tasty morsels of London: when to wear your expandable pants

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sizzling wagyu beef on hot rocks with champagne teriyake from Cocoon; chocolate walnut tart; pimms

I think there is a chance (a chance?) that I have an imbalance of something in my brain, because nothing else would explain my ridiculous childlike excitement as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds this morning and I woke up realising that today is Christmas Day is my birthday I win lotto we go to Vegas I get a puppy we go to the Taste of London Festival. Are you as excited as I am? You’re not? It’s ok, I know a puppy would have totally rawked, but food is a worthy consolation.

The day actually had the potential to go pear-shaped, what with the spanktastic top I bought last week turning out to not be as spanktastic as I had originally thought, and the fact that I (who has never once been tardy – retarded yes, tardy no) thought we were running late so I made my boyfriend run to the event with me (closed my eyes, followed the fragrance of yummy). But we arrived (early, as usual, thanks to the pre-eating jog) and so the Eating began.

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gimme some sugar, sugar: cheap & healthy EATing

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summer berry & elderflower jelly; supergreens salad

LondonEater threw out a last minute invite for lunch at Sketch today, and I was so tempted to throw on a crazy sexy cool outfit (with my crazier sexier cooler shoes)  to chow down at this craziest sexiest coolest pad (or so LondonEater describes) but as I started to mentally undress and dress myself in various outfits, something nagged at the back of my mind.  Was I doing something before this? I’m sure I was doing something, and dare I even say something important. OH, right, I was w.o.r.k.i.n.g.  Work – the activity that seems to monopolise two-thirds of my waking hours – has just managed to once again monopolise my Friday lunch hour. So I bid my Sketch lunch adieu and instead popped downstairs to EAT, to grab my lunch, takeout please. I is a working girl, afterall. Not that kind of working girl. 

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Le Comptoir Gascon rend mon ventre tout heureux

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potted duck rillettes; piggy treats; duck confit & garbure bearnaise

I have a penchant for all most things French. French food, French wine (although I’m a particularly cheap date on vino), the French language and I’m pretty sure even the humble macaroon hails from the romantic shores of France.  The jury is still out on French men, because as perfectly coiffed as their little moustaches may be, I’m still yet to meet one who is as shamelessly romantic as they are made out to be, or if that order is a little tall, then maybe just one who speaks English in an accent that I can actually understand.

Or maybe I could learn to speak French!

Don’t worry I’m all over that one. My boyfriend and I have come up with a Grand Master Plan (why is it that every time I say that, I feel like (a) adding the word Stan onto the end and (b) I am the fourth Beastie Boy).  So the plan (and plans are extra fabulous because I’m only committed to the plan, not the execution thereof) is that I’m going to learn French. Oui! And he’s going to learn Spanish. Absolutamente! And with my toddler-level Mandarin (which comes with it an understanding of Cantonese, Teow Chew and Hokkien) and his fluent Finnish (which is useful in um… Finland), we are going to take over the world! Pinky and the Brain style, of course. 

Je ne peux que rêver…

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hunting down good sushi in L-town

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japanese bento box; grilled scallops & tempura shitake udon; tuna tartar

When we were moving from Australia to the UK, people practically pried themselves free of the woodwork just to do their bit for society and warn us about the lack of good food, and especially good sushi in London. To those people, I say, where the f&*% have you been eating? Because the last 17 months on this side of the globe has taught me that not only does London have good food, there is plenty of it. Even sushi.

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Tunisia.. serving up BBQ pork in the form of… me.

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chilli dip with tuna and pickled vegies; grilled calamari; chocolate fondant; breakfast buffet

Hi! I’m now back from Tunisia (yes, Northern Africa) and am suffering from post-holiday blues so play nice, ok? Three and a half days of lazing by the pool, soaking up the nothing-but-blue-sky thirty-something degree heat plus a 60 minute massage has un-knotted my knots, un-stressed my stresses and really has me believing that I should just pack up and move out there. Seriously.

In the mean time though, reality is still biting, so here I am and yes this post is totally about BBQ pork!

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celebrating America’s National Egg Month? sure, why not?

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angelled eggs

So it is now only one more sleep until I hit the sunny shores of Tunisia for a well deserved three-day lie-on-the-beach/pool/bed/recliner holiday. Being as ridiculously geographically challenged as I am (I don’t think I’ve ever taken a geography lesson. I vaguely remember having to take Social Studies in Year 9, which in all effects and purposes should cover geography and history, but all I remember from that class was an unhealthy obsession with all things Egyptian, and an even unhealthier obsession with Stargate and pondering the gender identity of Jaye Davidson – the jury’s still out on that one), up until about a month ago, I thought Tunisia was in Europe. Anyway, Google Maps told me otherwise. Tunisia is actually in Northern Africa, right up there next to Algeria and Morocco, and a stone’s throw from Italy’s south coast. At least it’s close to Europe. There was a time when I thought the Caribbean was in Africa. Shame.

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