Italian eating

San Gennaro. Another near-flat eatery, recommended by fellow foodie and highly esteemed friend Irish redhead Pearse (whom incidentally we bumped into as we left).

It is a little Italian place on Battersea Park Road. They do a half price offer for those early enough to make it (not us) and the staff are all Italian (very authentic, although some confusion over ordering).

We started with bread (big chunks of warm ciabatta with oil and balsamic - YUM). The Peroni comes in the authentic Italian brown bottle, and the wine menu has some of my faves on there (Gavi de Gavi - delish). I had the seafood linguine, and it most certainly did not disappoint. A big steaming portion of tender linguine in a tomatoey herby sauce absolutely choc-a-bloc with seafood. Mussels, clams, prawns, squid, a giant prawn like thing (head, claws and all).

The Boyfriend had the Diavolo pizza (minus mushrooms to the confusion of the waiter - hence having to send it back). Once it arrived as he requested it was lovely. Properly Italian - thin crispy base, fresh tomato topping, flavoursome without being greasy.

Being the nosey so and so that I am, I couldn't help having a good look at the other dishes surrounding our table (and for a Thursday, the place was packed, and had a steady stream of takeaway customers). All the pasta dishes looked lovely - fresh and decent portion sizes. The risottos looked equally good, and the calzone was nothing short of impressive (nb. you need to be HUNGRY to go for that bad boy - it was enormous).

Too stuffed for a desert (the tiramasu on the other table did almost tempt me) we got the bill (again, very reasonable) and toddled the short distance home (bumping into aforementioned redhead).

Italian number 2.

For our dearest father's birthday (actual day, not weekend prior to) we found ourselves in the strange position of being a three (me, my sister, and the Birthday Boy). The Boyfriend has abandoned me for Mozambique (a work trip, and possibly abandoned is a little unfair) and my stepmother is off in France.

So Lucy and I were meeting our dearest Pa at 6pm sharp to try, once again to get into Jamie's Italian in Covent Garden. Now, I have tried and failed a number of times to eat there previously, always giving up on the queue (you can't book unless there are more than 6 of you) and so was rather excited when we got ushered to our table.

We started off with two antipasti boards (one meat, one veggie). They were delicious, but not big. Better value at Browns round the corner. But the bread was really lovely (unstable container though - managed to knock it on the floor at one point) and it meant we still had space for the mains.

Sister and Pa both had the Pasta of the Day (spaghetti with roasted veggies) which was lovely. Not too greasy, the spaghetti was nicely aldente and the veggies cooked but not soggy. I had scallops (one of my FAVOURITE foods). I got four, and they were delicious, but at nearly £16 it would have been nice if they came with a bit more (accompanied by a tiny side salad, and some tasty, but not liberally added tomato salsa - a bigger salad wouldn't have gone amiss). But yes, all in all the food was very good.

Perhaps the best part were the puddings. We had two with three spoons. Awesome chocolate and Espresso Tart with glazed figs and orange creme fraiche (totally wonderful, coffee prevented it from being too sickly, figs were ripe to perfection and the tangy orange again cut through the richness of the choc) and baked walnut tart with espresso creme fraiche and hazelnuts (possibly the best pudding I've ever had. It was slightly chewy, but crunchy with the hazelnuts, crumbly with the pastry and the cool creme fraiche was tangy and a great accompaniment.

I dashed off to the "loo" and paid the bill behind the Birthday boy's back. I think that was the best part of the entire evening - he was so touched, I felt like we were in a mastercard advert - look on Daddy's face: priceless.

Le Pot Lyonnaise

My Daddy is turning 54 on Tuesday. To mark this grand occasion the boyfriend and I were due to go to Rye for the Rye Fawkes Bonfire Night. However, both being struck down by a dreaded winter lurgi, we had to bypass the trip and spent the weekend lying pathetically on the sofa, downing lemsip and watching a bizarre selection of films (culminating in Bedknobs and Broomsticks - the Boyfriend really surprising me by singing along, word perfect to "Bobbing along, singing a song").

Instead of a yummy Italian lunch as the Tuscan Kitchen in Rye, it was decided that en route back to Queen's Park, my parents and sister would stop off at the flat, and we would go for birthday lunch at the Parisienne style bistro across the road.

Le Pot Lyonnaise. DO NOT GO.

We turned up for our booking at 12.45. And were seated in the emptiest, gloomiest and coldest part of the restaurant (we didn't realise this until we went to the toilet, and wandered through into a far livlier area). We specified that we were in a bit of a hurry (haircut for the Birthday boy back at Queen's Park at 3.30) and so promptly gave our drinks/food order.

Our waitress was new and had not the foggiest about the menu. After looking blank at the third question she disappeared off to "ask the chef" never to return. In her place we got a surly looking, yet far more capable waitress.

So we ordered at approx 12.55. By 1.30 there was no sign of our food. By 1.45, having mentioned the considerable chill, and being met with the response of "Oh, yeah, it is cold in here - the radiator is a bit old" a glass of ice, ordered with our drinks an HOUR before turned up.

An hour after ordering, and we were starving, cold, and getting grumpier by the second. Birthday boy went to investigate. Surly waitress came to tell us, not how sorry she was for the wait, but that it was our fault for ordering the duck - it takes the longest (yet there is NO mention of this on the menu).

Finally, in dribs and drabs, the food started to arrive. The corn fed chicken was delicious, as were my Moules Mariniere (though the side order of crushed new potatoes with aioli was most definitely a form of instant mash potato). The duck was fine, if a little greasy. Sadly, Birthday boy's steak had a similar texture to old leather. It was cold, dry, and so tough that even the steak knife was making little headway.

He went to take it back, and the previously full restuarant appeared devoid of any staff. So he went into the kitchen to be met by a torrent of abuse from the authentic French chef.

By this point we had been there over an hour and a half, and my father had no food. Dreading another hour wait, he just picked off our plates, paid the bill (minus the discretionary service charge, and the fee for the untouched steak and chips) and we left.

The apology from Miss Surly was pathetic to say the least.

On return to the flat, we had lots of cups of tea, and a slice of delicious homemade coffee and walnut cake, and this seemed to successfully salvage any overhanging ill feeling.

My only advice is to avoid Le Pot Lyonnaise, unless you have buckets of time to spend in a freezing resutarant eating tough, dry and tasteless food. And if you do risk it, make sure you have a good homemade cake back at home.

World Cup Birthday

So the first England game of the World Cup gatecrashed my birthday. Obviously when the news was broken to me I was devastated, and briefly debated fighting the patriotic spirit. But as the Boyfriend pointed out, if I fought it I'd probably lose, and be sat alone at home wearing a party hat.


So I decided to embrace it fully, booking a massive table directly in front of the biggest TV in the pub beer garden. We got there at 5, ordered Pimms and Gin and Tonic, and got stuck into the barbeque (posh chicken kebab in a wrap - YUM).

By 7.10 I had managed to fill the two enormous tables I had booked and was deeply engrossed in a conversation (obviously non football related) with a friend I have not really seen in 10yrs. And suddenly there was singing and bright lights, and I realised there was a big cake with candles. And 200 England fans singing Happy Birthday.

And then the football began, and the same 200 fans that had sung me Happy Birthday were roaring "Roo-ney Roo-ney" and cheering and screaming, and when the goal was scored acting in a manner not unlike that of monkeys.

I feel that both my birthday and the England game managed to co-exist pretty well.