoria started having her own afternoon tea parties. Thanks to her influence, the world at large soon became aware of the activity and its popularity soared from there. As such, who could possibly be a more ideal guest to enjoy a contemporary twist on an afternoon tea with than Queen Victoria herself? Well, since she declined to attend, I can think of nobody better than the Ancient Egyptian Sun God, Ra. It was the Ancient Egyptians who really began the process of measuring time. Eventually, they came to see each hour as a specific region of sky or underworld through which Ra travelled on his ‘solar barge’, a sort of ancient dinghy. Without Ra, we might not even have the afternoon, so to Queen Victoria who thinks she’s too good for this blog because she thinks she invented the concept of eating a cake in the afternoon, you’re not all that.

 

I sit in the foyer of the Cadogan Hotel awaiting Ra, when I hear the unmistakable sound of a solar barge pulling up outside. I see a smartly dressed human falcon hybrid throw an oar to a confused valet, and waltz in through the doors. “Andy, great to meet you, I’m Ra,” says the falcon-headed man, shaking my hand. “I’m excited to be here. Shall we?”

 

We sit ourselves down in what historians would probably refer to as the ‘theatre of tea’. It’s a smaller room compared to other tea theatres around London, but succeeds in feeling both very fancy and very casual at the same time. In a very welcome twist on the traditional afternoon tea, today’s tea will also be accompanied by a free-flowing champagne supplement, starting from an extra £25 per person (and going all the way up to an extra £195 per person depending on the champagne), for as much champagne as we can drink within a 90 minute window. I’m something of an alcoholic aficionado of drinks, so I feel confident that I can get my money’s worth, but even without my liver-destroying, borderline binge-drinker status love of the old grape juice, £25 for unlimited champagne is extraordinarily good value when a single glass of champagne at some of the other afternoon tea establishments will set you back nearly as much. It’s a lovely differentiator, something ideal for a regular Tuesday afternoon special occasion.

 

Afternoon Tea Sandwiches
The sandwich selection.

Ra is my oldest guest yet, coming from way back around the 30th century BC. His status rapidly declined since the fall of Ancient Egypt however, and he’s hardly been seen nor heard from since the year 0. Today is a good chance to understand more about where he’s been, what he’s been up to, and what’s next for history’s favourite Sun God.

 

“So, where have you been, what have you been up to, and what’s next for history’s favourite Sun God?” I say, demonstrating once again the quality of writing that’s seen this blog become a global sensation, racking up five page-views in Belgium and one in Namibia.

 

“Oh, things have been great, really great,” says Ra. “Just taking some time out from it all, you know?” He says, as he takes a swig of the champagne. “Mmm… Biscuity, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“Yes, I guess it is a bit biscuity,” I say. “Like fizzy biscuits.”

 

“Yes, fizzy apple biscuits,” says Ra. “Truth is, I haven’t needed to work in a long time, I’ve just been living off my royalties.”

 

“What royalties?”

 

“For the afternoon. I invented it, so I take a cut of every afternoon.”

 

“How does that work?”

 

“Well let’s see, how old are you? 4000?”

 

“I’m 33!” I say. “You think I look 4000 years old?”

 

“You look like you’ve died a thousand deaths behind the eyes.”

 

“Ok, that I understand,” I say. If anything a thousand is understating it. Most days I die a thousand deaths internally before I get to lunchtime.

 

“Ok, so you’re 33, which means you’ve enjoyed what, 12,000 afternoons?”

 

“Err… I guess?”

 

“So 12,000 afternoons at around £2 an afternoon means… ok, so you owe me £24,000.”

 

I laugh, but Ra remains stony-faced. “What, you’re serious?” I say.

 

“Of course I’m serious. You think £2 for an afternoon is too much? Try telling that to all of your treasured afternoon memories! You want me to take them back? I’ll take them back if you want me to!”

 

“What? Wait, no!” I say. “Look, let’s just take it easy, ok? I’ll get you your money if I have to, just… let me just figure this out, ok?”

 

“Fine, you have until we’re finished,” says Ra, just as the platter of sandwiches and cakes emerge, stacked on an ornate, golden tree. It’s a very beautiful arrangement. You get the traditional, non-negotiable elements of an afternoon tea such as finger sandwiches, scones and sweet treats, but there’s also a selection of savoury treats too, such as a salt cod croquette, a mini cheese and onion tart, a chicken liver parfait and a chicken sausage roll. I begin with the chicken sandwich, which to be more specific is roasted chicken with tarragon mustard mayonnaise, smoked garlic and tomato jam. The bread is pillowy soft, spongy and light enough to doze away on, a tempting floury gateway to a world of savoury dreams. It’s lovely, as are the other sandwich friends it’s brought along, including smoked salmon, cucumber and cream cheese, egg and cress and rare roast beef. It’s tasty, although the company is something of a distraction.

 

afternoon-tea-savouries.jpg
The selection of savoury treats.

“Excuse me,” says Ra, summoning over the waitress.

 

“Would you like more champagne, sir?” Says the waitress, noticing Ra’s semi-empty glass.

 

“How many afternoons have you had?” Says Ra.

 

“Do not answer him,” I say. The waitress though is too polite.

 

“I don’t know, around 10,000?”

 

“You owe me £20,000,” says Ra. The waitress laughs. Again, Ra remains emotionless.

 

“He’s serious,” I sigh. “Apparently he takes commission for inventing the afternoon…”

 

“But I don’t have that money,” says the waitress, nervously.

 

“Then I must take back all your treasured afternoon memories,” says Ra, getting to his feet.

 

“No! No, look, we’ll get you the money, ok? We’ll all get you your money!” I say. Ra sits back down again. He’s proving to be somewhat unpleasant so far, in stark contrast to the delightful chicken liver parfait. I can see why the Ancient Egyptians stopped worshipping him. “Also, could I have more champagne, please?”

 

I’m topped up as I reach for a salt cod croquette. Cylindrical and covered in breadcrumbs, it’s a croquette containing salted cod (good evening, Belgium!). It’s certainly a bizarre addition to an afternoon tea, but it’s nice enough, although perhaps my least favourite of the savouries. I’m snapped out of my croquettish haze by the reminder that so far between myself and the staff we owe Ra £44,000, and that’s surely only going to spiral further out of control when he sees the elderly couple seated to my right.

 

Afternoon tea more than anything feels like a nice escapism from a pretty mentally-draining world. The ritual of taking a couple of hours to just sit down, have a cup of tea and a cake and briefly forget about the myriad problems that exist away from your table is a lovely thing. A lovely thing which is currently being spoiled by Ra’s insistence that even the passing of time be taxed. This kind of thing is depressing enough when encountered in the real world, but it Trojan-horsing itself into my sweet treat bubble via the medium of a long-dead god is the final straw. The only problem is, how do you stop a billionaire sun god who controls the passing of time? Thankfully I have a plan.

 

Afternoon Tea Sweets 2
A tiny tasty apple sweet.

If I’ve learned one thing from the TV series The Apprentice, it’s that there’s only one thing that the rich love more than money, and that’s making people scour the streets of London for random items armed only with a Yellow Pages. If I’ve learned two things from the TV series The Apprentice, it’s that more than anything, the rich want status, and what offers more status than an internationally-renowned food blog?

 

“How would you like to own a food blog that none other than WordPress themselves have called ‘your domain needs renewing, please pay us £15’?”

 

“A food blog? A chance to control the media and influence the masses you say?”

 

“That I did not say, but sure.”

 

“What’s the catch?”

 

“A wager. If you win, you get my food blog. If I win, I get the afternoons.”

 

“You want me to gamble my entire fortune on a food blog? Why would I do that?”

 

“Because like all other billionaires, you’re a risk taker. You live for the thrill of losing it all, of crashing a country just for fun, or accidentally asphyxiating yourself in a cupboard-based sex play. It’s what you do.”

 

Ra looks at me, contemplating. “Ok, but I choose the challenge,” he says. “And I choose a race. My solar barge vs your… whatever.”

 

“Ok, fine, but I have two conditions,” I say. “Firstly, I get to choose my racer, and secondly I would like to eat this tiny sacher torte first.”

 

“Very well, then we have a deal,” says Ra. We shake hands, and then I reach for the tiny sacher torte. Sacher is one of my favourite tortes. Often when I’ve had it in the past it’s been more promising in concept than in execution, a chocolate sponge cake with a layer of chocolate covering a layer of apricot jam, but here it’s made very well. It’s top torte.

 

“Ready?” Says Ra. I nod, and we head outside to where Ra’s solar barge is parked. “Your racer, who have you chosen?” He asks.

 

“For my racer, I have cho- oh, bloody hell.”

 

“What?”

 

“I forgot to eat the scone. Who comes to review an afternoon tea and forgets to taste the scone? Why do I do this…” I sigh. “Anyway, for my racer, I have chosen… Mr Ayrton Senna!” I say, as I gesture towards the corner of the street, where Ayrton should come screeching in on cue. He does not. “Ayrton Senna!” Silence. Finally, a fancy-looking woman walks around the corner. “Oh no…”

 

“Good afternoon to you all! Shall we indulge in some afternoon fancies?” Says Queen Victoria, as she approaches.

 

“You said you weren’t coming!” I say, despairingly.

 

“Can a monarch not change her mind? Who else could be more fitting than myself?”

 

I gesture to my right, where Ra is sat in his magic canoe.

 

“Goodness! What is that?” Says Queen Victoria.

 

“It’s a solar barge, and since I assume Ayrton Senna is no longer coming, you’re going to be racing against it for the fate of humanity,” I say, as Victoria goes as white as the bread on a salmon and cream cheese sandwich.

 

Afternoon Tea Sweets
The Sachertorte.

I know what you’re all thinking. ‘Oh, here we go again, another food review taking the departed monarch in a foot race with a solar barge angle. When is this trend going to end?’ And yes, I can only apologise that we find ourselves here, but here we find ourselves, stood on the streets of Chelsea, watching a 19th century head of state race against an ancient falcon man. Ra and Victoria line up at the traffic lights, him in his barge, her in her flat shoes. As is customary, I drop a handkerchief and it’s go, go, go. Ra immediately tears off in his solar barge, as we all watch Queen Victoria slowly meander away.

 

“Maybe it’ll be a tortoise and the hare situa- no, no, wait, he’s already won,” I say, disappointedly, as we all watch Ra do doughnuts on the finish line in the distance. Ra comes back towards us in his solar barge.

 

“The keys to your blog, please,” he says, triumphantly.

 

“Who the hell has keys to their blog?” I say. Ra looks at me, knowingly. I sigh, and throw him the keys to my blog.

 

“Thankyou, and from all of you I shall also be requiring all of the money that you owe me too, which I believe comes to around £242,000. I take all forms of payment including cheque and direct debit.”

 

“Can I make one last request?” I say. “Can I please at least eat my scone? It would be a shame to come for afternoon tea and not actually review the scone.” Ra kindly agrees, and me, Ra and Victoria all go back inside to our magical tree of treats. I shed a single tear, followed by around two-hundred more as I realise it’s the last treat I’ll ever review. It’s a wonderful way to end though, a beautiful beacon of butter coated in thick cream and a lovely strawberry jam homemade on the premises. “Thankyou, scone,” I whisper to the scone.

 

Afternoon Tea Scones
Scones without their jam and cream coats.

“It’s my pleasure, Andy,” says the scone. Oh dear, I’ve had too much champagne. Ra and Victoria sit opposite me, sharing a sacher torte, laughing as if the world isn’t collapsing in on itself. Then, I hear a voice from the foyer.

 

“Sorry I’m late, Andy! Somebody stole my solar barge!”

 

I turn to see a falcon-headed beast in a silver suit striding into the theatre of tea. “Ra?!” I say, confused. “But you’re already here?” I say, staring at the two Ras before me.

 

“Who is this imposter?” Says blue-suited Ra, angrily. “Get him out of here, immediately!”

 

“I’m no imposter! This is the imposter!” Says silver-suited Ra. “Look!” He says, as he grabs the other Ra’s head and pulls it off to reveal none other than…

 

“PEPYS!” I shout, stunned, as I see that it’s none other than Samuel Pepys, famed diarist. “I should have known it was you!” The last time I saw Pepys he was filling up several two-litre bottles with Fanta in a Nando’s despite saying he just wanted tap water. He’s a grifter, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he didn’t write his own diaries.

 

“Yes! Yes, it is I, Samuel Pepys!” Says Pepys. “And we would have got away with it if it weren’t for this bloody bird!”

 

“We? You were in on this too?” I say to Victoria. “You’re not even from the same era as Pepys!”

 

“He told me I could make a fortune!” She says. “All I had to do was decline your invitation and then stop Ayrton Senna from coming!”

 

“How dare you! You have both brought… I want to say shame but let’s be honest, that ship sailed a long time ago… you’ve brought further shame on this blog, something none of us even thought possible! I’ll be taking these!” I say, taking back the keys to my blog. “Get them out of here!” I say, clicking my fingers to summon the interdimensional food blog police. They step out of a portal that looks remarkably like a pain au raisin and lead Pepys and Victoria away in chains. In front of me now stands Ra, and some very relieved staff, free from their financial burden.

 

“You’re not going to charge us for the afternoon are you?” I say to Ra.

 

“Charge you for a basic human need? Who do you think I am, any existing member of the British Conservative Party?” Says Ra. We laugh, yet internally we both die a little bit.

 

“Excellent, then the champagne is on me!” I say. Everybody cheers.

 

“Your hour and a half of bottomless champagne is over, sir. You’ll need to pay for additional glasses,” says a waitress.

 

“Just the bill then, please.” Overall…

 

9/10 – A delightful and unique afternoon tea.

Bancone with Leonardo da Vinci

Pasta has always been a favourite of mine. I’ve always said that if I could only eat one cuisine for the rest of my life it would be World Buffet, but my second choice would definitely be Italian, so I’m excited to visit Bancone. Having opened near Charing Cross station in 2017, it’s joined a range of great Italian restaurants in London including Padella, Lina Stores and Via Emilia in providing high-quality, freshly made pasta at reasonable prices, earning itself rave reviews from respected food reviewers including The Guardian, The Evening Standard, and if they’re lucky, my self-published WordPress blog that receives up to 50 page views a month.

 

Today I’ll be dining with Leonardo da Vinci. Painter, inventor, architect, raconteur and hopefully lover of pasta, Leonardo was ahead of his time, coming up with early concepts for devices such as helicopters, tanks, calculators and solar power. He’s one of the earliest examples of what’s come to be known as a ‘renaissance man’, somebody defined by their desire to embrace knowledge and develop their own capacities as fully as possible. In that respect we’re not so different, Leonardo and I. He, unquenchable in his thirst for knowledge, reflected in the legacy he has left within arts and science, and me, being borderline sarcastically praised by a cartoon owl for completing a two-day streak on Duolingo. We’re one and the same.

 

I sit at the counter and await Leonardo. Counter dining is always a nice experience. You can sit by yourself and not have to feel self-conscious about being alone. You could be with clowns to the left of you, or jokers to the right, but here you are, stuck in the middle with your own morbid and self-destructive thoughts. Bancone’s counter-dining situation is pleasant. Often counter-dining can be a fast track to staring at a bottle of Bailey’s for an hour or two, but here I’m practically sat in the kitchen, to the extent I’d almost want to ask if I can do anything to help, were I not to cooking what Norovirus is to a day at Thorpe Park.

 

I’m snapped out of my thoughts by a flash of blinding blue light as a portal opens in the centre of the restaurant, and out steps Leonardo da Vinci.

 

“Ciao, Andy!” Says Leonardo, as he enthusiastically hugs me. He is dressed in a three-quarter length red metallic coat, sunglasses, and what appear to be hover boots.

 

“What was that?” I say, as the portal closes behind him.

 

“Time travel, I invented it recently. I’ve just now got back from the year 3000.”

 

“Oh, has not much changed but they live underwater?” I say, jokingly.

 

“It’s all changed, Andy. It’s all changed,” says Leonardo. “The sun is no more, water and any other kind of natural resources ran out a long, long time ago. Now it’s just a never-ending free-for-all where people drink the blood of their enemies from their skulls, and the only source of heat is their burning flesh, piled high, corpse upon corpse.”

 

“Oh… err… that doesn’t sound great.”

 

“Oh, I did see your great-great-great-granddaughter though!”

 

“Oh, that’s nice! How was she?”

 

“She was throwing an old man onto a burning flesh pile.”

 

“Maybe let’s just not talk about the future anymore.”

 

Burrata
The Burrata.

“Ok. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom,” says Leonardo as he disappears up the stairs. I flag the waiter down.

 

“Ok, so we’d like to start with the burrata, then let’s go for the silk handkerchiefs, the cacio e pepe, the morel ravioli and then maybe the strozzapr-”

 

I’m interrupted as there’s a blinding flash of red light, and another portal opens in the centre of the restaurant. Through this portal shuffles a man, maybe 60 to 70 years old. He is tall but apologetically so, hunching over like a troll poised to offer a riddle. His skin is pale to the point where you can nearly see through it, and his body is slim, with long and wiry arms that are clearly too long for the poorly-fitting shirt he’s wearing that he’s forgotten to take the price tag off. All in all, he looks like a less well-dressed Slenderman.

 

“Who the hell are you?” I ask.

 

“Andy, I’m you,” says the figure. “I’m here from the future.”

 

“Me? How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

 

“Ask me a question, something that only you and I could know the answer to.”

 

“Ok, what’s our biggest fear?”

 

“Oh wow, where to start? There’s spiders, obviously. People thinking you’re boring, people thinking you’re stupid, everybody secretly hating you, giant squid, people asking what you got up to at the weekend and you having to find new creative ways to say ‘I sat and stared into space for 48 hours, wastefully running down the clock to my own demise and achieving nothing’…”

 

“I tend to go with ‘it was just a fairly chilled one’.”

 

“… then there’s not achieving your potential, testing your potential and realising you never actually had any, being called out to a house in the middle of nowhere, getting locked in and realising it’s full of zombies – that one’s very specific, I guess Resident Evil had more of an effect on us than we realised – there’s expressing your emotions, scorpions, the Scorpion King, scarab beetles – there’s a lot from The Mummy Returns here – sand clouds with faces in-”

 

“Ok, you’ve proven your point! But why are you here?”

 

“I need you to kill Leonardo da Vinci.”

 

“What?!”

 

“I’ve just come from the year 3000. Things are not good and it’s all Leonardo’s fault. Did he tell you that he stole the sun?”

 

“No, he just said it was gone. Why would he steal it?”

 

“For one of his inventions. You know the Dyson Airblade? It’s like that, but it dries your hands quicker by directing harnessing the power of the sun.”

 

“That seems wasteful.”

 

“To be fair, it really does dry your hands quickly, but it’s turned the world into a lawless dystopia, full of misery and death. Oh, I’ll tell you who I did see though!”

 

“Oh god, it’s not-“

 

“Our great-great-great-granddaughter!”

 

“Dare I ask how she was?”

 

“She was gorging herself on a severed leg.”

 

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

 

cacio-e-pepe.jpg
Cacio e pepe.

“Now that he’s come back to the year 2019, if we kill him now we can prevent any of this from happening, so you just distract him with your food review? I’ll hide somewhere around here and jump out and kill him, alright?”

 

“But I-“

 

“You won’t even know I’m here until I leap out and bludgeon him to death,” says future Andy, as he takes up a seat at a nearby table, puts on a baseball cap and shades and opens a huge newspaper. Shortly afterwards, Leonardo returns from the bathroom.

 

“My hands are sopping wet! Honestly, just you wait until you see what we have lined up in the future!” Says Leonardo with a wink. “Have you ordered?”

 

“Yes, I have,” I say, sheepishly, as Leonardo takes a seat, just in time for the food to begin arriving. We begin with the burrata and the silk handkerchiefs. The burrata is served with puffed rice on a plate smeared with balsamic vinegar. It’s wonderfully wobbly and creamy and the puffed rice adds a lovely crunch to the dish, the two opposing elements coming together fantastically. It’s overshadowed however by the silk handkerchiefs. Thankfully not actual fabric, these are thick squares of pasta folded in on themselves, slathered in walnut butter, crushed walnuts and topped with a confit egg yolk. Stirring in the yolk results in a sauce so rich it’s probably evading tax. It’s spectacular, and worth coming to the restaurant for by itself. I momentarily lose myself in it as I forget what lies ahead.

 

“So Andy, anything interesting going on?”

 

“No, not really,” I say, anxiously. “I saw a cat that looked like a snow leopard the other day.” The waiter returns with our cacio e pepe, morel ravioli and strozzapreti. I look over his shoulder and notice future Andy get up and start slowly creeping towards us.

 

“So nothing out of the ordinary?”

 

“…Yes,” I say, as I go to pass Leonardo the cacio e pepe. As I do, future Andy grabs a pepper mill and swings it towards Leonardo. Before it connects though, Leonardo spins around and zaps him with a bolt from his glove, freezing him in place.

 

“I KNEW IT!” Says Leonardo. “You brought me here to kill me, didn’t you?”

 

“What? No! I brought you here to help me review pasta!”

 

“Then explain this!” Says Leonardo, pointing to the frozen, older version of myself looming aggressively over him with a pepper mill and murder in his eyes.

 

“Ok, well that’s kind of hard to explain, but it’s actually quite funn-“

 

There’s another flash of light, and I find me (cacio e pepe still in hand), and my future self stood in a cold and dark wasteland.

 

Silk handkerchiefs
The ‘Silk Handkerchiefs’.

“Welcome to the year 3000,” says Leonardo, emerging from the darkness with a pistol in hand.

 

“What? Why are we here?”

 

“To show you what you’d be missing,” says Leonardo. He picks up a bucket of water and throws it all over my hands, soaking them in the process and ruining the cacio e pepe.

 

“Hey! It’s freezing out here, I’ll get chapped hands!”

 

“Will you?” Says Leonardo. He gestures to a wall, onto which a small device is mounted. I warily plunge my hands into the slot. There’s a loud whirring sound and I immediately withdraw them in panic, only to find my hands completely bone dry.

 

“What the-“

 

“A Dyson Airblade takes a minimum of 10 seconds to just get your hands damp, all the while whirring them about in the dregs of everybody else’s hand gunk. I’ve cut that time down to less than a fraction of a second. And this is just the beginning! There are so many stars across the galaxy, think of what else we can achieve! Ovens that pre-heat in seconds! Toasters that don’t require a defrost button! Grills that cook all four sides at once!”

 

“But do we not need the sun for… you know… everything?”

 

“Urgh, you’re all the same. ‘We need the sun’, ‘we can’t grow our crops without the sun’, ‘my whole family fell into a ravine because they couldn’t see where they were going’. Do you know how long it takes to dry your hands naturally in the sun?”

 

“About two minutes?”

 

“Two minutes! That’s twelve times as long as the Airblade, so don’t you tell me the sun is worth keeping!”

 

“Why are you so obsessed with dry hands?”

 

Leonardo fixes me with a stare. “The year was 1498…” he says, and with a click of his fingers he transports us back to 15th century Florence. “I had just completed painting The Last Supper, and was at the peak of my powers. Today was the day when I would be revealing it to the world,” he continues, as he leads us to a town square where there is a crowd gathered, and a man who I assume must be the mayor stands on stage, alongside a curtain-covered easel. “But all did not go to plan.”

 

“Ladies and gentleman, Leonardo!” Says the mayor. The crowd all begin to applaud as a young Leonardo walks onto the stage excitedly. He walks over to the mayor and shakes his hand.

 

“Urgh, your hand, it is so moist!” Says the mayor, grimacing. “Leonardo da Vinci, more like Leonardo da wet hands!” Says the mayor. The entire crowd laughs uproariously, as the Mayor mimics going to shake Leonardo’s hand only to topple backwards.

 

“Wet hands! Wet hands! Wet hands!” Chant the crowd.

 

“I’m sorry, I just washed my hands!” Shouts Leonardo. “Do you not want to see my painting?” He continues, struggling to make himself heard about the noise. It is futile, the crowd continues to chant and perform slapstick gestures relating to wet hands, until Leonardo is forced to slink off stage in shame, his painting remaining fully covered.

 

morel-and-ricotta-ravioli.jpg
The Morel and Ricotta Ravioli

“I was forever known as Leonardo da wet hands after that day. After all I’d done for civilisation, to be entirely defined by having wet hands ONE TIME!” Says Leonardo. “Everything I did since that day was designed to solve the problem of wet hands. The helicopter? A large fan to dry your hands. The parachute? A way to use wind resistance to dry your hands. The Mona Lisa? A woman showing off her hands, freshly helicopter-dried after a dip in the lake.”

 

“You’re insane,” says Future Andy.

 

“Insane?! You think this is insane?!”

 

“Well, I mean… you’ve destroyed the planet to make a single hand-dryer, so…”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” says Leonardo, as he shoots a flare gun into the sky. “Farewell, Andy.” There is a howling, shrieking noise in the darkness as the hordes of scavengers are alerted to our position. Weirdly, my first thought isn’t about my impending death, it’s actually about how hungry I am considering we paid around £30 per head for our meal, excluding drinks. The pasta dishes were not huge, and so whilst the restaurant does bill itself on being very reasonably priced, the price can quickly rack up as you do need to order a fair amount of food. It’s a frustrating last thought to have, but then it reminds me, we do have one course remaining.

 

“Wait!” I shout, as Leonardo reaches for his time-travelling glove.

 

“What now?” Sighs Leonardo. I quickly grab the soaked cacio e pepe from the floor and throw it at Leonardo, striking him in the face with the plate. It’s a remarkably violent scene that would cause the blog to be rated at least a 15, were there any point to classifying a piece of work that would likely never be seen (if a food blog falls in the forest, does it make a piercing, self-indulgent sound?). Leonardo falls to the ground, as Future Andy goes and tears the glove from his hand. He grabs me and we start to teleport out of there.

 

“Cacio on the flip side!” I say, and immediately regret it. Like, there’s a little bit of me that’s kind of proud, but mostly I feel the same kind of sad cringe I feel whenever I decide to click on the ‘Memories’ section of Facebook.

 

“You haven’t seen the last of Leonardo da Vinci!” Shouts Leonardo, as the hordes begin to emerge from the darkness. A young woman leaps upon him, sinking her teeth into his neck and pulling his arm from its socket as we disappear back into the past.

 

“That woman looked familiar, was she…”

 

“Just… don’t even ask, ok?”

 

Overall, I have to say…

 

8/10 – Tasty food but pricier than you expected.

Cakes & Bubbles with Marie Antoinette

Cakes And Bubbles

I find myself sat alone, drinking champagne in the window of a fancy hotel in Piccadilly Circus. Outside, people stop and peer through the window. I give them a half-wave as if to say ‘yes, it is me, the man who coaxes the dead back from the grave for potato dauphinoise’, but realistically I know they have no idea who I am, and why would they? Six blog entries in and my flat remains distinctly Oscar-free. There are those who would say ‘why would you have an Oscar? You know that just celebrates the film industry don’t you?’ or ‘seriously, have you even looked at the categories? Have you researched this at all?’, to which I would say ‘please, stop shattering my dreams’.

I think everybody suffers from self-doubt from time to time, the feeling of not being good enough, of being a fraud, of not being qualified to lead a space mission but you joked to a guy at a party that you were an astronaut and he thought you were being serious and things kind of snowballed from there and now you’re going on a solo mission to Mars that’s clearly going to be a disaster as you don’t even know how to open the bonnet of a car let alone pilot a multi-billion dollar spaceship but you don’t want to say anything because the nice old Commander in the hat called you ‘sport’ and you don’t want to let him down even though he’s pretty old and senile now and you kind of suspect he may have been one of the racist characters from Hidden Figures. We’ve all been there. Right now my self-worth and motivation is through the floor. The blog has not been the success I had once hoped. Every day my editor calls to angrily bark down the phone at me. Perhaps hiring a dog editor is part of the problem, but right now I need a win, a blog that rekindles my self-confidence and gives me back my belief in the importance of food reviewing. Hopefully this shall be that win.

Today I’ll be dining at Cakes & Bubbles. A recent opening within the Hotel Café Royal on Regent Street, it’s the first UK addition to the restaurant empire of Albert Adria. One of the creative forces behind elBulli, a five-time winner of the World’s Best Restaurant, Albert is also a former winner of the World’s Best Pastry Chef, so this restaurant, a dessert-themed café and bar, comes with high expectations.

My guest today is famed for her love of cake. Hated by the French population for her lavish spending in a time of financial ruin, she was famous for her utterance of ‘let them eat cake’ in response to learning that the peasants had no bread to eat, a phrase so markedly out of touch that it could have come from Iain Duncan Smith circa 2011 (#satire #lol #whatamIlike). There’s some historical debate as to whether she actually said it or not, but from there the rest is history, and she was later executed for high treason by French revolutionaries. I’m intrigued to see how she reflects on this now, and whether she feels any remorse for her actions, as Iain Duncan Smith should for his actions circa 1954-Present (#truthbombs #haveIdonethisalready?). My answer comes as the door swings open, and there she is.

Chocolate Cork
The Chocolate Cork.

“Let them eat caaaaaaaaaaaake!” Shouts Marie Antoinette, excitedly, as she waltzes in. “Take this,” she says, as she throws her coat at a member of staff and heads to my table.

“Hello, good to meet y-”

She clicks her fingers at a passing waiter. “Waiter, your finest champagne, and hurry up” she says, brusquely, as she takes a seat.

“So, thankyou for joining me tod-”

“So, you review food?” Says Marie, interrupting. “What sort of career is that?”

“Well, it’s not actually my career, I just do this as a hobby.”

“So an amateur food critic?”

“Well, yes, for now, but Oscar season is approaching and-”

“I’ll be honest with you, I’ve read some of your work. You don’t seem to have the first idea how to describe food. Some of your descriptions are vague at best, and completely confusing at worst.”

“What are you talking about?” I say, as I have another sip of my champagne. It’s jam-packed with bubbles, like a diver with the bends, whilst the palate is surprisingly rich and buttery, like an Undercover Boss in a dairy farm accident.

“You’re wasting your time pursuing this, you need to give up,” says Marie.

“What? But I-“

“No more reviews,” she says, as she grabs my pen. The next moments pass in slow motion as she snaps it in half and I watch it fall to the floor.

“My pen!” I scream.

“You’ll thank me later,” she says. “Waiter, we’re ready to order now,” she continues, as she dings a glass with her spoon to summon the waiter. I’m stunned, but maybe she’s right. After all, if you haven’t succeeded after six barely publicised WordPress blogs posted at irregular intervals over the course of the last 10 months, then maybe you never will. In some ways I feel a weight lifted off my shoulders, the pressure to heal the divisions of the world through describing spinach is gone. The world doesn’t need food reviewers, let alone one such as myself. I put my notepad back in my bag and allow the dream to quietly die.

carrot-cake.jpg
The Carrot Cake.

“What can I get for you?” Says the waiter.

“We’ll have everything,” says Marie.

“One of everything, a great choice.”

“No, I mean we’ll take everything. I want all of it.”

“Madam, I would recommend maybe five to six dishes in total to share or else-“

“I said we’ll take everything,” says Marie, closing her menu and thrusting it into the chest of the waiter. “Chop chop!”

“Everything? Isn’t that a bit much?”

“You’re with royalty now!” She says. Shortly afterwards the dishes begin to arrive. We’re quickly surrounded by tray after tray stacked high with chocolate corks, eclairs, ‘After Eight’ marshmallows and the restaurant’s fabled cheesecake. Everybody is staring at us as we become citizens of our own personal pastry metropolis. I take a bite of the chocolate cork. It’s- No, my reviewing days are done now, I simply sit and enjoy the food. I’m at peace, relaxed and free of obligation, until I hear a noise from next to me.

“What do you mean you’re out of cake?!” Says a nearby diner, angrily.

“I’m sorry, madam, that lady over there bought everything,” says the waiter, apologetically.

“We came here to try your cake!” Says another diner, standing up. “Now you’re telling us that she has all of it? She’s never going to eat that much!”

“Perhaps she’d be willing to share with us?” Says another voice, providing a reasonable tone to the debate. “Excuse me, madam, would you allow us to share some of your cake?”

“Madam?” Says Marie, annoyed. “Peasant, you will address me as Your Majesty or you will not address me at all!”

“Who the hell are you?” Says another. By this point the whole restaurant is on its feet and surrounding our table. My sense of tranquillity is somewhat shattered by this.

“My name is Queen Mary Antoinette and I am your superior!”

“I think we should let them have some of our cake,” I whisper, trying to defuse the situation. “To quote somebody I once met, ‘let them eat cake’,” I say with a smile.

“Who was that?”

“It was you.”

“I never said that!”

“What did you say?”

“I said f**k the peasants let them all die.”

“You know you really should meet Iain Duncan Smith, you two would have a lot to chat abou- you know what, now’s not the time.” (#oncetwicethreetimesasatirist) “Look, we have way too much here, there’s plenty for all of us.”

“Over my dead body! Guards, detain these peasants immediately!” Shouts Marie. There is baffled silence. “Guards! Guards! … Guards?” There is no response. I didn’t invite any guards as they weren’t celebrities.

“Get her!” Shouts the crowd. They surround her and grab her.

“Let me go at once!” Shouts Marie. “This is treason!”

“Off with her head!” Shouts one member of the public, escalating things a lot quicker than I’d thought, as they throw her down over a counter. I stand, stunned and helpless. What am I to do with an angry mob who have been driven rabid by their desire to experience cake? Then I’m struck by an idea.

Cheesecake
The restaurant’s famous Cheesecake.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Stop this nonsense!” I say, as I take a stand upon a table. The crowd turn to face me as I grab a cheesecake from one of our trays and begin to devour it. “The cheesecake is a delight, a delicious trick of the mind that encases all of the sweet flavour of white chocolate with all of the savoury flavour of cheese in a confusingly tasty cheese-disguised package, leaving you questioning what exactly it is that you’re enjoying,” I say.

“What the- what is this?” Says a crowd member, confused. I grab a chocolate cork and consume it whole.

“The chocolate cork is not a cork at all, but a perfect mix of chocolate and coffee fondant all rolled within a delightfully light chocolate sponge!”

“Oh my god, I can taste it… but I’m not tasting it,” says a confused member of the mob, holding their temples. “What is this witchcraft?”

“The chocolate éclair with peanut praline is like the finest Snickers you’ve ever eaten, combining a lovely mix of textures from smooth chocolate to crunchy peanut in one tasty tube,” I shout. The mob unhand Marie as their rage is soothed by an emotional taste sensation. I watch as they all calmly take their seats and focus on me.

“Tell us tales of the carrot cake,” says one. I grab a carrot cake from my tray.

“The carrot cake has a sponge so delicate that it’s hard to believe they’ve managed to condense so much flavour into it, and like a bagel’s coffin it’s carried by cream cheese.”

The crowd break out into spontaneous applause. “Now please, help yourselves to cake,” I say, as I get down from the table. Marie, slightly shaken from nearly being executed in broad daylight in an upper-class café in 21st century London, rejoins me at my table.

“It looks like I was wrong,” says Marie. “Maybe you’re not so dreadful after all.”

“Excuse me, sir, that was amazing. How did you do that?” Says a waiter, approaching our table.

“I remembered what I’ve always known all along I guess,” I say with a shrug. “That food criticism is the most important profession in the world,” I say, as I throw down some cash, grab my coat and head for the door.

“But what about doctors and nurses? What about aid workers, farmers, teachers, scient-” they protest, but I block it out as the door closes behind me, my self-importance rekindled.

The most important profession in the entire world.

Iberica with Alexander Hamilton

How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore, and a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence impoverished, in squalor, grow up to be a hero and my latest dining companion? That was the question I had to ask myself as I stood on the corner of London’s Cardinal Place in Victoria, awaiting Alexander Hamilton, American revolutionary, treasury secretary, and cultural icon due to the huge success of the musical Hamilton, a spectacular, ground-breaking piece of musical theatre famous for breaking convention not just through its use of rap and hip-hop, but for its incredibly diverse cast in an industry typically dominated by white actors. I’m keen to hear the thoughts of the man himself, and tonight we’d be enjoying the tastes of the Mediterranean as we ventured to popular tapas restaurant Iberica. “Here comes the general!” I say, as Hamilton approaches.

 

“Good to see you.” He says, with a shake of the hand.

 

“The one that I’ve been waiting for!”

 

“Ok.”

 

“I am not throwing away my shot!”

 

“You want to get drinks?” He says, confused.

 

“Oh, I… yes, I guess so.” I say, taken aback by his lack of response. Perhaps he’s just hungry for chorizo lollipops.

 

Iberica is one of the recent additions to a complete overhaul of the Victoria station area. Where previously the area was fairly devoid of much in the way of food, drink and shopping save for a Pret A Manger and a McDonalds, the whole area has been built up to now be a bit of a restaurant destination. As well as Iberica, you now have places like Bone Daddies, Crosstown Doughnuts, Shake Shack, the M Steakhouse, and Hai Cenato all having popped up in the last two years. Iberica was one of the first of these arrivals, a new outpost of an existing chain of tapas restaurants spread across London, Manchester and Leeds. It’s a restaurant that’s as fancy as you want to make it. It feels fancier than other tapas chains like La Tasca, but not so fancy that you feel you have to wear your smart shoes or your emerald-studded cloak.

 

Iberica Pan Con Tomate
Pan Con Tomate

 

“Ooh, what to have… what to have…” I say, scanning the menu. “Anything you’re in the mood for?”

 

“The chorizo lollipops sound nice.” Says Hamilton. I knew it! He’s right though, the chorizo lollipops sound delicious, so we order a few of those, alongside some pan con tomate, ham croquettes, the Spanish omelette, the crispy chicken, albóndigas (beef meatballs), Gambas (prawns in garlic sauce) as well as some jamón by none other than Juan Pedro Domecq, a man who neither of us have heard of, but who has apparently been awarded 3 gold stars for his Iberico ham four times, which is four more ham awards than either myself or Hamilton have ever won (although Hamilton’s achievements are so vast that they could have cut a song about him making fancy ham from the show for all I know).

 

“So, I guess you could say that you’re going to be my Right-Hand Man tonight, eh? Outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, outpl-“

 

“Why are you being weird?” Says Hamilton, as our food begins to arrive. I tuck into a beef meatball, laded with Vizcaina sauce, a sweet pepper sauce that has its origins in the Basque region of Spain. It’s very beefy, as you might expect for something made of beef, and the sweet pepper sauce does add a nice extra flavour to the dish (namely, one of sweet pepper).

 

“Because of the show! Come on, you know the words! Alexander Hamilton, there’s a million things I haven’t done, but just you wait, just you w-”

 

“What show?”

 

“Oh wow, you really have no idea, do you?”

 

“No idea about what?”

 

“We’re going to need to get this to take away.” I say to the waiter.

 

***

 

“Oh my god…” Says Hamilton. We’re standing on the street outside the Victoria Palace Theatre, where Hamilton is playing. “We have to see it.”

 

“It’s really hard to get tickets.”

 

“We have to find a way. Wouldn’t you want to see a musical about your own life?”

 

I consider it for a moment. Truth be told I’m not sure I would. I’m not sure how much entertainment there’d be in a musical about a man whose life was 75% sighing, 25% eating takeaway.

 

Chorizo Lollipops
Chorizo Lollipops

 

“Ok, fine, let’s see if they have any returns. We can’t take this in though.” I say, gesturing to the bag of croquettes, prawns, crispy chicken and ham.

 

“It’s fine, give it here.” Says Hamilton, as he takes the bag and begins to stuff the food into his pockets.

 

“Oh, err… ok.” I say, as Hamilton marches to the front of the queue.

 

“Hello, we’re here to see my show.” Says Hamilton.

 

“What’s the name?”

 

“Alexander Hamilton.” Says Hamilton. The cashier looks him up and down with disdain.

 

“I don’t have you down here Mr Hamilton…”

 

“But it’s my show.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Ok, fine, I can see we’re going to have to resort to unconventional means here…” Says Hamilton. “Perhaps you could… look again?” He says, as he removes a croquette from his pocket and casually slides it across to the cashier.

 

“Is that a croquette?” Says the baffled cashier.

 

“Make that… two croquettes.” Says Hamilton, as he slides another croquette across.

 

“You know these tickets go for hundreds of pounds.”

 

“How many croquettes is that?”

 

The cashier sighs the sigh of somebody who has sighed many sighs. “Look, we have two returns in Row F if you want them, but it’ll be four hundred pounds.”

 

Hamilton looks at me. I look at Hamilton. “Ok, fine.” I say, as I hand over my credit card. “We’ll need those croquettes back too.” I say, as I take back the croquettes and we walk into the theatre.

 

The Albóndigas (Beef Meatballs)
The Albóndigas (Beef Meatballs)

 

I take a bite of the croquette as we take our seats. It’s covered in hair with a faintly musty flavour, a very disappointing flavour combination, though in fairness I don’t believe that the restaurant had ever intended for it to be served directly out of the pockets of an 18th century ghost (if they had then it was very avant-garde). The lights dim, and the music starts.

 

“Who’s that?” Whispers Hamilton to me.

 

“That’s Aaron Burr.” I say.

 

“Aaron Burr? And who’s that?”

 

“George Washington.” I whisper, quietly.

 

“Seriously?!” Says Hamilton, loudly. People seated around us give us filthy looks and try to shh Hamilton. I mouth an apology as Hamilton just glares back at them.

 

“Just… keep it down a little bit, ok?” I whisper to Hamilton.

 

“But none of my friends are black!” Says Hamilton loudly as the song comes to a close and the theatre fills with silence. I feel the eyes of the entire crowd (and even the cast) on our seats.

 

“It’s not how it sounds.” I try to protest, however my voice is drowned out by the next song starting. I slide down in my seat in shame. Hamilton shrugs and pulls a piece of ham out of his pocket. He hands me one and I eat it immediately. Alas, even the fine tastes of Juan Pedro Domecq’s rich and flavoursome gold-starred ham can’t distract from my embarrassment. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring him here. He loudly chomps his way through some ham as we go through two more songs. Finally we get to the song ‘The Story Of Tonight’ a song where Hamilton, the Marquis de Lafayette, John Laurens and Hercules Mulligan pledge their loyalty to the revolution and sing about how future generations will tell tales about this moment. It’s a great song. Unfortunately, not everybody thinks so.

 

“No! No, no, no!” Shouts Hamilton, getting to his feet angrily. “Stop! Stop the music!” He shouts. Everything grinds to a halt and the theatre falls silent, except for the boos and aggression directed towards our seats.

 

“What the hell are you doing? Sit down!” I say to Hamilton, furiously.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Alexander Hamilton, and these people are all frauds!” Says Hamilton, gesturing towards the cast. He begins to shuffle out of our row and walk towards the stage. The boos begin to intensify. Before I know it, he’s stood on stage along with the cast, who all stand in bemusement. “This performance does not accurately reflect my life at all. Please, if you’ll allow me to interject.” Hamilton says, as he stands centre stage. “Andy, will you please join me on stage.” He says, gesturing to me. I look around as if to pretend it is not me he is talking to. “Andy, please come on up here.” Where the hell are the theatre security staff? How have they not stopped this by now? “Andy, I can see you, please get on up here.”

 

Juan Pedro Domenq's Award-Winning Ham
Juan Pedro Domenq’s Award-Winning Ham

 

Everybody’s eyes are on me now as I shamefully slink out of the row and apologetically trudge up onto the stage. “Everybody, this is Andy. He writes a food blog, which reminds me…” Hamilton withdraws a couple of prawns from his pocket. “One for you, one for me.” Says Hamilton, handing me a prawn. “Mmm… it has a nice taste of garlic, wouldn’t you agree?” I take a bite of my prawn and nod a subdued nod. It does have a nice taste of garlic, though at this point as we stand onstage in front of hundreds of people having hijacked an award-winning West End show to review prawns, my mind is understandably elsewhere.

 

“Right, now let me show you how this really happened.”

 

“Hamilton, no, please.” I protest. “Please don’t do this.”

 

“It’s singing, how hard can it be? I’ll be me, and Andy, you be Aaron Burr, ok?”

 

“What? No, wait a mi-”

 

“Music, please.” Says Hamilton, gesturing to the orchestra. To what will surely be their eternal regret, they for some reason decide to oblige him. “Hello, hello, hello… like, hello…” Sings Hamilton, tunelessly playing for time. “It is me, Hamilton. I have written some documents, would you like to read them?” He gestures to me.

 

“Yes, I would like to read them.” I try to sing. Me and Hamilton then just stand opposite each other bopping about for what feels like hours. Just two prawn-obsessed maniacs out of their depth in musical theatre, both unsure what to do next. He may have written 51 essays defending the U.S. constitution, but the man can’t freestyle to save his life.

 

“Ok, cool. They are about government things.” Sings Hamilton. “Government things. Government things…” He then begins to try and dance, flinging crispy chicken and prawns everywhere. It is at this point that the theatre security finally arrives, grab us both and lead us offstage to cheers from the crowd. They toss us out onto the kerb. “Take your wonderfully rich and meaty, nay almost buttery Juan Pedro Domenq gold-starred ham and stay out!” Shouts one of the security guards, as we’re followed shortly afterwards by our crispy chicken, prawns, and Juan Pedro Domenq ham.

 

“Yeah, well you take your expository dialogue and… and… yeah!” Shouts Hamilton, but it is too late, the door has already slammed behind us. The evening may have ended in disgrace, but overall I have to say…

 

9/10 – Lovely croquettes.

Sexy Fish with Karl Marx

karl-marx-at-sexy-fish-e1542023173737.png

Every food writer needs a bad review. People love seeing somebody’s dream torn apart in a whimsical way, their entire life’s purpose reduced to rubble by a cutting quip from somebody who writes about human fuel for a living, their self-worth completely vanquished because they had the audacity to grill their turbot for thirty seconds too long. People absolutely love that. It racks up the page views much quicker than somebody praising a great restaurant. If I want to be a true food writer, I have to find somewhere to hate, and today I think I have just the place.

 

Sexy Fish is a place of incredible opulence, an Instagram-friendly indulgence of gilded surfaces, glass dragons and eye-popping prices. It’s a place to be seen, a celebrity-haven that once hosted the Conservatives’ Christmas Party, which gives you some kind of idea of the typical clientele. I’ve always imagined it as somewhere that people looking to flash their cash come to spend extortionate sums on average food. Today however, it would be host to a different kind of a clientele, as I ventured there with everybody’s favourite writer on the means of production, Karl Marx. Marx famously wrote The Communist Manifesto back in 1848, a critique of the wealthy and their exploitation of the working-class for their own ends, making him the ideal candidate for my spectacular demolition of this bastion of the bourgeois.

 

I meet Marx outside the restaurant, at my suggestion. I can’t wait to see the explosion of fury as he walks in and sees potentially the grandest display of capitalism he’ll ever see. We walk through the door and…

 

“Wow, look at this place!” Says Marx. “This is amazing!”

 

We’re shown to our table and handed our menus. “Oh my god! They’ve got black cod! I love black cod!” Continues Marx.

 

“What is happening?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“This! The decadence, the prices! Don’t you think it’s a bit… bourgeois?”

 

“Oh… I guess so, yeah.”

 

“You guess so? Does it not make you angry?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you’re Karl bloody Marx! Is this not everything you’re against?!”

 

“Oh, well we can’t all be angry all the time, can we? Sometimes you just have to let your hair down and have a good time! Hey, why don’t we get some wagyu?”

 

“We’re not getting wagyu!” I say, as I see it priced at £89 for 150 grams. “Look, I’ll be honest with you, we’re here to write a bad review.”

 

“But why?”

 

“Because writing about something you hate is much more popular than writing about something you like. You think The Communist Manifesto would have been as popular if you’d written about how much you enjoy exploiting the poor?” Marx shrugs his shoulders. “Please just try and have a terrible time for me, ok?”

 

“Ok, I’ll try.” Says Marx.

 

Sexy Fish Chicken Wings
Chicken wings.

 

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Says a waiter, interrupting.

 

“Yes, of course, I’ll have the…” I say, as I scan the menu, looking for something of more style than substance that I can criticise. Alas, it’s one of the nicest and most interesting cocktail menus I’ve seen, including one particularly delicious sounding drink that catches my eye. The Rocky Road Old Fashioned is a twist on a regular Old Fashioned, but using buttered whisky, with a toffee twist and a digestive biscuit crumb. It sounds like my dream cocktail, but then really you could sell me anything by adding the word ‘buttered’. I’d probably have been sold on invading Iraq too if you’d told me they had buttered WMDs. I’m basically only ever one well-placed adjective away from an aircraft carrier and a ‘MISSION ACCOMPLISHED’ banner.

 

I order the Rocky Road Old Fashioned, the criticism can wait. Marx settles on a Japanese whisky. Sexy Fish professes to have the second largest collection of Japanese whisky in the world. Who the number one is I have no idea, but if I were to hazard a guess I would say Japan.

 

It’s easy to come to Sexy Fish and rack up the bill like you’re playing a pinball machine, but I’ve planned this well in advance and know exactly what to order to keep it within budget. We go for the chicken wings, beef skewers, the black cod, lamb chops, the Iberico pork ribs, and the duck breast. Factoring in our two cocktails and tip, that keeps us within £200. It’s a pricey meal, but it’s hard to get out of here spending less.

 

As mentioned, Sexy Fish is something of a celebrity haven, you come here expecting to see somebody famous. Even coming in with this knowledge, we’re surprised to see who enters the front door next.

 

“Oh my god, is that-” I say, aghast.

 

“Che Guevara.” Says Che Guevara. “I’m here for the event.”

 

“Of course. Right this way, sir.” Says the Maitre d’. He leads him through the restaurant, missing myself and Marx as he does, and they exit into a back room.

 

“That was strange.” Says Marx. “What’s he doing here?”

 

“I have no idea… It’s fine though, forget about him.”

 

sexy-fish-rocky-road-old-fashioned.jpg
The Rocky Road Old Fashioned.

 

Our first dishes arrive, the chicken wings and the beef skewers. ‘Here we go!’ I think to myself, as the starter’s pistol is fired on the review that’s going to propel me to fame and fortune. Before I know it I’ll be sitting down with Graham Norton, telling a hilarious anecdote about the beef being closer to well-done than medium rare, as Will Smith pats me on the shoulder and tells me I’m the freshest of all princes.

 

I take a bite of the beef skewer and my blood runs cold. To my surprise, the beef is juicy and works very well with the asparagus and smoked chilli sauce it comes with. I fumble for a chicken wing, hoping for something to salvage the criticism, but alas they too are crisp and flavoursome. It’s almost like they don’t want me to write them a poor review.

 

“What do you think?” I ask Marx, as the black cod, the pork ribs and the duck breast arrive at our table too.

 

“I don’t know, maybe he’s here for a job interview or something.”

 

“I mean the food! I told you to forget about him!”

 

“He’s a communist! Don’t you think it’s a bit hypocritical?” Says Marx, as he tucks into the black cod.

 

“Look at you!” I said, as Marx wipes the black cod from his face and takes another sip of his Japanese whisky.

 

“Oh, well this is different isn’t it?”

 

“How?”

 

“You know… I’m… German.” Says Marx, clutching wildly at straws. I take a bite of the black cod. My heart sinks as I realise it’s unironically tasty. Rich and creamy unlike regular cod, it’s surely only a matter of time until some London restaurant makes a ‘fish finger’ sandwich using black cod, at which point London will have finally completed its journey to becoming the Capitol from The Hunger Games.

 

Sexy Fish Black Cod
Black Cod.

 

“This is actually quite good, isn’t it?” I say with a sigh, as I see my Will Smith friendship dream dying in front of me.

 

“It’s awful.” Says Marx.

 

“Really?” I say, excitedly.

 

“Yes. If he were coming here he should have let me know.”

 

“Oh for goodness sake, this again?”

 

“I’m going to go and say something.” Says Marx, folding his napkin as he gets to his feet.

 

“And what will he say if he sees you here?”

 

“Oh, I guess you’re right.” Says Marx, sitting back down again. “Ok, I need you to go and say something.”

 

“Why the hell would I go and say something?”

 

“Because I’ve taken your family hostage, Andy.”

 

“You’ve what?” I say, stunned.

 

“All it takes is one call, Andy…” Says Marx, as he slowly withdraws a calculator from his pocket and hovers his finger over the ‘CE’ button.

 

“You know that’s a calculator, right?”

 

“The guy told me this was an iPhone!”

 

“What guy?”

 

“He said he was the CEO of Telephones.”

 

“Where did you see him?”

 

“He was by the bins.”

 

“Did you see his ID?”

 

“He said he’d left it in his office.”

 

“Where was his office?”

 

“Los Angeles.”

 

“So he’d popped over from L.A. for the day to just hang around by some bins and sell phones?”

 

“I can see why you’re sceptical, I was too at first-“

 

“You should be bloody sceptical! You’ve been trying to text people on a calculator!”

 

Sexy Fish Iberico Pork Ribs
Iberico Pork Ribs.

 

“Ok, I don’t have your family, but can you please just find him and have a word? Just ask him what he’s doing here?”

 

“Fine.” I sigh. I take one final bite of the pork ribs (sadly tremendous), and head for the Coral Reef room, Sexy Fish’s private dining room, so named due to the huge coral reef fish tank along the back wall. Perhaps here, in the scene of maximum opulence I will find something to criticise. I swing the door open and-

 

“Oh my god!” I say, stunned. I see Che Guevara seated at a table, flanked by Vladimir Lenin, Leon Trotsky, Chairman Mao, Joseph Stalin and Fidel Castro. They’re all laughing together, pouring champagne and feasting like kings. The whole scene is like something out of The Great Gatsby, were Gatsby to host exclusive parties for autocrats responsible for the deaths of millions of their own people, a film I’m not sure even Leonardo di Caprio could have saved.

 

“I just think the cod could benefit from more miso glaze.” Says Stalin, in a thick Russian accent.

 

“What is this?!” I say, and then I see… her. Valerie Rhombus, author of significantly more popular blog, Meals With Departed Historical Figures. Valerie is an Instagram ‘influencer’, the kind that has pictures of herself staring wistfully into the sea or brushing her hair out of her face alongside some faux-intellectual caption like ‘sometimes to get where you’re going you need to go back to where you started’, a quote which only really works if you’re on a roundabout. She completely stole my idea for my blog and passed it off as her own by changing small details, such as the name, the font, and making her blog interesting rather than a self-indulgent shambles. I despise her.

 

“Andy! Good to see you!” Says Valerie, with a smug smile.

 

“I should have known it was you! What are you doing here?!”

 

“I thought it would be fascinating to have the clash between the world’s foremost socialist thinkers and the extravagance of Sexy Fish. It works particularly well in the Coral Reef Room, don’t you think?”

 

“That was MY idea! You knew I was doing my review here!”

 

“Your review? Which D-lister have you got this time? Joseph Aspdin?”

 

Everybody laughs loudly at me.

 

“Oh shut up, Stalin! I bet you don’t even know who Joseph Aspdin is!”

 

“He invented Portland cement.” Says Stalin. I have no idea whether he’s telling the truth or not. None of us really know who Joseph Aspdin is.

 

Sexy Fish Beef Skewers
The Beef & Asparagus Skewers.

 

“So come on, who did you invite?” Says Valerie.

 

“What the hell is going on here?!” Says Marx, walking through door. All the Communists look stunned and get to their feet immediately.

 

“Urgh! This place makes me sick!” Says Lenin, as he dramatically throws his napkin on the floor and stamps on it.

 

“Yes! I am glad we have come here to… to… experience it first-hand so now we can better understand how to seize the means of production!” Says Trotsky, wiping bone marrow from his moustache. “Bloody… capitalism!” He says, shaking his fist at a passing clown fish.

 

“Oh, knock it off!” Says Marx, angrily. “You’re all hypocrites! You claim to stand for the redistribution of wealth, yet here you all are indulging yourselves with champagne and seabass! What would the proletariat say if they could see you all now? You’ve brought shame upon the Communist movement!”

 

The Communists stand hanging their heads in shame. There is a moment’s silence before Che Guevara pipes up.

 

“Hold on, what are you doing here?” Says Che.

 

“Me? Well I… you know… I was here as a… you know, as an ironic observer, right Andy?”

 

A waiter enters behind us.

 

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but how did you want your wagyu cooked?” Says the waiter to Marx.

 

“Oh for goodness sake, you’re just as bad as them! You should all hate this place! It’s everything you claimed to stand against but look at you, you’re literally champagne socialists! What do you have to say for yourselves?”

 

“Sorry.” Mumble the Communists as one, as they stare at the floor. “We’re very sorry.”

 

“Ok, good, thankyou. And you, don’t you ever steal my ideas again!” I say to Valerie. “Come on Marx, let’s go finish our review.”

 

I go to leave, but Marx remains still. “Marx, come on!” I say.

 

“But… they have a fish tank.” Says Marx. “Can I stay here?”

 

“Of course you can stay here.” Says Valerie, smiling wickedly in my direction. “Do you like sea bass?”

 

“I love sea bass!” Says Marx.

 

“Well we’ve got plenty, get yourself a seat!” Says Valerie, as Marx excitedly runs around to sit next to Fidel Castro.

 

“You bloody bastard! I need him for my review!”

 

“Sorry Andy, at least somebody’s seized the means of production this evening.” Says Valerie, as she closes the door in my face. I’m left alone with the laughter of 6 dead Communists echoing through the corridor. I make my way back to my table and glumly nurse my Old Fashioned (wonderfully buttery), when I’m interrupted by the waiter.

 

“Excuse me, sir. There’s somebody here to see you.”

 

“What? Who?”

 

The waiter moves to reveal a man I’ve never seen before stood looming over the table.

 

“Hello, are you Andy?” Says the man.

 

“Yes… who are you?”

 

“I’m Joseph Aspdin, inventor of Portland cement.”

 

I sigh heavily. My evening of misery is, for want of a better word, cemented. “You know what, fine. Sit yourself down and tell me everything you know about cement.” I say, as I down my Old Fashioned. I came here to criticise the place in the hope it might make us all feel better about ourselves, but overall I have to say…

 

9/10 – Tremendous black cod.

Meat Liquor with Mother Teresa

Meat Liquor

“Hello, I’ve got a reservation for two under the name Patrick Kluivert.” I said to the waiter. I’d recently taken to using an alias when making bookings. If I wanted to be a successful food critic and get a fair trial of an establishment, I needed to refrain from using my real name to avoid tipping them off in advance and receiving special treatment. Unfortunately I had only realised this as I was calling to make a reservation, and in my panic had reached for the first name I could think of, which sadly happened to be that of late 1990s-mid 2000s Dutch footballing superstar, Patrick Kluivert.

“Yes, here we are. Right this way, Mr Kluivert.” Said the hostess. Thankfully the name hadn’t rung any alarm bells and I should be able to dine in anonymity. She seated me at my table to await my guest, who was evidently running late. Today I would be dining with the famous writer, Ernest Hemingway. The author of classic books such as The Old Man And The Sea, as well its significantly less classic follow-up titles, 2 Old Man 2 The Sea, and The Old Man And The Sea: Tokyo Drift, he lived a notoriously hedonistic lifestyle of excess, and so where better to take him than to rock and roll burger chain Meat Liquor.

Meat Liquor is a very in your face, unapologetic swathe of fat-laced high-end diner food. Hulking great burgers packed with juicy beef patties paired with sides richer than Macauley Culkin in the 1990s, and an alcohol menu that ranges from classic cocktails to hard milkshakes and pickleback shots. It’s a place of indulgence, the kind of place you come to forget you’re trying to diet because your body fat has been steadily creeping up all the time, despite you thinking you’re doing more exercise than ever and eating salads from Tossed for lunch twice a week, somehow the number just continues to creep up and you stop using the machine at the local Nuffield Health because what does it know anyway? It doesn’t know you, and everybody is different, right? It’s probably broken and just can’t tell the difference between fat and muscle. It’s the place you forget that and have a milkshake or five.

Meat Liquor Monkey Fingers
The ‘Monkey Fingers’.

I sit at the table for a good half hour or so, continually checking my phone. Where the hell is Hemingway? He’s probably running late from another hedonistic meeting, and as we only have the table for a couple of hours, I decide to order for him in advance. I order a large portion of monkey fingers (chicken breast coated in batter and slathered in buffalo sauce) to share. To accompany this, I opt for the Dead Hippie Burger, which consists of two beef patties fried in mustard, the usual lettuce, cheese, onions etc, as well as their famous ‘dead hippie sauce’. Quite what this dead hippie sauce is remains a mystery, though the name makes you worry that years from now you’ll be on a Panorama documentary where they reveal that you were a willing accomplice in the Sweeney Todd situation you worried it was. For Hemingway, I choose the Tower Block Burger, a combination of fried chicken, cheese, jalapenos and a hash brown. I also order some chilli cheese fries, onion rings, a deep-fried mac ’n’ cheese to share, a black forest milkshake for me, as well as a chocolate milkshake and a classic martini for Hemingway. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the scream of the Nuffield Health body measurement machine. I continue anyway, to spite it for giving me what is actually probably a very accurate measurement of my BMI and body fat level, and add some hash browns to my order. This should be enough to keep us satisfied.

No sooner had I finished my order than the door swings open, and who is stood there other than…

Mother Teresa?

Meat Liquor Mother Teresa.jpg

“Hello, I’m here with Patrick Kluivert.” Says Mother Teresa. She is ushered to my table. “You must be Patrick Kluivert.” She says, with a smile. Clearly she has little to no knowledge of that era of European football, which should come as no surprise I suppose. She doesn’t look the type to have owned a pair of Adidas Predators.

“Yes, sure.” I say, standing to greet her. “Where’s Hemingway?”

“Oh, he couldn’t make it in the end, so he sent me instead.” She says, as she takes a seat. “What are we having today?”

I look at the menu. How do you explain Meat Liquor, a restaurant with Satanic overtones and where the name is a euphemism, to an elderly Saint? “It’s called Burger Town.” I say. It’s easier this way. “Have you ever been to an American diner before?” She looks at me blankly. “They serve burgers, hot dogs, fries, that kind of thing.” The blank stare intensifies. “Well anyway, you’re going to love it.”

Meat Liquor Dead Hippie Burger.jpg
My Dead Hippie burger.

Teresa nods, and pours herself a glass of tap water. We sit facing each other for a while.

“So…” I say, lost for conversation. I am acutely aware that despite knowing of Mother Teresa, I have absolutely no idea what she did, as I hadn’t been expecting to meet her today. It must be something good, as she’s always held up as some kind of bastion of decency, but what that was I couldn’t say. Did she look after animals? No, wait, didn’t she heal the lepers? No, of course, she was the one who travelled back through time to find love! No, I realise, this was respectively St Francis of Assisi, Jesus of Nazareth, and Domhnall Gleeson in About Time. Alas, I have no idea whatsoever what she did, so I go with the same tried and tested gem of conversation as ever. “Have you seen Stranger Things?”

“I once saw an owl with the face of God.” She says.

“Ok, err… I mean I guess that’s technically a stranger thing. Tell me more.”

Mother Teresa begins to tell me the tale of the time she saw an owl with the face of God. I’m sure it’s a very interesting story, but I’m distracted by what’s going on elsewhere, as people are excitedly chattering and looking around the restaurant. I attempt to eavesdrop on one of the tables.

“No, really! I heard one of the waitresses say it!” Says one.

“I can’t see him anywhere.” Says the other, scanning the restaurant.

“Well they definitely said it. He’s here! Patrick Kluivert is here!” They say, excitedly.

Oh god. They had clocked the name after all, and now somehow they’d let it spill to the rest of the restaurant. I kept my head down. I knew I should have given a different name, like less well-known 1990s-mid 2000s Dutch footballer Boudewijn Zenden, or almost completely forgotten 1990s-mid 2000s Dutch footballer Wim Jonk. Alternatively, I could have gone with a name not based on the Dutch World Cup squad of France 1998, but for some reason that didn’t seem like an option right now.

“…and then it hooted ‘if you need me, I live in that barn over there. I may be omniscient, but if you could point me in the direction of some mice I’d really appreciate it’.” Continued Mother Teresa.

“What? Oh, sorry, yes, the God owl.” I said, as I snapped back to the table.

The conversation faded out, and we stared at each other in silence again. Several minutes passed. “Any holidays coming up?” I asked.

“No, nothing planned.” Said Mother Teresa. The conversation faded out again.

Meat Liquor Black Forest Milkshake.jpg
Black Forest milkshake.

“Ok, look, I’m going to be honest with you.” I sighed. “I wasn’t expecting you today so I really don’t know much about you. Why don’t you tell me about your life?”

“Of course! I’d be glad to!” Said Mother Teresa. “I was born in Albania back in 1910. I always believed I had a higher purpose, to do God’s work, and so I devoted myself to a religious life from a very young age, leaving my family to pursue missionary work at the age of 18. I gave my life in service to the poor, founding the Missionaries of Charity in 1950 to care for all of those who felt unwanted, unloved or uncared for. We started with 13 of us, but by the time of my death we’d grown to over 4,000 members caring for people around the world. We opened orphanages, hospices, leper houses, at one point we even brokered a temporary peace between Israel and Palestine! In 1979 I was recognised with a Nobel Peace Prize, but the real achievement for me was always the sense of helping people and doing good.”

“Oh, wow, ok.”

“How about you?” She asked.

“Oh, you know, nothing special…” I said.

“All work has value in that it contributes to society and grants life a purpose.” Said Teresa, with a smile. “Tell me about what you do.”

“I work in advertising sales at Microsoft.” I sighed. Her face plummeted. “Have you heard of Bing?” She shook her head, which was actually a little bit of a surprise, as an 87 year-old who didn’t know how to change their default browser was typically our demographic.

“Ok, so you help charities to advertise their causes to the world?”

“Err… I guess it depends if you count Amazon as a charity.”

“The rainforest, of course!”

“Yes… the rainforest…” I said, as I gestured to the waitress to bring a shot of whisky or five.

Mother Teresa smiled a polite smile at me. Despite what she’d said, I feel like even she was slightly unsure whether my life had a purpose. Here was a woman who had devoted her life to fighting poverty, who abhorred the gluttonous greed of the wealthy who had so much when the poor had so little. It was this that made it infinitely more awkward when our food arrived.

“Ok, I’ve got some monkey fingers, a dead hippie burger, a Tower Block burger, some chilli cheese fries, onion rings, deep fried mac and cheese, hash browns, a black forest milkshake, and a classic martini?” Says the waitress, as she arrives with a feast that Henry VIII himself would be embarrassed by (I know this as we recently over-ordered at Wahaca and Henry was so mortified he left without playing Greensleeves).

“Is this ours?” Said Mother Teresa.

“Yes, it looks like they’ve made some kind of mistake with the ordering.” I said. “They must have misheard when I said ‘being alive is nourishment enough for me’. Since it’s here though, how about you have the Tower Block burger and we share the rest?”

Teresa nodded, and we began to tuck into our feast. The dead hippie burger is always a winner, juicy enough to require that the tables all be equipped with a kitchen roll, but still having enough flavour to ensure it’s not just juicy for the sake of being juicy. The mac and cheese balls too are superbly cheesy and somehow just work in the form of fried balls. The monkey fingers are good, but as a replacement for buffalo wings they do lack some of the crunch and flavour. I look over at Teresa as I take a sip of my milkshake. Her face is covered in strands of hash brown from her Tower Block burger. “Good?” I say. She nods, emphatically.

meat-liquor-chilli-cheese-fries.jpg
Green chilli cheese fries.

“Goodness, I would never have thought that a ring of onion could work so well in combination with a fried chicken burger, but somehow it does.” She says. “And this chocolate milkshake is such a blessing, so rich and chocolatey.”

“Excellent, I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” I said. We continued to crunch our way through our feast until there was nothing left.

“That was great, thankyou.” I said, as the waitress took our plates.

“Can we see the dessert menu?” Said Teresa, at this point making a bold claim to be the patron saint of food disposal.

“We’ll bring it shortly.” Said the waitress with a smile. “Is it your birthday today?”

“Me? No. Not today unfortunately.” Said Teresa.

“No, you.” She says, turning to me. “There’s a group of people over there who said it’s your birthday today.” She says, pointing. I turn to see a group of twenty Dutch football fans, all dressed in the familiar orange shirt. Oh god. “We’ve got to go.” I say to Mother Teresa, panicking as I stand up.

“Go now? But why?”

“Happy Birthday to you!” Sing the staff as they emerge from the kitchen, clutching a cake. “Happy birthday to you!” The whole restaurant begins to join in, their gaze following the staff as they begin to make their way towards the hidden celebrity. “Happy birthday, Patrick Kluivert!” They stop at our table. “Happy birthday to you!” The rest of the restaurant stops singing as everybody stares at a man who is quite clearly not Patrick Kluivert. A deathly hush descends over the restaurant, as I awkwardly blow out the candles on their signature Filth Pie, a concoction of Oreo, marshmallow, coconut and chocolate served with ice cream that I would be very excited about trying were the eyes of the restaurant not judging me for having pretended to be Euro 2000’s joint top-scorer.

“That’s not Patrick Kluivert!” Shouts a Dutch football fan.

“He’s a liar!”

“Boo!”

The entire restaurant begins to boo me, which to be honest I think is unfair, as they haven’t even read my review at this point. Without warning, Teresa stands up on a chair.

“Silence!” She shouts, the restaurant immediately quietening down. “How dare you boo this man! This man who works so hard to support the Amazon rainforest!” Again, I do not correct her. “And after all, who amongst us has not once pretended to be somebody they are not? Who amongst us has not once wished we could be somebody more famous, more confident, more impressive? So let us all forgive him, for ultimately are we not all frauds in the eyes of God?”

The restaurant nods solemnly, ashamed of themselves, and everybody sits back down to their own meals.

“That was amazing, thankyou.” I say to Mother Teresa. “You really are a saint, aren’t you? I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“I knew you weren’t Patrick Kluivert the whole time.”

“Really?”

She stands up and shows me her feet, revealing a pair of Adidas Predators. “Never judge a book by its cover.” She says, with a smile. She pulls a football from a bag and attempts to do some keepie-ups, performing them with all the skill and dexterity you’d expect of an 87 year-old Roman Catholic Saint, immediately losing her balance and crashing through a table. It seems like a fitting place to leave the review. Overall…

9/10 – Great burgers and sides.