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.

Fireworks. Part 1

Friday was Bonfire Night. Which, despite being in my mid-20s, still fills me with an inordinate amount of excitement. We got all wrapped up (a little unnecessarily as it was acutally incredibly warm) and wandered up to Clapham Common. It was a free fireworks display, and really rather good. It was over 20minutes and there were so seriously big bangs.

Next weekend the Boyfriend and I are going to stay in Rye with my parents. And we are attending Rye Fawkes - their equivalent Bonfire Night. Apparently it is a little overwhelming as people march through the streets carrying flaming torches. I'm bringing some sparklers so I'll let you know how I fit in...

Rye

My step-mother, before she was in our family, lived in tiny cottage in Devon. Although it was really quite a beautiful place (it looked like a child's drawing of a house, and was in the middle of nowhere, literally - it was between the moors, and 30mins drive to a shop. That was open for about 2 hours a day) Lucy and I grew to dread going as we got older because of the complete lack of anything to do (thus the basis of its appeal for my parents).

So when we moved to London, and Devon became even further away they sold it. And instead bought a little house in Rye.

Rye is lovely. It is tiny. You can walk around the whole place, at my pace, in half an hour. It has about 8 shops, no supermarket (except for Budgens - an odd, yet popular little chain in the area) 3 art galleries, a church and an incredible number of very good pubs, restaurants and ye olde tea shoppes.

It is also under an hour and a half drive from the Boyfriend's house. And so last weekend we decided to pop down, only for a night, and relax in Rye.

We stopped off in Budgens for orange squash and beer. We got to the little house, turned up the heating, and made a nest. We squabbled over the TV (I wanted Children in Need, he wanted some very unpleasant programme about Burmese slavery). And then we went out for a yummy yummy dinner at a little Italian called The Tuscan Kitchen (although at first the Boyfriend was a little confused - it's an Italian and there's no PIZZA??) where we were defeated by the shear amount of meat in the anti-pasti and then had big steaming plates of pasta and sauce.

And then we went to The George. A cosy, comfy pub and had wine and read the paper and played dominoes (middle-aged I know, but that is what Rye does to you). And went home to bed. And then got up late and had all day breakfasts at one of said ye olde tea shoppes, and bought pick and mix (childish I know, but that's what Rye does to you) and then headed home back to London (not without leaving the fridge door open, and the heating on.... whoops).

And then we were back in the city. And although we both know that this is where we belong, and that anymore than 24hours in Rye and we would be going mad, 24hours itself is perfect. Do go. It is absolutely worth it. But only for 24hours.

One other thing - everytime we left the house it was blowing a complete gale. So back into the house we went and wrapped up even warmer. Only to then boil the minute we went the 3minute walk to the high street. We discovered why; watchbell street (where the house is) is exposed, and seems to be the only windy street in the whole of Rye - just a tip for if you ever venture there.