Last Saturday, we celebrated the birthday of one of my favourite little people: my buddy, Valentin Segura, turned 1! What a hard year he’s had, what with being a little blob and having to learn to crawl and stuff. I mean, life’s tough. So we celebrated his hard work with a BBQ! And not just any BBQ. Little Valentin is half Argentinian so we had a traditional asado, cooked by his abuelo, a certified expert in this kind of thang.
So we were already in for a serious feed, but add to that the fact that Valentin’s mum and his grandma are both professional chefs. I mean, seriously. Is this the most professionally catered BBQ or what?!
I don’t often win at anything. Although I’m totally kiasu, by nature that means I never lose, but I don’t ever really win either. Don’t get confused now, the situations I engage in often involve more than two people. So there’s a winner, there’s a loser and then there’s me. And except for that one time, when the universe had a momentary lapse in concentration, I never win at anything.
But you know what I would totally 100% kick butt at? If there was like, a competition on who has the most first cousins in the world. Please, somebody, run that competition.
There’s something about getting all dressed up that still makes the girlie girl hidden deep within me flutter with excitement. I never wear proper dresses and heels in London (work clothes don’t count). The walking, the raining, the cobbled streets… unless you actually want to sprain your ankle or god forbid, to damage the perfectly patently shiny heel of your new shoes, believe me you do not want to wear heels in London.
But of course, having afternoon tea at The Ritz falls outside of my no-heels rule. Not in the least because you have to dress up to even penetrate the revolving doors that hold the rich and beautiful in, and well, normally holds the rest of us out.
On Saturday, my friends Brendon and Christine hosted a most fabulous BBQ down in the ghetto. Well, the term “ghetto” is used relatively here. Basically, they pretty much live across the street from the Ministry of Sound nightclub and back in my hey day (because yes I am old), that minuscule proximity to MOS would have totally rocked my world. But these days? I’d much rather live across the street from a farmers market. Or a Byron. Or something equally tasty.
So nightclub scene = ghetto. Me = boring, I know I suck, but deal with it.
The first thing you notice about the new Giraffe Bar & Grill in Soho is that there ain’t no space to park your buggy. Unlike the rest of its Giraffe clan – whose main mission I think is to either induce a violent fit of cluckiness or well, nausea - this Giraffe is aimed at those of us tall enough to take the Soho ride.
When Panu’s out of town, I get up to a whole bunch of no good. Like, I bake a batch of brownies and eat half of them myself. I watch The Hills on repeat, UP LOUD, and just to be really naughty, I even sleep on his side of the bed! I know, daring. Well, on Sunday, while Panu was happily sailing around a lake in Jyväskylä (that’s in Finland, for those of you as geographically stunted as me), I rendezvoused with my other two gorgeous 6-foot-plus boys for brunch at The Pantry! Hah!
