We went out for dinner last night to a sweet little place in Crouch End. Crouch End boasts 432 ‘sweet little places’ for dining, at the current count. And there’s only 274 retail units in the whole ‘town’(?) so I really don’t know how they do that.

For a starter, with our friends, we shared… bread and cheese. Oh. That’s… errrr… exiting. Hmmm.

But you see ‘bread and cheese’ is probably the world’s favourite food. Ever eaten a pizza? Well what do think that is? It’s a cheese sandwich that the lazy fucking Italians forgot to put a lid on. And now accounts for the sale of over 90% of extra-extra-extra large clothes sold in America.

How about Welsh rarebit? The ultimate comfort food. Or a ‘ploughman’s lunch’. Or even, if we move a little east, pitta bread dipped in labneh. Naan bread with paneer? Just bread and cheese, even though they’ll charge you 30 quid for it at Dishoom.

But last night’s was closer to home. The ultimate ‘bread and cheese experience’. A baked Camembert. Sprinkled with honey (possibly ‘drizzled’) and some other stuff but quite frankly I was in such a hurry to get ‘inside’ I didn’t notice. I’d entered ‘Labrador mode’ and was hoovering. Pouring dripping cheese into my mouth with toasted sourdough. And if you touch it I WILL KILL YOU! I’m good at sharing.

Baked Camembert is just the absolutely best way of eating cheese. It’s rich, wonderful and totally decadent. I’m guessing that when the French invented it, it was before the revolution. It is just too bourgeoisie for those rampaging, beheading masses, savages that they were, and still are in the most part. It is the French nation’s single contribution the world. Ok, the wine’s not bad. The women are fabulously… French. But their cars are shit, pop music worse and their films all made in subtitle.

We were eating to celebrate ‘international women’s day’ on Friday. Which is the most prejudicial, non-inclusive, un-diverse ‘celebration’ ever. I’m discriminated from enjoying it by virtue of my testicles. And I resent that. I’ve been waiting for ‘international man’s day’ to come along but apparently we don’t have one. So I had no choice by to ‘identify’ as an ‘international woman’ for the day, dress up as Margo Robbie (because if there has ever been a finer example of an ‘international woman’, I’ve never objectified her) and pretend to enjoy women’s football.

Great day it was too. Though the baked Camembert was better.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx