Table no. 'Powder Room'.

Glamour. Decadence. OTT. Karl, we're talking the same language,
although I might want to restyle you and Stella, non? 

   I don't like to think of myself as someone to whom you could paste the word 'jaded' on. Not yet. Hopefully not ever but who knows what lies ahead. Right now in my life, especially whilst typing AND chomping on an intensely garlicky homemade burger, sandwiched between a warm fresh bagel oozing drippings of melted butter, things couldn't be better.

all gone.

...but that leads me to my point which is restaurants, their interiors and their food.

 I don't eat out so much anymore, despite living in a capital city, bursting with food joints from chic to sheeeeeeeet although many of the great places, I have been lucky enough to eat in over the years and the newer ones I hear about through Mr Jennings or friends that live more professional lives which takes them to 'dinner meetings' rather than food fights with a bunch of nutters in the kitchen (my children that is). Once tucked up in their little fluffy cloud snugglekin beds (?!) however my mind quickly turns to all things gastronomical and I have slowly begun to master the art of turning out a couple of plates loaded with very satisfying food flavours and tummy fillers, whilst wrapped securely in the confines of my own four walls. No need for baby-sitters, bracing the unwelcoming winter nights or having to navigate a journey home. Instead it's just a few flights of stairs and 'whoomp' into my heavily duvet + 274 quilts bed, perfect!

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

 So, to get me out, that restaurant has got to deliver and I'm not just talkin' food. I want an atmosphere, a divine interior and staff that don't swish around with a whiffy smell under their nose. I don't live in restaurants, I don't live in a party but when I go out I rather like the idea of something different. Something big. Something extreme. And guess what, I've almost found one - in a toilet. The restaurant Nopi is the more grown up version of Ottolenghi (of which there are two in London) and the food is a mix of Meditteranean, Middle-eastern and Asian but look to proper critics for a more foody review. I just remember saying oooh and aaahh to every one of the tapas style dishes and coveting a number of gold ornaments and objects scattered around the joint. Having driven I only drank one cocktail but I suddenly got a teenager buzz about the idea of drinking all night and not giving two hoots about the morning. It was some kind of champagne concoction with saffron syrup, gin, elderflower and lemon. Honestly, after a drink like that you too would have wanted to eat your dinner in the loo. There you found yourself surrounded by gold and mirrors and suddenly I felt it was wholly inappropriate to not be pumping out some great music from the Charleston era.It is decadent, glamorous, romantic and so not what you would have at home (unless you happen to live like Marie Antoinette). In fact, that is my only criticism of the restaurant. Not to bring 'the outside in' but to 'bring the toilet out'. By most peoples standards however it is probably just perfect although if they had really gone for it in the dining room... I'll say no more. The night scored itself  9 out of ten - losing a point for my toilet/dining room issue - sorry, I said I'd say no more - and when I woke the next morning I found a magpie must have been doing a bit of work for me too. The gold O they use as a bill weight at the end of your evening happened to have found it's way onto the end of my keyring. I swear it happened whilst I was dancing in the loo. 

nice logo.

lovely lights.

could be better...but

the powder room table.

whoops.

Nopi: - www.nopi-restaurant.com/

 

Whippy-Tastic!

"That'll be one for me and one for my hairy friend."

 I've noticed a running trend with the arty blogger at this time of year. As the temperature pushes itself above the dull and boring chilly mark, young trees dress themselves in their party petals and there is the occasional evidence of good will amongst city folk, the temptation to post a picture of cherry blossom can be hard to resist. Spring has sprung and we all want to write about it. However, until last Sunday, I felt confident of my ability to rise above the same patter. 
 Until last Sunday. But now I don't mind because the persuader, a new kid in town, comes in the form of an ice-cream. Whooa, whooa, whooa there. I'm not talkin' any old bit of pigs' fat here. I'm talkin' a whole lorra home made gorgeousness that is then pumped through Mr Whippy himself and presented to you, standing tall atop a crunchy scrummy cone screaming "eat me, love me and come back for more!" So we did and we have, all six of us and it is fast becoming the high point of our week. Spring has officially arrived and it is now worth shouting about.
 The Tow Path cafe, the eaterie of all eaterie' at the moment in my humble opinion, was set up by a delightful woman called Lori De Mori (the name is enough to make you want to give her food a go), who, with years of experience as a food writer, now crosses the bridge from her home to her hole in the wall cafe on a daily basis and offers canal passers-by some of the freshest, finest foods available. On a Sunday, along with a team of friendly staff and her photographer husband Jason, she can be found searing butter-like steaks and serving them up with a crunchy salad for a fraction of the price asked at any near-by joint... AND IT TASTES SO GOOD! Follow that up with their home-made Mr Whippy and you've got yourself a picture perfect Sunday. So if you find yourself ambling along North London' canal any time soon and your belly cries out for some proper food - hot or cold, head towards Whitmore Rd bridge and look for an aromatic hole in the wall. You'll be hooked and it's an addiction you won't want to shake.

Wall + hole = Tasty nosh.

We used to wait...

Lady Fharfhar  and friend contemplating their long wait...and FEELING  GOOD!!

Aahh, the sweet smell of toast in the morning, dripping with butter and coated in jam. Yes, lovely, you might be thinking but...? Well, dear people I'm going to take you back now to what for some may be a distant memory, when you longed for a toy, a pair of pixie-boots, the new Roxette single. To long for is not something we do much anymore (yes, I'm getting thought provokingy here. Call it my end of week sermon if you will) and I am constantly reminded by my children how the desire for something adds to the pleasure of getting (because the bizarre acting out of the ownership of the desired item is sustained for a whole lot longer when the bit of plastic crap isn't actually there!). 
This morning, amidst the chaos of getting the boys ready for their  sweat-shops and chimney work we all had a moment of mourning. Our favourite raspberry jam, made by the fair hands of the gorgeous sister-in-law that is the Great Zoe, was down to the last scrapings. Alas, it will be a long wait for the next jar, as the little kitchen star picks those English raspberries in season, off the flippin' bushes no less and carries them home on her donkey (okey, that is a lie unfortunately) to create pure magic in her kitchen, in a way that no shop or even deli bought conserve can match. We wait and guess what, that jam will be all the sweeter for it. 
In fact, being an unprofessional blogger/writer/academic, I am now in the throws of brain spazzing as there is so much I could say on the subject but time is short. Caspar is poorly. Asa has done a stinker and I have cakes to decorate for Leo' cake stall at school which Oscar will be giving me marks out of 10000000 for.
I don't think that can all wait unfortunately but listen to We Used to Wait by Arcade Fire sometime and those lovely singing people will remind you that the wait can sometimes be almost as tasty as Zoe' jam. (Oooh, slick end Wozza!)

Cake it up! Scores Oscar...?