view of San Francisco

San Francisco. Our first port of call on what was to be ten days of leisure, pleasure and lots and lots of eating. Well, not so much in SF but Vegas? Holy crap I actually had to teach myself how not to finish every single meal, but that is another story and thankfully another post, because having just stepped off the 10 hour return flight today, I can barely manage to log onto netbank to check my funds balance (or maybe I just don’t want to) let alone even think about Vegas right now. The sheer enormity of the place gives me heart palpitations, so we’re just not gonna go there today ok? We’re just sticking to nice, safe San Fran.

San Francisco was always going to be a winner, with or without the gastronomous delights. And this is because a very special friend of mine from university, who I haven’t seen for almost ten years, lives there and in this time she’s gone and gotten married, had two kids and two dogs (ok so she didn’t have the dogs but you know what I mean) and I hadn’t met any of them! Not cool. So here I was in San Fran to see Anh and the crew, and like I said, had I not eaten for the whole three days (pffft, like that’s ever gonna happen), SF would still have been sweet.

But good golly, surprise surprise I did eat. I mean, why else would I be writing about San Fran in a food blog? Duh.

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Alicante with the girls

Girls trip. In Alicante. Need I say more? There is really honestly truthfully I-swear-on-my-mother’s-grave (oh, hi mum!) nothing more invigorating, more empowering, more fun and infinitely more daggy than a girls trip to anywhere. And anywhere with blue skies and endless velvet beaches is a definite bonus.

I mean, girl-bonding is really nothing like boy-bonding. Boy bonding involves… drinking. That’s it, it’s pretty simple the boy thing because well, they are simple. Us on the other hand, we’re multi-faceted, complex creatures. We need depth, conversation, laughter, tears (of laughter), gossip, analyses, bikinis, sunshine, ice cream, bubbly and most of all, we need good food.

The boys, I don’t think they ate at all.

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scallop tomato and basil salad

Every once in a while, I take the liberty to work from home, not only because I can, but because I actually get an incredible amount of work done when I’m not idly chit-chatting with people. Oh who am I kidding. It’s because I can. I mean, really, I have the interwebs.

The habits of a person who works from home is not unlike that of a food blogger. I’m in my pyjamas all day, trotting between the kitchen and living room in my Peter Alexander booties (which I adore and have in both pink and purple), scratching my butt (cos there is no one to see me ok) and wondering what to eat.

Actually, mainly I’m just wondering what to eat.

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Fat Duck cereal box; mock turtle soup; roast foie gras; tafferty tart

Monday July 6, 2009. The single most painful and least productive morning of my life. Don’t tell my boss. And get comfortable, this is a fat post (and I don’t mean phat).

10.00am. I pick up the phone and dial 01628-580-333. I’m trying to get a booking at The Fat Duck, the second best restaurant in the worldEngaged. End call. Re-dial. Engaged. End call. Re-dial. It’s ok, I’m gonna keep trying for a good 30 minutes. All good.

10.30am. Engaged. I need to do some work. I gotta stop, I mean who ever gets through anyway? But. What if I’m next, what if I hang up now and I miss my chance? I’ll do this for another 15 minutes. End call. Re-dial. Engaged. End call. Re-dial.

10.45am. Engaged. My neck hurts from cradling this awkwardly shaped Cisco IP Phone *ahem* in the nook between my shoulder and right ear. I’m getting RSI in my left wrist from repetitively pressing End Call and Re-dial. Ok 11am, I’ll go til 11am. End call. Re-dial. Engaged. End call. Re-dial.

11.00am. Engaged. The engaged tone is giving me a headache. But I can’t stop now. Surely, I’m close? Surely? Please? Can anyone hear me? End call. Re-dial. Engaged. End call. Re-dial.

Ok so you get the idea. If there is something I am, it’s s.t.u.b.b.o.r.n. I was born with it, and I have refined my stubbornness to within an inch of its life and by god, it is not something you want to mess with. I want to go to The Fat Duck. I want to go for my 30th birthday (ok so we went a day earlier). And I don’t want any-thing else. You see the shite my poor bf has to put up with? Thank goodness I’m endearing 🙂

11.45am. It’s wearing me down. My head hurts, my neck hurts, my wrist hurts, even my heart is starting to hurt a little. I’m giving up, I spill my resignation onto twitterverse “how stupid of me to think I could actually get through to The Fat Duck” and holy mother of Murphy’s Law! Literally the instant I am about to hang up for good, the phone rings! It rings!

And then I am on hold. But God I Love On Hold Music After Hearing The Engaged Tone For One Hour And 45 Minutes. I’m on hold, listening to a rendition of Alice in Wonderland for another 15 minutes and finally finally, someone picks up the phone. I want to curse and spit and dance with joy all at the same time. But I do nothing and give them my name. My date. My time. and hope to f**king god that after all my effort, they are not booked out.

And they are not. Friday September 4, 2009. 12.30pm. We are going to The Fat Duck!

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bday_01

WARNING: this post has nothing, nudda, not-one-thing to do with food. I thought I’d throw a 100% boda fide personal post in here just for kicks, so if you’re all about the food and not about the catty (screw you), I have a doozy of a post ready for you: The Fat Duck.

So. A few years ago, while renewing my drivers licence in Sydney, I remember choosing the five year expiry option, because it’s just a rip off to renew for a year or three. Or maybe I’m just cheap. Roz from Monsters Inc, who so happened to be working at the York Street RTA (who knew?), barked husky orders at me through cigarette-yellowed teeth and I was too petrified to not comply.  I filled out my forms with perfectly square printed letters 4mm high x 3mm wide, I signed, I paid, I sat, I smiled.

“WHAT YA SMILIN FOR?” she bellowed.

Me, the rest of the RTA and all the people in the Starbucks next door, we all shat our pants. And she took the photo.

Five effin’ years I was to have this I’ve-shat-my-pants photo as my single form of ID. I couldn’t believe it was going to last me til I’m 30. I mean, gawd, really? That is SO. FAR. AWAY.

But look at that. Five years passed without too many glitches, and I was very much excited about turning 30 because, yes, that photo is now expired (and incinerated).

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fries & mayo; dutch breakfast; poffertjes; waffle with banana & cream

Location: Amsterdam, The Netherlands

Theme song: Bicycle Race, by Queen

Objective: Amsterdam is a hodgepodge mix and everyone seems to be there for far and varied reasons. Sure there are the bucks weekends which is a no brainer really because there is just so much sex walking around on legs of all shapes and sizes that it’s bound to be a good weekend. There are also hens weekends, which has me more perplexed. There are also the maryjane fiends, who giggle their way in and out of coffee shops. And there are the genuine architectural enthusiasts who are in awe of the canals and bridges ~ more canals than Venice and more bridges than Paris, they say.

And then there is me. My objective? Eat Amsterdam.

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