Sunday 25 September 2011

[Restaurant - Russian] Honest to Goodness, and Kvass!; Samovar Cafe of Bayswater

Location - Queensway, London [UK]

Why end a good thing? Despite the exorbitance of the preceding days, the slight exuberant alcohol consumption of the evening before, and the absolutely decadent breakfast in the morning, I figured there was still scope for a little exploration for lunch. After all, I had regained some sanity with a healthy helping of saurkraut and octopus salad for my mid-morning snack, so, permission granted. 

As luck would have it, strolling around the hotel area in the morning to locate a cash point for breakfast, I came across a sign pertaining to a restaurant that I had recently been made aware of reading an article on The Guardian's food section. Being of a type of cuisine that I had almost no experience of, thus required to try, and of being so opportunely local, I immediately started hatching plans of fitting in lunch. The only issue being that it was currently 7:30AM, and lunch was but a while away. That and I also had a friend to have to consider for. Hmph. Fortunately though, with his predictable hibernation-esque sleeping pattern, and finding some time to burn away in the meantime, it was established to entertain a Russian lunch.


Arriving at the shop, we were indicated that the cafe' was actually down a gallery in an indoor market, which  soon brought about the annoying predilection for prejudice - this place was a ghetto. Undeterred, and offering vain notions that we would not get shot, I persisted, and once seated, a quick glance at the menu was all that was needed to immediately feel comforted. Despite the best efforts of the torturous devices masquerading as table chairs.


~ Starters ~
- Shuba

Not quite sure what I was ordering, though knowing it consisted of herring was rather hoping it was the pickled herring I wanted to try, I was presented with this rather fabulously coloured dish. On seeing it, I did recognise the dish, and promptly commenced with the beetroot drenched fish. First bite revealed quite a heavy, creamy base with just a light sweetness of the beetroot permeating through, with its slight acidity picking its way through. Digging deeper revealed yet another level of vegetables, with some hearty carbohydrates from the shredded potato mixing with some slight vinegary notes of some pickled vegetables, not that I could distinguish them within this slab. After a few bites I finally came to the herring, which made itself rather known with its strong aroma, which was very well balanced out by the heaviness of the cream enriched potatoes, and the pickled vegetables serving to perk up this rather heavy of dishes. 

Heavy, but delightful. Despite the omnipresence of the cream/mayonnaise, it did not phase or render the dish overly rich in the slightest, especially with the presence of the herring. The gentle sweetness of the beetroot as well complimented the abundance of vegetables, serving to make the dish rather moreish. 


~ Main Course ~
- Fried Grundinka Pork with Kasha

Choices for the main course were rather limited unfortunately, and the Fried Pork dish was the only one that had a Russian titling in its name, and despite being asked if I were sure I wanted this dish, being told that it was "fat", I persisted. And it had to come with kasha, to further delve into this most Russian sounding of dishes. And then a plate came with fried pork belly, some microwaved baked beans, a heaping of the kasha and some pickled cabbage. Glamour had left the building. Not that I was concerned, as it certainly looked honest. Working myself around, I started with the cabbage, which was much like saurkraut both in appearance, and in taste, though a bit milder. A bit of the kasha revealed a mild tasting yet substantial grain, with no real pertinent flavour, not that I was expecting much. The Grudinka next, which was essentially, belly pork. Being just pan-fried, it tasted as it looked, a bit like gammon, which can never be a negative, ever. The beans do not require their separate tasting. 

In separation, everything was distinctly honest, not that the cafe's aesthetics would lend to think otherwise. Combining the components just introduced comforting elements to one another. The cabbage would add a welcome acidity to cut through the greasiness of the pork, whilst the kasha would serve to add a hearty substance to each bite. The beans were also pleasant, adding their element of breakfast for lunch when combined with the pork in particular. Not a spectacularly different sort of dish, but pleasing in its simplicity nevertheless.  


~ Dessert ~
- Syrniki
 

Its cheese, and its a dessert. Two v's for victory. A dish I have been meaning to try for as long as I yearned for Russian food, which is not terribly long. And a perfect basing as a Russian friend has exclaimed that I must try his Grandmothers' versions, all the more reason to try some more. Though presented with just three roundels of cheese may seem disappointing, at this point I had welcomed the slightly diminutive portion, not that blocks of fried cheese are generally served at many restaurants. Composed of fried quark cheese, covered in smetana [sour cream] and I think a plum compote, I started firstly with a piece of just the cheese. It has dense in texture yet lightly flavoured, slightly greasy from the frying obviously, with a light milky essence. A bit staid on its own but pleasant enough, so now with some of the smetana, which rather predictably added its sharp tang and softened the greasiness of the cheese. Again however, the flavours were mellow. Which would change entirely with the addition of the compote. 

The slight sweetness of the fruit combined perfectly. Its sweetness perked up the relative heaviness of the cream and cheese, its own sharpness balancing well with that of the smetana. The compote was devastatingly effective, transforming the separate components into a delicious combination of sweet, sharpness, a slight sourness and plenty of milky, creamy decadence. Devoured so quickly I only managed to remember to take a picture when indicated by my friend. Now. I need to try the Russians' Grandmothers' syrniki, for research sake obviously. 


~ Drinks ~
- Kvass!

Actually, it was more of a lower key Kvass, without an exclamation mark, my hopes and dreams instantly destroyed when the soft drinks bottle was presented, dashing my hopes of a mug of liquid rye bread, complete with crust. Regardless, it was kvass, and at last I would get a sampling of a drink that has been a torment of obsession for as long as syrniki have been. And, remembering it was a soft drink, it was ok. Not particularly distinctive, though there was a curious highlight which my friend remarked seemed like root beer, which I would be inclined to agree with. A slight "spice" really. Otherwise it was thoroughly neutered, sugared, and absolutely bad for being a soft drink and all its inherent healthy nullity. Not that its sampling has given me much hope in trying to base a comparison with, though I will probably find it difficult to find many "authentic" variants within London. Bah.

~~~~

Emerging from the cafe with nary a gun-wound, and completely satisfied, I came away if slightly less than enlightened, at least quietly content. With the complete dearth of actual experience of the foods, I can only surmise in my ignorance just how close to authenticity I was getting. Suffice it to say, being in the location that it is, the prevalence, or rather, fact that all other diners were Russian [speaking at least], I would think it is rather a locale for the locals rather than some yappy eat-all like myself. As much as told from the surprise on the face of the waitress as I ordered all the traditional dishes I could, kind of endearing. The experience was very much one of honesty; whilst the food in its essence was basic, there was no superficiality or extraneous distractions from the dishes. It was honesty in simplicity, in appearance and flavour. Big flavours, hearty natures, it was all feel-good food. Possibly the last thing needed after my own personal excesses of late, but, I am not phased.

A sign of the honesty was also a cause of amusement, I had never seen bread offered at a restaurant, for 7p. Yes, Seven Pence. Maybe in Soviet Russia bread, is just bread, and not a gift sent from a divinity and priced as such. Mind you, by the time the bill arrived, the amounted cost of the rather delectable rye bread, had quadrupled. To 28p. How they very dared contradict their honesty in food was a transgression forgiven however. Whilst it would be hopeful at best to attempt to bring my Russian friend here, for fear of getting his Louis Vuitton shoes dirty - not that I can talk - I feel what experience we did get here was at least indicative of some staple Russian food. Not that I would know. Though I am more than intent on finding out through more experiences. Especially with real Kvass!





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[Restaurant - Modern Eclectic] The Morning After; CUT of 45 Park Lane


Location - Park Lane, London [UK]

Dreaded routines. Despite having endured an evening of celebrations, and thus its resultant excesses, as well as being away from home at a hotel for the slumber, I actually had slight concerns of how to plan my meals following the evening in question. Unwilling to subside from my daily structure, despite having consumed a UNICEF Supplies Container the evening before, and in lieu of breakfast at the hotel being paid for, I figured I may as well include some indulgence in this routine. Hush you, whimpering wallet. In what I saw as an opportunity too good to miss out, regardless of having to pay for accommodations - which is exceedingly blasphemous - I realised that I would not have to wait on the ending of slumber of a hibernating couple/individual, and I would also not need to consider the suggestions of others for that all important meal of the day. Yaerr.

Following the evening, I already had several choices lined up, but for this occasion I had a clear objective. All I knew is that I wanted, desired, no, DEMANDED American-style pancakes. Or perhaps waffles. OR pancakes. Maybe be boring and healthy? Actually, back to square one. I had no idea what I wanted. As per usual then. Where to start from. Retribution on being denied CUT? Perhaps flaunt at some affluent choices. Maybe something out of the ordinary? Such as Indian or South East Asian options. The choices, were plenty. In the end however, I had settled for CUT - unscrupulous plan changes had denied me a full 25 days or so of the CUT experience, and..well. I'm not fooling anyone with any notions of a "healthy" breakfast option. Quite obviously that pattern would not last the entire duration of the day.




Arriving and clearing my booking for one, in a decidedly sparse looking grand hall, I started on what would be a rather extravagant breakfast.


~ Breakfast ~
- Starter: Steel Cut Irish Oatmeal, Banana, Raspberries with Tipsy Sultanas, Candied Walnuts, Muscovado Sugar and Whipped Butter 






Despite having one clear objective for breakfast - that of getting a first time tasting of American-style Pancakes [IHOP notwithstanding] - provided with the option of a "Starter" breakfast item, I figured I may as well obliged. Never having had a bowl of porridge, yet absolutely in love with oats [and forever romanticised by the story of the Three Bears and the gold-haired porridge thief], I had decided on the rather exceedingly worded bowl of porridge. Which arrived in a rather exceedingly huge bowl. I forget CUT is an American franchise. Elegantly assembled, as the setting would suggest, and provided with four bowls of Tipsy Sultanas, Candied Walnuts, Muscovado Sugar, and what I initially thought to be Clotted Cream, I started on the porridge. Which was intensely creamy, to the point of decadence. In a bowl of porridge. The temperature was such that the sweetness was "just right", supplementing the rich creamy mash. It was, amazing. So much so I did not care for any of the fripperies dotted around, but I digressed.

The raspberries, quite rightly seeing as it was the end of September, were bland, but their tartness did cut through the creamy omnipresence of the porridge, though that would be taking back. The bananas almost melted into the porridge, melding their richness of texture into that of the porridge. Moving onto the supplied bowls, I tried a little of each to gauge their point and addition to the concoction. The candied walnuts, were lovely, but I limited myself to just a couple or so - got to watch those calories you know [fingers type one thing, mouth eats another story] - suffused with almost a popcorn-like aroma. The sultanas added a slight tartness, followed by a sweet toffee flavour to the porridge, which combined rather well with the creamy oats. The sugar was avoided, as it was not needed, and then onto the butter. Or clotted cream as I had believed. It added an unbelievable richness, with a subtle hint of cream, that slightly subdued the sweetness of the porridge, but amped up the indulgence factor several notches. Only when I realised that clotted cream does not clarify into a yellow pool of liquid did I realise it was infact, butter. Not even when I was eating it straight.

Goldilocks was right for stealing that porridge. This bowl, was the stuff of dreams. If I dreamed oats, I would dream of this bowl. I only finished half though, lest I forget a stack of pancakes were still forthcoming. The hardship..




- Main Course: Buttermilk Pancakes, Whipped Maple Butter, Seasonal Berries



Still mesmerised by the life affirming porridge [hey, I was eating butter as it were cream, it made me that loopy], I was eagerly anticipating the pancakes. Though not too much. This is just breakfast after all. When it arrived, I was again almost overwhelmed, looking at the diminutive tower of pancakes. Though it was deceiving - despite its stature, there were only three pancakes in the stack. Rather different to the paper thin crepes I have been eating thus far then. They were also peculiarly coloured, perhaps made of buckwheat to be so dark in colour? I did not mind, and immediately tucked in, removing what I now knew was butter from the top of the stack to sample the pancake on its own. Despite its thickness, and its crispy, heart-stoppingly decadent appearance, my arteries worst nightmares did not come to be. The pancakes were very light, and especially fluffy, providing a delicate bite. Even with a dab of the butter added with a drop of maple syrup, the pancakes remained delicate in nature, though obviously with an added creamy richness and toffee-like sweetness from the syrup.

The fruit provided were bland, again, I did not expect miracles considering the season was long gone - even though somehow oats had been turned into some form of distilled epic - but again, their acidity tarted up and cut through the richness of the butter and syrup. It was truly exquisite, a notion backed up by a look at the notes I was jotting down as I wolfed down each bite. They were decidedly not manly. I was obviously in love. Despite this though, I was defeated by the volume, leaving half behind. Or rather, I decided to leave half behind, to convince myself I should be defeated at some point..




~ Drinks ~
- Strawberry & Watermelon Juice



Wishing to abstain from any sources of caffeine or overly sugared drinks, for fear of getting in the way of my healthy perpetual gorging, I opted for the following juice, basing on the fact that strawberries and watermelon have low amounts of sugar and Glycaemic Loading. Yes. These are considerations I keep in mind. Despite this slight loss in control of the last few months. Pleased to see it was a fresh juice when it arrived, based on the fact that I kept having to stir the juice to recombine the solids and the liquid part, it was  a subtle yet satisfying juice. A very slightly sweet juice, with only light hints of the already delicate fruits being used evident, and very refreshing, not cloying at all. Rather pleasant in all.

~~~~

If I was feeling slightly weathered after the previous evening's drinking, and three hours of sleep, I was most certainly awake now. This despite my refusal of any caffeinated drink, seemingly to the waiter's utter dismay. This was truly a breakfast worthy of a King. Since I am not worthy, it was also the breakfast worthy of a bum. A rather picky bum. That phrase does not work well..Ahem. Despite the assumed preconceptions of restaurants located in this part of town, and whilst yes, the price was perhaps a bit elevated as a result, I can wholeheartedly say, it was worth it. I do not like to let glamour and other meaningless factors affect my judgement, especially not when it comes to food. Forget the connotations with Wolfgang Puck - I only know him by name, and his appearance in the Simpsons (Therefore he is god). However, for a breakfast as simple as porridge and pancakes, it was so much more. The importance of breakfast to some can seem unimportant, as a bit of a chore. I on the other hand, value this importance, to the point I turned up at CUT by 7:30. I was dutifully rewarded with what transcended as a mere meal. The porridge and pancakes, were objects of desire. I consumed this desire, and now it consumes me. So to speak.

Obviously still a very new establishment, the waiters were a bit fresh - seemingly fearing the end of the world for my not wanting a coffee, tea or a newspaper, being left with a blank expression on their face and not much to say. Not that I particularly cared, but they seemed a bit awkward. This did not spoil the breakfast however, and empowered by the early morning decadence, I felt so invigorated as to walk back to the hotel at Bayswater. Or rather, I felt the need to walk off, the empowering early morning decadence.

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Thursday 22 September 2011

[Restaurant - Portuguese] Port & Camel's Drool - O'Fado of Knightsbridge

Location - Knightsbridge, London [UK]

Choices. Coming from living in Saudi Arabia, the oasis of "no rush" lifestyle that it is, choices are a relaxed affair - ignoring the suicidal transportation systems - you decide, make your choice, then mosey on up. In London, the opposite is very much the truth. Perhaps a bit dramatic of an opening statement, but when faced  with an oversight or twelve that led to a rapidly building hunger, it became a figurative issue. In a centre where bookings are seemingly requisite regardless of how thin the attendance, choices are vast, all coupled to my useless decision-making ability, slight annoyance was building at the prospect of having to make tactical off-the-cuff choices. It did not help that a box of Laduree Macaroons in hand were deviously vying for my attention. 

I was originally due to lunch at a Korean Demonstration being held at Harrods, and was ready and eager to experience this seldom and sparsely entertained cuisine. I was swiftly dealt a palm to the face when I appeared at the demonstration, and observed the thimbles of Korean food being handed out to the surrounding few. Granted, I would have attended regardless, as the demonstration introduced the "twist of fate" of being located in the same establishment of a certain divinity of pastries, and hence ample opportunity to seize it, however, I was not amused. Unperturbed, I figured however, that with the Columbian Food Festival taking place at the Intercontinental Hotel nearby at Park Lane, a buffet lunch could be a relatively fail safe choice. Except I safely failed, turning up a day early when only organisers, associates and trade were allowed in. I drowned my anguish with a couple of the delectable little macaroons. With the sugar serving to not lead me into disheartening dramatic nullities, I figured I would be dropped off at Beauchamp Place, as choices are not short there, and it was within reasonable distance of my required bus stop. With the Russian restaurant being one of short listed establishments I had wanted to try, in lieu of it being a relatively unknown entity to me, I thus ventured towards what would be a shut door and empty restaurants. BAH!

What now?! I had eaten at one place here already and everything else was thoroughly generic. I take the matter of food very seriously, in the end, I had gone through the Herculean effort of getting into a car and driving a whole twenty miles or so for lunch [/sarcastic drama]! At that point, I decided to stop ignoring the presence of the Portuguese restaurant, whose menu I had perused months ago online did not particularly move me, scaling down my preconceptions of Bacalhau-monopoly. I had little other choice, I was hungry, and it was diverse. Not sure what I was hesitant about as it was already on my short list. I think I was suffering a deficiency of the fiendish Laduree macaroons, having not eaten one for five whole minutes..

~ Starters ~ 
- Sardinhas Assadas


Perusing through the menu, I was met with relatively little of interest, so I chose what most stimulated me. Grilled sardines. Obviously. Perhaps I was slightly obscured by the notion I was having lunch a whole half hour later than usual, as a later viewing of the menu would reveal far more interesting starters but I figured sardines were an item I had never really eaten before. They took a while to arrive, though their aroma certainly filled the air long before they arrived infront of me. Then the gargantuan trio was served. Where I was expecting a mound of plentiful miniature fish, I received just three, thoroughly imposing creatures. Served with what was a hopeful notion of a salad, I devoured it before attacking the sardine, not quite knowing how to start.

Rather tellingly, it was a basic dish - it looked, smelled, and also now tasted, quite like grilled fish. A light sardine aroma was infused, quite delicate and not at all overpowering, an oddity to me having only ever had sardines in their preserved variant and thus tasting of the Dead Sea. It was pleasingly not too greasy, the flesh dense but falling apart with a light steam permeating through, though regardless of these faint praises, it was, and still remained, grilled fish. Thus it was slightly monochromatic, though appetising. I should have gone for something containing Bacalhau, as despite this dish being listed as "traditional", I'm sure there are hundreds of other countries willing to claim the same. Despite this, I left the third sardine behind, mostly for the sake of conscience. And my thighs.




~ Main Course ~
- Açorda de Marisco



When I spotted the incoming monstrosity, I instantly wondered if in the midst of my greed I had ordered a dish for two yet again. It was oceanic - fitting as it seemed to contain an entire school of sea life as well. I was also rather taken by surprise by the composition of the casserole; despite being described as a "Bread-based casserole", I did not figure it would be such a literal description. It was literally, made of bread. Bread, egg, and seafood, and larger than my gluttony, it was almost like a contorted breakfast. Considering the base of the casserole, I first tasted the casserole itself. A thick, dense and hearty mush of bread, it was a bit like a savoury porridge. A slight richness was imparted by the sautéing with onions, which added a little sweetness as well, the chopped coriander adding a few notes of freshness in between. Unleashing the yolk from the poached egg, a plain but welcome richness suffused into the casserole dish, not adding much else though. The seafood itself was inoffensive, it was rather simple I guess, and clean tasting, but otherwise rather boring. The chopped coriander did perk up the seafood a bit though, if only to balance with the omnipresent satisfyingly rich bread.

This perpetual sea of bread however soon became a bit monotone after the initial novelty wore-off. It was certainly delicious, but somewhat lacking in character, more appealing in its heartiness rather than intricate flavourings. I could have finished this whole, but yet again in the sake of my conscience and for the wish of dessert [I'm not kidding myself, there will ALWAYS be dessert, even after consuming an entire pachyderm], I left just under a half over. Though some serious restraint was required to do that, it was just so deviously easy to eat. Again, the lonely voice in my cranium quipped that perhaps I should have had some Bacalhau based dish, though the staid descriptions and predominance of starchy [Unlike Bread-stew..] potatoes dissuaded. The thought of not eating all the potatoes not being immediately apparent to me..




~ Dessert ~
- Baba de Camelo

Finally, after all the allowances I made for desserts' sake [thank you conscience], it was time to satisfy the perpetual sweet tooth. And I was stuck. Usually I just have all of them Whilst initially I was enamoured by the Arroz de Leche, I was undecided, as a Rice Pudding it still remained, and being as ubiquitous as it was, I could have it elsewhere, whilst other items were also tempting in their traditional background though not particularly interesting descriptions. In the end, I caved in on the waiters' suggestion and went for the above, or "Camel's Drool". Endearing images of what it would resemble were dashed when a breadcrumb topped pudding arrived. I was hoping for something more vile, not that I've ever seen a camel's spittoon to verify. First spoonful, and.

Awesome.

Described as a condensed milk souffle', a light toffee caramel infusion was dominant, an intensely glorious creaminess from the condensed milk. The diverse textures were also interesting, with the breadcrumb topping just adding some variety to the soft pudding. Digging down to the bottom of the plate, a clear yellow syrup lay underneath the pudding, very viscous, which when spooned up rather made it clear where the name came from. I was sipping slobber. It was delicious. Perhaps a bit too sweet but I did not care, the condensed milks' all-conquering smooth, creamy deluge conquered the show, and it was rather quickly inhaled. This intense nature of the dessert though did somewhat overpower the dessert wine I had chosen, smothering its initial taste, only revealing a bit of a finish at the tail. Something had to take the centre stage.




~ Drinks ~
- White Port



Ordered as an aperitif, as if my hunger ever needed further stoking, it was a peculiar drink I had always wanted to try, but never had done in my novice former- "snobbery" of Port, so it would essentially be a new discovery to me. Intrigued at the colour, a deep golden, hay colour, the aroma was interesting - it had a slight red wine quality to the nose, which confused my lacking mind with the colour it showed. On the palate it was not even very port-like, it was very delicate and soft on impact. Quite similar to a Sauternes infact, though with less of a honeyed note. Maybe there was some toffee laying there too? It was interesting.

Any attempts at pretending to describe of were hampered by my lack of having a clue, and the fact that I struggled to make it last. At least it distracted me from the no doubt chargeable olives and bread.




- Setúbal Moscatel



As a dessert is as expected in my dining repertoire as it is to not find flower-covered pictures of George Bush and Barack Obama in cave hideouts in Afghanistan, a suitable sweet wine was also requisite for this rather substantial lunch. Not wishing to default on the natural, easy, and just plain predictable choice of Port, considering the cuisine on offer, I had decided on the aforementioned Moscatel. Arriving in a rather intriguing hue of raspberry-tinged amber, it certainly looked promising. Somehow. The aroma was certainly hard to define, there was a definite hint of oak on the nose. Then I think my distinct lack of knowing what I am talking about resumed, as I'm sure I could perceive a hint of celery. CELERY?! I don't know.

Fortunately it did not taste of celery, rather, on the palate there was a lot of oak permeating from the aroma. As a result, some parallels could be drown from a whisky, subtle notes of oak entwined with a slight silken hay note. I am pretty sure I could sense some red berry fruit as well, perhaps raspberry or cranberry. Or maybe I was tasting with my eyes again. Certainly the solitary brain cell was over-tasked with all these subtle nuances. One certainty however, is that the Camel's drool had rather overpowered the wine, despite its generous body. The fore-taste was washed out by the decadent creaminess of the dessert, only to have some fruity notes permeate on the tail. Very much enjoyable glass of wine.


~~~~

The perpetual lunch had finally culminated, and rather contrary to belief, I had not turned into a bacalhau. Not terribly convinced - at least at the point in time - as a first choice, but if anything, very much satisfied on the conclusion. My fear perhaps was grounded in not knowing just how representative the restaurant would be of its namesake cuisine, not that I would know any different for either case, and not that I am elitist to the point of not entertaining any establishment other than those that are genuine. Though it would be nice for the food to be sincere, and certainly the food at O'Fado was just that. Honest fare, a bit lacking perhaps in flair, but all the more sincere for it, combining hearty, simple ingredients in seemingly industrial proportions to provide straightforward food. The menu, whilst oceanic [though I was maybe a bit disappointed not to find the purported 365 Bacalhau dishes], did not overly inspire, with most dishes seemingly variations on a theme or not particularly interesting. This is however one restaurant, in Knightsbridge as well, were clients may have a certain discerning quality for their food, and where restaurants perhaps cannot afford to stray into overtly country-style or eccentric dishes. Even of the fifteen or so Bacalhau dishes, most just included potatoes, which were just cooked in a different manner between the dishes.

Satisfied, not enlightened, though delighted by the discoveries in the wine. It had only taken me five years to brave the frontier of the White port since being introduced to the drink, and whilst not blowing me away, it had its appeal in its slight deceit. Not only deceitful, but also , the bill proving rather substantial. Considering the feast bestowed onto me however, and the resultant Knightsbridge tax of the area, perhaps it was not overly exaggerated. Whilst this choice has not led me to a thoroughly reaffirming experience, it did leave me satisfied. Even more so as I consumed three more of the fiendish Laduree Macaroons. I also scored +1 for another diverse cuisine sampled. I can only look forward to going to Portugal now and being spoilt by hundreds of choices of Bacalhau. 

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"You will Experience a Pleasure Coma for the Duration of this Call"


Twitter. To a pessimist, anti-social traditionalist like myself, is just another of the infernal devices taking over the minds of people worldwide, destroying the concept of natural and formal society, turning everyone into a "look at me" socialite with their newfound ability to have their opinions plastered on the internet. Much like a blog. I have also just joined Twitter. It has already motivated me, physically, to attend an event. Hypocrisy? Maybe. I chose to see it as keeping "current". Yes, I am ashamed..

In hindsight, it had to happen, as the world, seemingly like the lemmings it contains as a population, has embraced this "thing" and run away with it, to the point that corporations, governments and figureheads rely on it as a central communication resource. If it has one solace, its that it is pared back and straightforward of mission, and you won't find yourself being "Poked" like on a similar odious medium. No sooner that I joined Twitter, a move I only performed in order to remain updated with the sporadic happenings of the British Sake Association - through the gritted teeth of my conscience - and its influence has already lifted me off my desk chair and to Central London. That is an inhuman amount of motivating force. Having joined as a "follower", I quickly found several users of interest, including a Japanese/Korean Online Community that advertises events and the like, some of which I had attended, and thus something that would take my interest. With everyone seemingly forming a molecular bond with their phones, updates are frequent, with event postings coming up with regularity. This is dangerous. All the previous events I had attended required research or hearsay. This is making it far too easy to indulge.

My delightfully absent willpower was thus stoked by the "Twit" of a "Taste of Korea" exhibition at Harrods. Seeing as my repertoire of Korean cuisine experiences were based in a dank Hotel Restaurant in Jeddah, where I usually had the Shredded Chilli Beef [I know..], I thought it was an excellent opportunity to partake in. Especially as I could "fall" upon Laduree later on..Oh heavens, I am capitalising on gluttony. I promptly arrived, and through the maze of bumbling tourists and designer distractions, I searched high and low for demonstration, or any evidence of such. Not actually knowing where it was supposed to be. Neither did the staff it would seem. Eventually I was led into a possible direction, were an aroma suddenly became apparent, querying an idle member of staff who rather sarcastically asked if I couldn't smell it - I could, but my sense of smell is not GPS-guided - I was eventually led to the demonstration. Ah.
I had once again, in my boundless greed, severely overestimated the scale of this event - what I figured would possibly be a meal event, with a chef churning out full dishes for a generous exploration of the Korean Cuisine, turned out to be four offerings of canape'-sized thimbles from a counter in the middle of the Kitchen Ware department. This transgression, would not suffice for lunch. Regardless, they can subsist as canapes. 
Pajeon 
Domi-jim
Bulgogi
Galbijim
Kimchi
They were ok:
- The Pajeon was essentially just a thoroughly onion-rich pancake with a slight "seafood" taste at the tail, rather nondescript.
- The Domi-jim combined a rather unexciting mix of steamed fish with a mix of vegetables which did not really taste of much.
- The Bulgogi, the one of the only items I had had experience with previously, was slightly sweet, and enjoyable but certainly not mind blowing.
- The Galbijim was very similar to the Bulgogi
- The Kimchi was merely ok, not terribly pickled or interesting.


Distraught by this catatonic upheaval of a disappointment and on the verge of being disinterested into a coma, I ventured downstairs to drown my sorrows in what I would presume to be the divine Diabetic aids at Laduree'. It also has a restaurant. An ominously decadent prospect. Eventually stumbling upon the hidden trove I stood in line awaiting my turn at the pastries counter. The sight alone of the hoards of immaculately presented macaroons and other assorted pastries had my arms tingling with tentative Diabetic-motivated separation. This would require restraint. Though shedding an arm would negate the wait gain from a lack thereof. Win win. Then the counter assistant spoke to me, and I snapped out of my fantasy haze, faced with the impossible prospect of having to decide between the awesome and the more awesome. Having settled on the idea of purchasing a gift box of 8, to spread the guilt, I initially asked the assistant to choose. In the end I chose most of the eight, of varying degrees of decadence and mellifluous descriptives, and I moseyed out. It was decided that having lunch in such an environment, would only serve to further the temptation of these devilish mini-hamburgers on my lack of willpower. I had all but also forgotten about the Traiteurs Hall which had initially sparked my interest.
Clambering into a taxi and heading towards what I hoped would be lunch, I took the opportunity to take a picture of my beautiful passenger.


Bag of Destiny
An act, that revealed an ethereal glow, as if a higher power were motioning me towards this exquisite  rainbow of sin. The complete line-up lasted no more than five minutes, and one was devoured instantly.

Laduree Macaroons in Ethereal Glow
Oh. My. Buddha. Beyond the fact I was alone in the taxi, and that my mouth was currently being overwhelmed by a flash of intense pleasure, I was at a loss for words. Just what is this exquisitely complex and multi-faceted orgy of flavours going on in my mouth?! Why is every little bite drawing out such intricate details amongst this immoral richness. Argh. Refined and absolutely unsubtle in equality, how can it be?! The Rose Blossom macaroon I had just climaxed to, was an actual revelation. Never have I sensed such a dense creaminess, to the point that a slight greasiness could be detected, such a fresh, richness. A richness lightened with the delicate yet prominent floral note of the Rose. Each bite created a dance of this decadence uplifted by the perfume aroma, revealing in the final stages just the slightest bite of tiny fragments of almond. This is surely an exaggerated amount of decadence, it looks like toy food for Jeebus sake. Arriving at the lunch venue, I was cruelly denied my entrance to the Columbian Food Festival, having in my vagrant-mindedness not realised that I was indeed, a day early.


Returning towards Knightsbridge, I once again consoled myself in the back of the taxi, with the second of the quickly disappearing macaroons. This time it was turn of the Madagascar Chocolate variant to disappear. Not as intensely exotic as the one that had just transpired, but rather a smooth and gentle pleasure. A prolonged chocolate aroma persisted with each bite, seemingly refusing to leave the recesses of my taste buds. A slightly dark chocolate, just slightly beyond a milk chocolate in flavour, dominated the experience. I quickly taped the box back up. A quarter had gone, and lunch was still the priority.


Perhaps deciding on returning to Knightsbridge for lunch was not the most formidably astute of decisions, as whilst choices abound, variety does not, its proximity to my required bus stop perhaps swaying the decision. Now I have yet another reason to despise Public Transport, it affected my lunch decision, a heresy unbound.  I eventually settled for a rather complete meal at a Portuguese Restaurant, the meal including a rather deliciously rich dessert, full of condensed milk and other unmentionables. It would not halt my perpetual sweet tooth - how it has not dissolved into oblivious by now, I do not know. At once the salted caramel morsel succumbed, exploding in a deep onslaught of a sticky, thick caramel/toffee suffusion. The texture was intense, the caramel not hardened but certainly thick enough to chew. It was divine. The next one had no time to itself and it was just as quickly dispatched - getting rather confounded at this point for not paying attention to exactly what I had ordered, and the colours of the remaining not giving much evidence, I was hoping the next one would not be vanilla. Though, I equally did not wish to have the melon one, the choices mainly being the unexciting ones left for the "guilt sharing" gifts. It was vanilla. Quite literally. Stubbornly so. It was delicious though, it was delightfully spicy, and evidently from a freshly ground pod, the clarity of the vanilla notes hinting at such.


This now left the choice at Orange Blossom, Lemon & Thyme, Melon and another I forget. I was hoping I would have selected the Lemon & Thyme, as I already had my savouring of Middle Eastern influence with the epic Rose macaroon that destroyed my macaroon innocence with its sinful levels of pleasure, but it was not to be, I picked the Orange Blossom. I think. It was intensely creamy, very much like the Rose one, bringing a slight greasiness to the lips and tip of the tongue, but I could not quite discern the flavour. It was subtle, and not quite orange blossom-y, but certainly not Melon, Lemon & Thyme or the other one. Which may have been raspberry. Regardless. It rocked. And I now imposed a sanction on the remaining three macaroons; they will no longer assault my weak will and overstimulated taste buds. No more. With that embargo stipulated, I ventured back towards my transportation, though certainly at this pace it will not be too long till the point when my means of movement will be dictated by how far I can roll, or the effect of gravity.


Where to now? To On Cafe. To purchase some more macaroons. Start this vicious circle again. All in the sake of comparison naturally. This is the issue with coincidences. They are easily exploited. Though, stick On Cafe in Iceland, or Brixton, and I'd still find reason to indulge.


On Cafe. Not actually a Cafe.
Arriving at the scene however, and peering in through the opened door, I feared my expectations - I should really learn to dial down this hopeless optimism - would be shattered yet again. The "Cafe'" was not a retail outlet, not by any stretch of the imagination, a small kitchen fronting a rather large storage area in the back. The smell of freshly baked brownies however was filling the air, and stirring my overinflated digestive system. It obviously upholds the bliss through ignorance ethos. Querying with the first person encountered, I asked, with perhaps a slight desperation in my voice, if any of the wares were available to purchase. Allowed.


WOOT.


Shutting away the voices in my head that were exclaiming "BUY IT ALL, NAO!", I observed, chose, and made my selections. Despite the fact I was not even interested in the brownies, I also expressed intent on purchasing some of those as well. The effect of just cooked baked items have that sort of power. Though at this point it would be remiss to say that any semblance of their existence is enough motivation for purchase to me. Further comfort was had in the pleasingly "home-cooked" ambience of the kitchen - the trays were decidedly homely, and not industrial "just add water and MSG" monsters of volume. I'm sure if I were a bit earlier I would have seen the bowls and kitchen spoons of a hyper productive mother figure in the sink as well. Again, that aroma further motioned this belief. Amidst the overtly-kind [and perhaps foolish] offer to allow me to buy now and purchase later, I declined and went in search for more monies to pay for new frontiers of my greed. Such an offer would open floodgates. Though in retrospect, those gates would close rather shortly once I inevitably cease to Catastrophic Diabetes.


I returned, I paid, I departed, amongst shared thanks and in recognition of their newest fan. A little tidbit, they obviously are confident enough to shortly  starting up a retail outlet in Harrods, contesting with the almighty Laduree. That will become interesting.


On Cafe Macaroons & Brownies
I exercised restraint somewhat, and allowed for the previous geographic mass of food to have some hope of initiating digestion before commencing on the Oriental treats. Once at home, a picture was taken before the On Cafe buddies would irrevocably be parted ways, and I picked off my kill, the most intriguing of flavours present. Not entirely sure what I was expecting in terms of flavour from the Jasmine and Charcoal - yes, rly - macaroon, though perhaps some expectation of barbecue infusions moronically persisted. What it was however, was delightfully soft, especially so compared to the Laduree pockets of joy, that provided a subtle crunch. They were not either as intensely creamy, being perhaps sweeter. A jasmine flavour was not really apparent either, but instead, a rather intriguing texture was evident, right at the finish of the macaroon - a slight chalkiness of the charcoal on the teeth, interesting. Pleasing, and at once not quite as serious in its mission to reduce you to a quivering mess of over-stimulation, the macaroon was light hearted and subtle in its pleasuring in comparison to the Laduree. 


And now I'm in a coma thankyouplease. 


The morning after would also bring about the breakfast composed of one of the brownie squares, sesame and ginger. It was exceedingly light, delightfully fragrant, and overwrought with guilty pleasure. I may just have to blame Twitter for this transgression. A useful blame-bearer.


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Wednesday 21 September 2011

[Takeaway - Trinidad & Tobago] Buss Up Shot. Brap.; Roti Joupa of Clapham


Location - Clapham, London [UK]

Every now and then there is comfort in breaking out of the norm, diverging from the predictability or monotony of habit. Whilst eating a takeaway at home barely constitutes as anything worthy of such an overblown opening statement, it was a refreshing prospect that had not been undertaken in a while. And with my stoic refusal to default on the regular choice with the current company, I would have to venture out of the comfort zone of a restaurant "above" the river. And into the ghetto. New horizons and all. 

Previously, when selecting prospective eateries whenever venturing into London, I had typically never so much as ever considered much of an area beyond the West End, restricting choices to above the river, and within the East/Western borders, obviously in a bid to remain within cushty regions of London. Such pampering had little meaning however, and with recent escapades at festivals, events and other, I have found myself looking for inspiration wherever it was found, which in literal terms means I am an extremely distracted driver, trying to note down any eatery I drive by on my drive into London, in a bid to reach out to any novel cuisines. Being in the UK however, I have largely avoided Takeaways located in less than spiffy locations. Be it through ignorance or otherwise, in much of the world it would seem that street foods and homely neighbourhood stalls offer an undiluted experience of food. In the UK however I have found these sorts of establishments to offer a thoroughly neutered, Westernised and misrepresented rendition of the cuisine they claim to cater. In essence, they are rubbish. 

However, on finding that George had decided to be particularly lethargic and resort to the typical Chinese Takeaway of choice, I figured now was as good a time as any to experiment. Having essentially billions of restaurants to chose from, finding a starting point was difficult. I had managed to short-list a couple of eateries in the vicinity, inspired by recent events like the Notting Hill Carnival, and attempting to stick to the cuisines less devoured. Dillydallying ensued in the waiting of another friend to arrive before making a decision, but knowing his predilection of not generally rocking the boat, I knew I would be a loner in my quest for trying something different, and with his arrival my useless capacity for making decisions was doing my hunger no good. Whittling down the choices, I settled finally for a Trinidadian takeaway, seeing as it was closest, not in quite a ghetto as an African restaurant, and it had Roti. 

Arriving there rather sharpish, I was slightly disillusioned by what greeted me, granted expectations were not high, but the slightly run-down aesthetics, hand-written menu board and the tired looking food in the display counter were not all too inspiring, but it did not phase me. Slightly caught off-guard by a particularly Indian sounding menu, I let the cashier suggest a dish. I rue the move. I should have gone with something a bit more exciting than Chicken Curry, perhaps the fish. Regardless, I added in a couple of extras to add a modicum of interest, as well as the only available dessert, and skipped merrily away to my car. Driving precariously with drink in hand, I quickly arrived and it was time to devour, the other two seemingly too scared to try some of my acquired bounty. Mo' for me. 

~ Starters ~
- Phulourie



Feeling nostalgia from the three weeks gone by since my first sampling of these at the Notting Hill Carnival, I ordered myself a portion for starters, and since I was alone in their sampling I was left to consume all of them on my lonesome. Starting on one, I found a rather cold and soft ball of dough, which was rather plain compared to the gently curry-infused ones of the Carnival. Trying another ball, this time collecting up some of the sauce in the box, I was met with a predominant garlic flavour, rather strong, and rather different to the sweeter, barbeque-esque sauce from the former variants. The sauce did much to perk up the phulourie balls,  with the sharpness and tang from the garlic breaking up the relatively dense yet plain flavour of the dough.


It was disappointing that they were largely devoid of flavour on their own, but the sauce did make them rather hard to resist. They only lasted all of a few seconds.


~ Main Course ~
- Chicken Curry and Channa with Roti, Buss up Shot



My desire for roti was what brought me to this takeaway, and I was presented with generous filled pile of roti to contend with, being offered it "Buss up shot", which apparently in reference to the slang for a "bust up shirt", refers to how the roti should be torn up in pieces and eaten as such, and not a call to drive-by shooting. I promptly commenced, bussing up, and..


Reasonable. Rather quite bland, but reasonable. The curry had given up any pretension of being spicy or spiced, rather presenting only the mildest of infusions of spice, and absolutely no heat. The channa [chickpeas] were similarly bland but added a welcome earthy note to the curry, which was further supplemented by the light dusting of chickpea flour within and on the dalh roti. Piece by piece however, the roti was being quickly consumed, despite its relative anonymity, though that could just as well be indicative of my gluttony.



~ Dessert ~
- Kurma


Being left at the whim of choosing between some Coconut Rolls or the Kurma, I eventually ordered the Kurma, put off initially by the notion of ordering biscuits. I was assured that they are really special, but I was not faithful. Especially not after having seen my roti and curry being reheated in a microwave oven. Having left a mere morsel of the roti over to "leave space" for dessert, I thus fished one out of the plastic bag. Well this was a surprise. Delightfully crunchy, almost like a short pastry, it was exceptionally light, melting in the mouth. A slight hint of ginger was clear in the dough, which added that bit of a fresh spice. Despite the sugar coating on the biscuits, the kurma were only moderately sweet, and exquisitely addictive.



~ Drinks ~
- Sorrel Juice

Yet another nostalgic move, at half the price and twice the volume of the example I bought at the carnival, I had high hopes for the drink, especially as I was told it was home-made, though again, I was not inspired by that notion considering the surroundings. As the picture depicts, I struggled to photograph the drink in a timely manner, but it was not terribly enticing. Whilst it was enjoyable, it did not have the same strong essence of ginger as the one I had tried at the carnival, and it was also sweeter. As a result it was not as clean or "fresh" tasting, being rather bland and less refreshing at the same time. Not to say it was an unpleasant drink, it was quite nice, but in the end, that is all it was.


~~~~

Not damned with much praise, but in all I was perhaps elated with the decision of having takeaway from Roti Joupa for the evening. Despite all my experience of Caribbean food having been amassed in one sitting - or rather, constant walking devouring -  only three weeks prior, at least I there was scope in noting variances between them. Granted, with a complete dearth of any experience of authentic Caribbean cuisine, I am essentially still clueless. Nevertheless, I ventured for a different choice to the despicable notion of going for the norm, the food was cheap, and I did not really have expectations to begin with - if that were the case, I would have expected the food at the Notting Hill Carnival to be several times as good considering the inflated pricing. The food from Roti Joupa in all was rather tepid, predominantly bland with only a modicum of spicing or interesting flavours to perk up proceedings. 

Perhaps this could be seen as a sign of the nefarious dread of Westernising, in the quest of maximising income the food being produced having to suffer to the comatose taste buds of the general public. Not that I can speak for them, as twice a roti eater doth not an expert make. However, if struggling for a choice in the future, I may warrant another try out of Roti Joupa, if for anything just to try out some of the unavailable dishes at the time. Or maybe not, seeing as now I have had my starting point from the millions of Takeaways in the Broader, Beyond "Upper Thames" West London.

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Tuesday 20 September 2011

[Restaurant - European] Short Take - Kaiserholycrappen; The Wolseley of Piccadilly

Location - Piccadilly, London [UK]

Obligations come in all sorts of forms, be they motivated by necessity, marital commitments, situational factors and so on ad infinitum. Some however are complete fantasy-derived tricks of the conscience, mere weak convictions to ease the guilt of a weak will. And as ever, I contest myself guilty. Though this time, with added scope! This time, a this late night dessert, was almost a requisite, as I wisely figured that a dinner consisting primarily of sake, would not suffice. Guilt, overruled! 

More self-deprecation, more self-ruing from a rather mindless self-indulgence, though this time largely influenced by an elevated blood alcohol level, wreaking havoc on my already weak power of will as of late. Before rambling on into obscure infinity, an explanation is due for the series of events leading to this latest of gorgings. Having scheduled my attendance at a Sake Tasting event at the Embassy of Japan, I was at once eased by the notion that unlike the previous tasting, there would be food provided, and thus energy would need not be expended to find provisions for stabilising the situation of empty stomach meets plenty of nutritious alcohol. I completely misjudged the notion of food being provided. Or rather, the voracity of the hunger of the people attending. How very dare they. For at once, as soon as the over-dramatic/intensely mind-numbing flower re-arranging [yes, really] ceremony had culminated, the sparse smattering of dishes meant to cater - in vain - to 200 odd people, were mobbed. Utterly so. Almost leaving the sake tables barren, leaving one with little choice.

When I did manage to arrive at some food, I was limited to a few measly skewers of breaded and grilled meat, a wagyu beef roll, a block of tofu and some sashimi. Which offered only false hopes to the couple of glasses of sake or so limbering in my stomach. Having not particularly planned for this oversight, I figured I would check out a cigar lounge in the vicinity, the prospect of a dessert over cigars painting a lovely picture of serene enjoyment. Serene enjoyment was to be had, with a delightful melding of a beautiful cigar and rum combination, in a quaint and serene setting. I had however misjudged food again, no food being served in the garden, and what little was available made the flower arranging ceremony seem an extreme sport. I did not fool myself that the olives and assorted bar nibbles I devoured would suffice. Obviously what a stomach full of sake needed at this point was further reinforcement of rum and displacing of oxygen in my blood with Partagas air. Fortunately, I was guided to a nearby establishment that just may answer my incessant call to eat, and being on my shortlist, I duly obliged. Not that I had much of a "choice". 
~ Dessert ~
- Kaiserschmarrn


As ever in my quest to broaden gastronomic horizons, or in less overwrought terms, get myself a culinary education, I always aim to try the more eclectic, left-field, or eccentric choices on a menu. Not knowing what sort of cuisine the Wolseley provided, I instantly chose the aforementioned. It sounded the most foreign. From memory, I knew it to be a sort of souffle'. It was also written in red ink, which a message stating the dessert was fit for two patrons, which caused a momentary inkling of doubt. Not that eating for two is much of a diversion from the norm, I have been eating for whole villages seemingly at some of the food fairs I have been going to, but really I should not be encouraging this sort of behaviour. Informed of such, the waiter egged - pun not intended, but welcomed - me on, stating that despite its planetary size, the dessert being composed of egg, was rather light. Not sure why I gave heed to his word [oh right, sake and rum!], I pined for the Emperor's Mishmash. 

It's arrival also coincided with the figurative dropping of my jaw. I had thoroughly underestimated its size. It would seem to be a running theme of the evening. Served with a side of plum compote, dilly dallying would serve to nothing, so I commenced, sectioning off the gargantuan dessert off into quarters, in a vague attempt of controlling portions. Spoon off a deceptively soft piece and consume. Damn that waiter. It is light. Exceedingly so, providing all the density of a piece of cotton wool, it was a gigantic pocket of air with a gentle, very lightly sweetened essence of egg. This, for all intents and purposes, was essentially a gigantic souffled omelette, in taste, texture, and appearance. Not for the worse mind you. It was very delicate, being extremely pillow-soft in texture, with an ever so light sweetness lingering on. The egg-flavour was not pronounced, but evident, with the inclusion of a few raisins adding some mild interesting diversity. It was however, mild. Very mild. Beyond looking, tasting, and feeling like an omelette souffle, there was not much else to it. Trying out the plum compote, I had perhaps been made acquainted with end of season produce, finding it rather sour amongst little else. It did add variety however when combined with the Kaiserschmarrn, the egg suffusing the sourness and adding a bit of richness to the compote - it was too light to be the compote do the supplementing. 

Restraint was hard however, and despite the attempts at sectioning off to create scale, half was gone in no time at all. Feeling like I had eaten eggy air, bites flew through, and the entirety of this monster was consumed. I have solace only, in the sparsity of carbs. Bah. At least it garnered a subtle applause from the devious waiter. 

~ Drinks ~
- Calvados Alexander


Acknowledging the predicted wait for my dessert for two for one [pig], I figured the best solution for combating a slight inebriation was to douse it with more alcoholic persuasion, obviously. Not finding anything of interest in the menu, I opted for a classic and a bit of a favourite, forfeiting the brandy for Calvados. Looking as delightful as ever in its caffe' latte hue with a generous sprinkling of nutmeg in a sturdy martini glass, I duly sipped the concoction. Which did not provide the decadent creaminess I was hoping for, the cream quotient either being fat-free or diluted down, too healthy either way. It was however generously infused with the scent of nutmeg, the Calvados not overpowering the drink. It was generally rather diluted, but otherwise acceptable.

- Coteaux du Layon St. Aubain: Domaine des Forges [2009]


On the suggestion of the nefarious waiter who had convinced me to eat a pachyderm-sized dessert, I opted for the following dessert wine. It was suggested its light aroma and body would suit the equally delicate dessert. Such was very much the case - whilst not writing down anything more than "subdued", that was the immediate impact I received from this mind. A soft one. It was very restrained, not presenting much in its aroma, which carried on to a light bodied palate. Not that I could distinguish much, and whilst this does not sound like the most enticing of drinks, it did however suit the dessert rather well. In being similarly light-hearted, and only lightly sweet, it did not overwhelm the omelette pizza, providing in its stead some subtle fruit aromas over the subtle eggy richness of the Kaiserschmarrn. Subtle, but pleasant.
~~~~

I came, I saw, I conquered, and I also finally accomplished what I sought. In what amounted to a proliferate number of oversights, I had finally achieved the act of supplementing the burning fire of inebriation in my stomach, with a meal of substance. More physically than figuratively, as would be the case of eating a portion meant for two. A benevolent atmosphere in the separate dining room, away from the hustle and bustle of the main foyer, I was affronted with amicable and efficient service, helpful suggestions, and even some comradery. My main prerogative was to devour a dessert, perhaps one of substance, but very much one of thorough enjoyment. What I met was a series of subtleties, if not physically. The initial shock of the Kaiserschmarrn's size gave way to a delightfully light dessert, which softened the guilt of having consumed it in its entirety. The dessert was matched by an equally subtle wine, which was preceded by another delicate cocktail.

These nuances all contrasted rather well with the former events of the evening, the chaos and franticness of the sake tasting being calmed by the intensely pleasurable experience in the serene setting of the cigar garden, giving lieu to a gently enjoyable experience when I managed to sink my teeth into the long awaited dessert. All too soon, my mission was thus complete, and I left, in a hurry. This time very much by obligation, as having rushed quite frantically to add more alcohol to my veritable meal repertoire of that evening, I had almost forgotten that I had enlisted the services of Public vaguelyTransportation for the day, and with my strategic planning of events, time was certainly of the issue. Time well spent however. 










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