I can tell you now, Groupon is going to be the end of me. What’s Groupon you ask? Really? Where have you been?
Groupon is a new(ish) sales concept, probably made up by some crazy old dude sitting in his basement, swigging a bottle of ‘Beam and smoking some pack of yellowed cigarettes he stashed away for a rainy day, way back in 1962. Whoever he is, he is now a rich motherfucker, because the concept of Groupon has taken off… mainly due to suckers like myself.
So. Aqua Kyoto is a funny one. It balances so very delicately on the knife edge between pretentious (most likely due to the irritating flash website of its parent company, Aqua Restaurant Group) and comfortably cool, serving up modern Japanese cuisine five floors up from London’s bustling Oxford Circus.
I’ve now been twice, and I still can’t quite pick a camp. I mean, the waiters float around straightening up your chair should you get up and leave it not perfectly parallel and six inches from the table (pretentious) but then you can have drinks on their awesome balcony overlooking Regent Street, which caters for one and all and doesn’t require a pompous reservation (very cool).
Y’see? I just don’t know.
I know what you’re thinking. What the hell does heart break have to do with cheese have to do with chicken salad, right? Well to be honest, I’m not really sure either. But I have a good feeling that in some convoluted way, my aimless blabbering might actually tie the three together. Just you wait and see…
Pierre Hermé at Selfridges finally unveils their new matcha and black pepper macaron. I went to Selfridges last week to buy something serious and came out with a box of these babies.
Not that buying macarons isn’t serious bizness.
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?
Yesterday I turned the ripe old age of 31. That would plonk me well and truly in the realms of “my thirties”, not just fence-sitting on 30 and enjoying the excitement of a whole new decade. This time around there was no excitement, just a couple of new grey hairs and a ridiculous butt load of drinking on my birthday eve.
Hurrah.