Confessions of a Wino

In a very twee part of London, where, in more controversial political times Tone used to live, lies a pub.  I wonder if this was a New Labour den at some point.

Keeping my lefty tendencies to one side, (I dress to the left), I booked through Opentable and consumed a pre-match meal.  The glorious Man City made their first Wembley visit since 1999. I made my first visit to Islington since Morgan M‘s in 2008.

The Drapers Arms has a decent array of beers, a pretty and well priced wine list, and a menu that people of my age can read without glasses, which is all too rare. A bottle of 2009 Brouilly was excellent value at £31, and once given 10 minutes in an ice bucket was very drinkable. After only 10 minutes it was turned from flabby Bazooka Joe bubblegum to tight candy foam teeth and who wouldn’t prefer the teeth?  But, why serve Beaujolais at 25 degrees in the first place?

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If you have just scaled England’s third highest mountain via Striding Edge, slipped and nearly died, wished that you owned a pair of crampons, nearly shat yourself, and in the process built up a hunger hole the size of one of Sherpa Tenzing’s footprints, you could do worse than get your scram at one of the poshest hotels in the lake district, the self proclaimed inventor of sticky toffee pudding.  Make sure you take your Amex Black Card, though.  And check you are still in possession of your arms and legs on the way out.

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I’ve been impressed by Café Anglais on a number of occasions but I thought it was famous for roast chicken, and not particularly great for solo diners.  So, ever since they emailed me to say an oyster bar had opened I’ve been itching to try it.

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Do you prefer penguins or skateboarders?  Personally I am a penguin man, although this caused a bit of controversy when I reviewed Hawksmoor.  I did, though, fall in love with the beef.  But, having revelled in Hawksmoor’s meat, I felt obliged to sample what most London foodies consider to be the competition in the steak stakes, Goodman.

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Much has been written about the Magpie.  It is the doyenne of Fish ‘n’ Chip restaurants.  Well, if you are from London.  But what if you live in Yorkshire?  What if you are well versed in high quality chippies with tablecloths.  Does the Magpie stack up to the best Yorkshire can offer?

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A free day in Vienna and a hatful of recommendations for lunch, many of which were either closed or impossible to find.  My iPhone had given up on data so my life-raft (Google maps) was not the usual powerful tool in my weaponry. Relying on analogue techniques from ancient history: Metro maps, street plans and gut feel, I stumbled across a very posh place next to the KK Hofburg Theater.

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The business card for Lucy’s carries the tagline “share in the experience”.  Oh dear, looks like I’m washing up again…

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Last time I wrote about the London food bloggers’ beefy hero of Shoreditch, I was accused of snobbery.  I was unkind to the waiting staff who I described as ‘skateboarders’ lacking coordination and worse, more dishevelled in appearance than most customers.

However, my steak was so mouth-wateringly, drool dribblingly, bib wettingly luscious, that Truly Scrumptious couldn’t have tempted me away from it, even if she had offered to blow my Toot Sweet in the back of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.  I had to come back for another try.

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Jersey is the most beautiful of islands but, let’s be honest, it’s a bit Wicker Man.  I feel like I am in a 1970′s time-warp.  Even my beloved and essential iPhone is rendered useless by a lack of suitable networks.  No voice, no data, no life.

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Finding it is a bit like going to a rave.  First, you need to know a local hombre to get the number.  On tinkling, you are directed to another telephone box to wait for a call.  Then, like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn, a taxi appears to pick you up from Alicante town centre and you are driven 20 minutes up the coast, blindfolded.

This sort of experience excites the hell out of me and has my salivary glands pissing like a Dutch dyke.

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