On Saturday night we were up in Leeds. So we had Mel’s dad (the purpose of the visit) over to the hotel for dinner. Like all hotels that are either decent or in most cases, aspire to decency, they have a posh restaurant. Which they try to get you to eat at, obviously. And as the very narrow, single-track road leading to this (very) country hotel was 1.5 miles long, you don’t really want to go anywhere else.

“Yes, we have a new chef!!” they proclaim. Even if they acquired said chef from a job-centre or head-hunted him from McDonalds, he’s the New Chef!!! with exclamation marks. Italian. So was Mussolini.

There were about 12 ‘mains’ on the menu. And I have a rule (possibly my only one) that if the words required to describe a meal take up more space on a plate than the meal itself will; don’t eat it. Not because I don’t like words, cos I love ’em. I just don’t want to eat them. And its also a sign that someone is seriously over-thinking stuff. “Locally sourced free range chicken thighs seared to perfection then slow-baked with a red wine, pomegranate (the go-to food of the pretentious) and shallot reduction, flavoured with toad-stalls, camembert and raspberry jelly, served on a bed of pigeon testicles, banana-flavoured spinach and chorizo (another absolute essential in post-millennial dining)… blah, blah, blah.

We found one thing that not only sounded good but was actually great. Braised beef. Wonderful, simple, nice. I almost felt ashamed to have a meal that didn’t contain quinoa, chorizo, pomegranate or gluten-free rhubarb, but my hunger overcame my shame. As always.

Nice. Not cheap. Are they ever when they have you prisoner at the end of an alcohol-free 1.5 mile driveway? But acceptable. And I can’t really complain about the price because for some reason the meal wasn’t added to the bill. Oops.

Last night we went out with friends to an old established local eatery. Greek restaurant, nominally, called The Carob Tree in that area that calls itself ‘Highgate’ but is so almost Kentish Town that you can afford to eat there. And we’ve eaten there lots of times. The owner is my best friend. He’s a big Spurs fan. Unless you go there and you’re a Chelsea fan, in which case he is your best friend and a massive Chelsea fan. One of those types. Fortunately wasn’t there last night.

And I’ve never looked at the menu there. Never. They cook all the usual Greek stuff and probably do it really well, but what they do better than anywhere else is fish. Up on the ‘specials’ board. Grilled. On their barbecue. Not ‘measly’ fish, not ‘sardines disguised as seabass’ that you get everywhere else, not a sliver of ‘blackened cod’ for 60 quid. No. Big fishes. Fucking whales. Though they called it sea bream. Big enough to share. Probably big enough And its cooked so wonderfully with the skin crispy and the rest moist and… errr… fishy, without being ‘fishy’. And that combination of ‘big’ and ‘perfect’ just hits the spot. Without requiring a four page essay to tell you what its like. Cos what its like is fantastic.

Lila knows about eating.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx