Two weeks with no post on here is unheard of (although I have some way to go to break Michelle Lipton’s 26 days of silence), but I have excuses! Lots of them. And they all seem to revolve around cheese.
25th February: dinner here with a soon-to-be-stratospherically-successful screenwriter (STBSSS), and the cheese diet is go! Macaroni cheese and cheesecake (is there actual cheese involved in the making of cheesecake? These are important questions, people). The STBSSS goes for something called a delice, which involves a large lump of cake, a huge flower and something that looks like a chocolate covered twig, which she bravely bites into: I’m pleased to report that it was edible.
26th February: dinner here, and the cheese theme continues. Ginos seem to cook almost exclusively with cream (apparently they have tankers of the stuff shipped in on an hourly basis*), but that’s not good enough for me: no, sir. With the infamous transglyceride incident still at the forefront of her mind, my wife gives me the filthiest of looks. But I don’t care: I’m on a cheese roll (well, not really, but you get the idea).
Medical aside: a couple of years ago, I had a routine cholesterol test, which flagged up a transglyceride (a nasty but delicious fat) level of about 16 - apparently, this is bad; very bad. The consultant accused me of going out on a fifteen pint bender the night before the blood test. Not me, guv. Then perhaps you ate twelve handfuls of butter? Nope: I’d remember that (I hope). We continued in this vein for at least thirty minutes: much hilarity ensued.
27th February: dinner here, in the library no less. Arf! However, I suspect that most of the books on display have been purchased from one of those places specialising in slightly worn but artful decor: the titles prove it – Domestic Fowl Rearing, The Poultry Keeper. At least they’re not books about cheese: by now I’m suffering dairy overkill, so I lay off the cheese for one night. That said, the dessert tasted suspiciously like mascarpone, but I’m past caring.
Telly box aside: does anyone remember that BBC series a few years back with Phil Daniels where he played a restaurant critic? Can’t remember the title of it (Holding On?), but in one memorable sequence, he goes to a restaurant, where he stuffs his face like Mr Creosote. However, he has another restaurant review to do that night, so he visits the gents, where he sicks up his dinner before waltzing off to his next assignment. Just thought I’d mention it ;-)
28th February: lunch here, and dinner here, where my wife and I seem to have the entire place to ourselves. No cheese on the menu (for which I thank the good baby Jesus above), but by now another problem has manifested itself: I'm bankrupt. I consider selling an internal organ, but decide that I would only eventually replace it with more cheese.
1st March: afternoon tea (!) here, where we sit next to an old lady who looks like a bad transvestite (I work with two transvestites – one of them has bigger biceps than me). I rapidly come to the conclusion that these are the only people who would be seen dead taking afternoon tea. More clotted cream than you shake a dainty cake fork at. By now, I’m starting to suffer from dairy-based hallucinations.
2nd March: back to (relative) normality with sausage and chips from here.
Once I’ve gotten over the hundredweight of cheese I’ve ingested over the last two weeks or so, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.
* Obviously a lie. It's at least every thirty minutes.
The long dark edit of the soul
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