Sunday, 18 January 2009

'It Was Lovely....'

Sitting at a restaurant with my family is generally an enjoyable experience, more so now because of their new middle class surroundings, which means I rarely venture out of my poverty shack to see them as often.

Being English is certainly a condition that should be added to a vocabulary somewhere, because it's a queer disposition that means you cannot question the validity of the meal you have paid money for, even if it looks like a shit.

I know what beef wellington is right. So I know what a vegetable wellington should look like. It should look like a beef wellington without the beef in it. Don't serve me a pile of diarrhea and sprinkle some rocket all over it because you made a massive cock up.

I've seen Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmare's enough times to know the chef deserved it over his face, but where did the balls go? The big fat balls? I forgot, I'm English, I don't have any.

Well, my nan has. Served a lamb roast that nearly removed her dentures with every bite, the waitress made the eternal error of asking if it was 'ok?'


We fear she may not be English after all.

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