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I’m actually struggling to begin this blog post because I just don’t seem to have the skillz to communicate how really really really really ridiculously great (I think I write good, like Zoolander) dinner at The Ledbury was without sounding like a total ‘tard. I mean, how many ways can you say something is bloody amazing? Incredibly delectable? Tremendously astounding? Exceptionally marvellous? ‘Tard. How about it was just fucking delicious? 
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Awana. A-don’t-really-wana blog about Awana. Mainly because I don’t usually like blogging about negative experiences and well, last time I blogged about bad service, the place closed down! Granted, it wasn’t because of me that they closed down – it was because of the bad service, clearly! Anyway, in my don’t-want-to-blog-about-Awana-ness, I’ll summarise my experience in three dot points:
That’s my review and now I can talk about other stuff!
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Last week, I gave y’all a lesson about crabs and their hepatopancreas. Ok fine, I didn’t give a lesson I gave a link, but whatever, you’re now more knowledgeable than you were before so I rest my case. All that talk about hepatopancreases (my new favourite word) pulled at my heart strings, which I know sounds weird, like why would crab “mustard” make me all sad, but it does. And it does because… I miss my daddy. And his chilli crabs. (in that order).
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Last Saturday night was primed to be one of the highlights my culinary life. That is, aside from the inimitable Fat Duck, but that experience reigns supreme and blitzes any competition out of the stratosphere. Last Saturday night, we went to Nobu. And not Nobu Park Lane, which I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying, but the reputedly superior Berkeley branch, what with its wood fired oven and all that shiz. Well, primed as it may have been and good as the food was, my experience was still partially shattered by the fact that they now have a no photo policy. I mean, come on food bloggers, all together now: WHAT. THE. FUCK.
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There’s something to be said about Scandi food. And no, I’m not going to wax lyrical about the actual food because Lord knows I’m not the brightest foodie in the house, but seriously, those Scandinavians, are they tall and hot or what? I mean, look at them. And then look at me. Oh you don’t see me? Sorry lower your gaze about two feet and oh there! There I am, three feet from the ground. What is it that they feed these guys so they are super tall, super hot and super… well I don’t know if they’re all super smart but for arguments’ sake, let’s say they’re also super smart. Whatever it is they eat, I want some because I’m sure, I’m really sure, that at 30, I’m still growing, right? Because I can’t be this short my whole life right? Right….?! [...echo...] Whatever. I figure that if I let myself loose on a Scandinavian smorgasbord buffet, I would have some semblance of a chance to grow an inch or two right there on the spot. And if I don’t? Well, it still tastes pretty darn good… and with that excuse safely tucked under my arm, I headed off to Madsen last Saturday evening, ready for a Scandi assault.
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