I’ve been reading Orbital by Ian Sinclair recently and so have decided to do this blog in the style of a near-random-train-of-thought. I’ll just keep typing for a few minutes and when I stop for more than 3 seconds I’ll post it up unedited. How exciting…

Searching for food through London’s cheaper options. Behind bars. Corridors of greying brick; having stood accepted for years are now upstaged by gaudier new rivals. Amongst the last of these narrow passages. Kintaro. Dodging black-cabs. Shuffling restuaranters. Chinatown’s attic where the backward cousins live. A bucket of fishheads a week. Sushi to our western palates. And all the more agreeable for it. Crammed seats. German sharp words hitting the ribs and nudging the headrest. Bento ordered and delivered. Wasabi hot. Miso revitalising. Mackerel swimming in sweet Terkiyaki like some Lea survivor pushing to the freedom of the Thames. Freedom just means you have no choices left. Tea and beer in equal quantities. The great bridge between East and West was beneath our feet all along!!! The bottoms of our glasses just obscured it. How were we to know; nurtured on Hawksmoor, Constantine and sarnies? This new wave no/know better. Memorising phonetic codes and suggestions to validate ties and shiny shoes. Asahi! Kirn! Stella!?!?!!?!! You know only compromise. But compromise is good enough surely; if the new natives do it. If their standards are trustworhty and they surely are then there is no argument. None. It passes all tests. Imported qualities of vim and vigour for our pallid euro forms. Beers offered to suit every adventure, every fear. Quantities for my invertebrate friend. Best Value!!! Recommended.

Billy: 6
Eoin: 8
Googlemap here

We had stopped over in Cardiff to see Joe, our former flatmate, on our way to the camping holiday in the Brecons. We hadn’t seen Joe for a while and had a genuinely lovely morning walking into Cardiff centre via a riverside walk and, after a good hour or so in the National Museum looking at stuffed seagulls, hearing the booming voice of a whale condemn us and our earth-raping kind, and lingering over the stunning sketches of DaVinci, we were kinda peckish.

There was some genuine nostalgia for Deptford days as I dragged us from place to place; refusing to enter a franchise I recognised and eschewing all things chrome… searching for Authenticity. Even the faux authentic would do. I’m not hard to please; write up your menu with chalk, put a stuffed animal over the bar and call your sliced pan ‘rustic’ and you’ve pretty much got me fooled.

Rummers delivered.

Now the food wasn’t that great. A bowl holding a chicken breast wrapped up like some Egyptian prince in bacon slices and draped generously in a tomato sauce… a thick slice from a steak and ale pie; black pie-juice oozing out to be eagerly mopped up with fries and peas… It was all perfectly fine.

But… nice relaxed staff, crazily uneven wooden furniture, names scraped like schoolyard compass graffiti into the table tops, old skool prices… It had me at hello.

Eoin: 6
Billy: 7
Googlemap: I actually can’t find the address of the place online… Errr… it’s near the castle… beside the Millets with the cool action-pants on sale.

The service, as is common in East Aisan restaurants, was polite and curt. On a tangent. this prompted a conversation concerning the relative manners of different eateries from different cultures; the typical overbearing servitude of Americans, the well-mannered and clipped nicities of East Asian curry houses, and the wide spectrum of manners in European establishments; ranging from the perfect blend of distance and informal humour to the downright rude. As we swapped stories of reasons for skipping out without paying we were presented with a good sized menu of interesting dishes.

I opted for the lamb gohst and our companion for the biryani with chicken and, oddly, potatoes. There was, of course, …. selection of beers; a pint of Cobra or a half pint of Cobra. After some deliberation we selected the former.

The meals were well presented; kept warm on small grills. the gohst was a standard fare and perfectly fine. I had tentatively asked for it to be served hot; something that, from the Brick Lane curry houses, usually has me weeping with every toilet visit for days afterward. Here, while it was perfectly tasty, it was milder than Clark Kent visiting his in-laws. The biryani was quite unusual in that the sauce was served seperately so the diner could add it as required to what was essentially fried rice. I wonder if this reflects on the local folks’ taste or the perception of us as muddy booted sun kissed stoopido tourists… which wouldn’t be too far off the mark.

Billy: 7
Eoin: 6

Google map location is here

The campsite appeared well poistioned for walks and with excellent facilities…. at least according to their website… But also, to be fair to our naivety, according to reviews on VirtualTourist and TripAdvisor.

Drawing information from the stoic man in reception was akin to my drawing a warm welcome in Cork. As he kicked his dogs to aside, the dialogue unfolded like this…

Man: “… ”
Us: “… Hi, we’d like somewhere to pitch our tent tonight”.
Man: “… ”
Us: “…Ermmm…. would it be okay to pitch it here… in this… campsite ”
Man: “Yes ”
Us: “…”
Man: “… ” (he moves to close the door)
Us: “Oh! Excuse me! Where would we set up the tent?”
Man: “Over there (note that he does not signal any location) or in the high field”
Us: “Errrrrrr”
Man: (Again the man moves to close the door)
Us: “Sorry! Where?”
Man: ” Over there” (this time he nods to his left)
Us: “…. And where is the High Field”
Man: “Drive back the way you came and take the left instead of the left you took”
Us: “…”
Man: (He finally succeeds in closing the door)

We are about to knock on the door again to ask about the facilites but decided against it thinking we should be able to locate them ourselves. Shortly afterward as we set up our tent on the raggedy unkempt lawn we noticed that the equally raggedy denizens of the campsite who emerged from their trailers to gather in small groups to peer, alluding somewhat to the mise en scene of David Lynch’s earlier works.

So onto our reason for this adventure; walks and picnics. These were, to give the locale its due, lovely. The lakes around the Brecon’s are well worth your time. The way-marked trials are easy to follow, none too crowded, and very scenic. What the surrounds lack in drama they make up for in tiny treasures. Bursts of bluebells beneath sagging old oaks; lines of silverbirch sketched sharply in the dark under the pine trees; fascinating little treasures of owls and foxes sculpted into tree trunks dotted along the path; all rather lovely.

After our jaunt, we drove on back to our campsite; relishing what the Curry Night sign by the pub door promised. Relishing in vain!! We rocked up to the bar, eyes wandering over the menu, to be told that we had missed the closing of the kitchen by 10 minutes. Asking for just a basket of chips or even some toast was met only with apologetic smiles. So… we accepted it as being our own fault and settled down with pints hoping to mask our hunger before returning to our cold tent.

… What led us to into a simmering hunger-fuelled rage was our spending the next 40 minutes seeing every table around us being served heaped portions of lasagne, fish pie, steak and the like. Their mild irritation at being served some three quarters of an hour after ordering didn’t quite meet ours as, again, we were told that the kitchen had closed an hour ago and we would have to try again tomorrow night.

These kind words of advice unsurprisingly failed to cheer our spirits as we tucked into our peanut dinners…

The following morning we decided against spending even a few coins on the battery operated showers; the dank unlit rooms with no shelves and crooked doors failed to entice. We simply packed our tent and headed on our way.

Billy: 0
Eoin: 0

Google map location here
Black Mountain Campsite: http://www.blackmountainholidays.co.uk/

Falling prey to the malicious advertising utilised by cheap long term parking companies we were forced to journey from Streatham to Heathrow where we missed our plane (if you’ve ever had this happen, you’ll understand the mystery of actually trying to get out of the airport… oddly no one, even the security guards can tell you how to leave). So, leaving poor little Neville (our dishevelled Citroen) behind we made our way to Gatwick (ironically a half hour from our flat), waited around for three hours as our minds turned to dust and then were on our way!!

So… I like Amsterdam a lot. I often forget what a pretty city it is. With wonderfully eccentric buildings slowly collapsing against one another framing wide open picturesque canals, housing such friendly and warm people.. it’s a wonderful destination for a short city break.

… Food however they just don’t do. For your consideration I present Amsterdam’s fast food.

Brilliant notion. A half-assed filthy kitchen partially obscured by a wall of glass shelves.

Where for a mere 1.20 EUR you can get this:

Wonderful, by inserting coins into a weird kitchen/wall; I recieved a tube of odd curry-flavoured cheesymeatypaste covered in hard crumbs of cheesymeatypaste.

Hours past and still I could taste it lingering like a slow death on my every breath.

Eoin: 1
Billy: 5

“It’s called chronic healing.. it’s all about meditation and your chakras; it’s very important to meditate every day” the words come repeated again and again and AGAIN from the table beside us… All delivered in the most ‘fingernails being drawn slowly over a blackboard’ of eastern US accents. Yet, even this (nor the slightly sinisiter extra from the Soprano’s eyeing my companion) can detract from the sheer opulent delight to be found in our surroundings.

Papageno is just plain fun.

Tacky gold wraps of material, gold painted exposed pipes, and sprayed gold classical instruments cleverly disguise peeling walls and filthy brickwork. It’s a delight visually.

… and the food ain’t bad either. I had the Big Boss Seafood Selection (I shit you not; I was the biggest boss of all) for starters with the Monkfish for my main course. It reminded me very much of Eastern European fare; very simple dishes served up to a reasonably good quality. Nothing particularly praiseworthy in either skill or innovation. I think the only thing that really bothers me about this style of food (which, to be fair, almost always leaves me satisfied) is that it can only ever be so good. New potatoes, monkfish and steamed vegtables reach their taste event horizon at a an early stage and, once the bill over-reaches that mark, I start getting annoyed.

Papageno cuts it very close but, with the surroundings being as ludicrous as they are, we can forgive it.

Billy: 7
Eoin: 7

Well… you can’t beat the tableside entertainment at least…

Oddly the Europride festival was timed exactly alongside the England match in the World Cup. It was difficult to tell who was who as virtually everyone there was a barechested male skinhead… We took to spotting either Red Bull or Stella Artois in their hands, which was a reliable method. See: http://www.flickr.com/photos/waxydan/180575295/

The food that arrived was perfectly adaquete; prompt, plentiful and fairly tasty, as you can see…

… but nothing to really write home about.

So I won’t.

Billy: 6
Eoin: 5

It really does drive home how Liza Minnelli became such a star. She is, much like her character Sally, phenomenally talented. She has an engaging charisma onscreen. Her voice is astoundingly joyful and she raises laughs with just a quiver of an eyebrow or a wrinkle of her nose.

The venue, of course, accentuated the theatrics on screen. Scoop are running a series of open air events by Tower Bridge and, with the setting sun tinting the dramatic London skyline with pinks and golds, it’s a rather wonderful stage.

The crowd were very appreciative; singing along to the increasingly grotesque cabaret performances, but knowing just when the movie had finally turned that corner and was no longer suitable for camp karaoke. A slow uneasy silence settled over the initially rambunctious audience perfectly in step with the growing Nazi presence in the movie. Of course, the final number brought that lustful singing back from the crowd.

Go and rent it, it’s a wonderfully tragic film.

But… to bring it back on theme. The picnic!

If you happen to be in London Bridge station and you happen to be looking for a bag of snacks to nibble upon; head down the ground level and follow your noise to the food courtish area. There you will find a small stand selling dried foods. Dried Razchenberries (that have a peculiar taste reminiscent of a jellybaby made with real fruit), sugared mango strips, chocolate covered espresso beans and, best of all, chocolate covered stem ginger. Go, it’s rather tasty.

Littl’ Billy though was rather disappointed with the lack of either carbs or quantity. I couldn’t stand to see him like that, so cheered him up with fish, chips and mushy peas.

Eoin: 8
Billy: 2
Link to Googlemap: here

But I had to post this, I was left with no choice.

MyCatHatesYou dot com

1. Fresh fish
2. Lobster
3. Steak
4. Thai food
5. Chinese food
6. Ice cream
7. Pizza
8. Crab
9. Curry
10. Prawns
11. Moreton Bay Bugs
12. Clam chowder
13. Barbecues
14. Pancakes
15. Pasta
16. Mussels
17. Cheesecake
18. Lamb
19. Cream tea
20. Alligator
21. Oysters
22. Kangaroo
23. Chocolate
24. Sandwiches
25. Greek food
26. Burgers
27. Mexican food
28. Squid
29. American diner breakfast
30. Salmon
31. Venison
32. Guinea pig
33. Shark
34. Sushi
35. Paella
36. Barramundi
37. Reindeer
38. Kebab
39. Scallops
40. Australian meat pie
41. Mango
42. Durian fruit
43. Octopus
44. Ribs
45. Roast beef
46. Tapas
47. Jerk chicken/pork
48. Haggis
49. Caviar
50. Cornish pasty

This is looking both easier and harder than I thought… Where the hell do you buy guinea pig meat?