Guinea Grill

A week ago I met up with Tommy G, who was over from NYC for biz, to sup a few pints of G (obviously that wasn't the work he came from although wouldn't that be great).

After beers we headed off to the Guinea Grill, http://www.theguinea.co.uk/

Yeah check out the pic of that big old boy on the website, he greets you at the door, what a bloody legend! The rest of the staff are good old boys too, I was trying to hug them all as I staggered out, especially the Italian one.

This is really a boys boozer/dining room although Penny was turning the air blue and out swore all the pissed up bankers crammed in. They seemingly specialise in steaks and pies - they are 3 times steak and kidney champions! However, I bloody hate kidney so I tucked into their beef and ale pie. The pastry on their pies is off the chart in terms of quality (the actual beef was a little dry and chewy but it was the end of the night so that may have been a factor?), I urge a visit, just pop in for a plate of pastry and a pint if you're short on time.

We obviously had our pies with dauphinoise potatoes (doesn't everybody?), broccoli, creamed spinach and chips to scoop out the last of the pie from its dish - well in truth only I did that but that's why I'm a wee bit of a porker! All washed down with some red, a coffee and a double amaretto. An absolute Mayfair Tuesday night delight.

And yes the food does always taste better when somebody else pays, thanks Tom and Penny!

BP Diner

Dinner is my favourite meal, I'm keen on a brunch too and yes a boozey Sunday lunch is an absolute joy but week in week out it's dinner that excites me.

So it's been a bit depressing over the last couple of nights when the 24hr BP Garage has become my diner. It's not quite as bad as it sounds as there is an M&S in there but I doubt it would convince Frenchmen to upsticks and move over for the culinary delights (on reflection this is no bad thing, we don't want to encourage the French to live here).

Thursday night saw me stagger into the BP having celebrated the Designator's 40th. We kicked off at Mulligans drinking some lovely pints of G and then suddenly we shifted gears, partly my fault as I led the chaps off to the bar at the May Fair Hotel. It was jam packed with ladies, although I don't think I'd be incorrect if I said at least 80% were hookers. Former England player Ben Clark was in there tucking into a delightful young blonde (note I don't think she was on the game). Ben had an excellent paunch on him; on this evidence he is loving retirement. Drinks aren't cheap here by the way, they ask you to part with £11.70 for a vodka n'tonic.

We then headed across the road into the Buddah Bar, £15 to get in, we got led to a table and I was thinking hello where has this VIP action come from? Sadly it came from a missunderstanding, they thought we wanted to part with some amazing amount of cash for bottle service, no thank you. We shuffled to the bar, no longer looking quite such a bunch of playas, and drank beers. I have to say it was packed full of cunts but crikey there were some good looking ladies in there, sadly it was a school night and I had an appointment with BP. Whilst waiting to be served there were some drunk people making some shocking drunk muching purchases; prawns post booze? Onion rings that need to be heated in the oven, clearly they weren't factoring in the whole warming the oven up time issue. Amateurs. I took home the special Christmas sandwich and a vegetable samosa (opting to eat it cold of course).

Friday was my dear friend Fritzell's 30th and a lovely evening up on the rooftop at Century was had. An inspired venue choice as it meant we could all smoke without having to go out on the wet streets. I reckon non-smokers and those who have given up all indulged and had a puff or two, not least because I seemed to be supplying the bulk of the cigs. Took a cab home; somehow the taxi driver tried to magic up a fare of £52, ok, we made a few drop offs on the way to the BP but you can fuck right off my friend. I haggled hard and knocked off a massive £7, Donald Trump would have been proud. I wasn't aware it was quite so late, 3am (this was in no way partly due to the fact it took the birthday girl 15 minutes to get/wobble/stagger/trip down the stairs at Century) so I needed to make some quick eating decisions. My old pal the Christmas sandwich was an obvious choice and I picked up a pack of McCoys (steak flavour, my fav of their range).

Earlier in the week I'd actually made it home in time to have dinner; griddled lamb steaks with 'cheat' roast potatoes (get pan, add potatoes with garlic and rosemary to hot olive oil, cover and hey presto - shake a lot though otherwise it will be welded to the bottom of the pan). I also fired up some Orecchiette with broccoli and smoked pancetta. All fairly tasty but I've got a long way to go in my execution.

As for tonight well I suspect I have another date with the BP Diner as I'm off to some club for a birthday bash.

South Bank Leaf Peeping

So as previously reported it transpires NYC is trying to claim that it is the only place in the world to have falling leaves in Autumn and that you must travel there, thus becoming a valuable toursit leaf peeper and a boost to their ailing economy. Well London needs to get in on the act, walking yesterday to Borough Market along a sunny South Bank was a real joy and as the video below illustrates there were plenty of brown leaves. Ok I'll admit I wasn't knee deep in them but I doubt anybody books their long haul flight hoping they won't be able to walk the streets due to the sheer volume of leaves they are peeping at.

It was so sunny yesterday that people genuinely lost their minds, the tide was out and a group of kids were so happy they were running up a sloping bit of concrete and then flipping through the air onto the polluted sand below.

People would never really consider swimming in the Thames (unless drunk or mentally unhinged), however, if it is November and there is some unseasonal sunshine then they are quite happy to frolic in the sands. Now I'm no marine biologist but surely if the water is of a dodgy quality then the underlying sand will be of a similar nature? But, sand is safe right, so get the kids rollicking around in it. Then again I think I'm all for it, I hate the hyper hygine gang, frankly they can fuck off and ponder how humans have survived for so long amongst the germs.

I only went to Borough Market for a quick raid on the Ginger Pig to pick up some bangers. I accomplished this mission with ease (8 cumberlands and 8 traditonals) but I also donated £8 to some artisan bread makers, bagging some rosemary and sea salt foccacia and an excellent London Bloomer. Having now found my more generous side I thought it wrong not to buy an award winning pork pie from the store next to the Ginger Pig (surely these boys do the best pork pie crust) and then allowed myself to get fleeced by some wiley Ities buying some pancetta and pecorino. Oh and I also popped into Neal's Yard Dairy and came away with some amazing stilton. Whilst typing about this champion cheese shop I should mention a British soft cheese, the Tunworth, which I had to buy for Mum, well she had requested the Brie but fuck the French, it's damn tasty, get some.

Bangers bought it was time for the rugby; I was convinced we would thump this young-ish Aussie team at HQ. Not so, they totally outplayed us in the 2nd half and the young scrum half showed Care what it's like to play well whilst being young. Care's education had to take place from the stands as Johnno hauled him off - a good move, Hodgson was a lot more effective.

Having watched England get outplayed it was time for the Welsh to show how they could be out thought by a weak All Blacks team and therefore beaten. Yeah they think it was close and are moaning about a high tackle; get over it, you aren't good enough (but you are better than England). What riled me about both Northern teams was their lack of concern in defeat, with Jones positively beaming. Oh well at least Jonny played well as did Mad Dog Moody.

Popped down, with Dan and Bracey, to The Ship for a few pints of G which I have to say were amazing. I got a flyer from The Ship the other day talking themselves up and saying that with their Irish connections you could be assured that they do one of the best pints of G in London, well on this evidence they weren't lying. I'm already looking forward to my next pint there, undoubtedly it won't be a long wait. I should also take this moment to salute The Ship's commercial operation, year in year out they astound me. This summer they pulled off a coup, the double burger at around £16 - who's going to buy one of those at that price, well once you shrink the regular burger and effectively call out the alpha male status of burger consumers then an awful lot and profits rocket. Anyway, very cleverly they've converted the bit where they used to keep the bins into a little patio, only one prob, it stinks of refuse but that won't put people off this summer - another cunning money spinner.

Returned to the Towers to watch the Haymaker take on Valuev, I don't normally do pay per view but this wasn't at some silly bugger hour and so I took the risk on this big fight night lasting more than 30 seconds and didn't it just. It would have been absurd if Haye hadn't won as he demonstrated all the skill against the giant and even had him wobbling towards the end. Eventually the bread and sausages I kept wedging in coupled with red wine saw sleep wash over me and I found myself on the sofa at 4am, shit! Still at least I did eventually make it to bed.

Overall an excellent day; gym, sunny South Bank, rugby, best mates, booze, some time with the old man (he came to watch the rugger) and great grub from Borough Market, just a shame we didn't win the rugby.

The Trumpster

I find every moment of Donald Trump's The Apprentice USA spine chillingly awful yet I love it, here are some cracking exchanges from a recent episode (and never forget how special the Trumpster's hair is).

DT: It can be the most special park in New York (the one he's donating - "it will be one of the most spectacular in the country")
George: How are you going to get rid of the slope?
DT: There is a lot of slope but we have a lot of good tractors

"INSPIRE"
DT: You have to make your staff respect you.
DT to lawyer J: Come on lets do it, do it. You guaranteed me victory, did you guarantee me victory? You never quit, you never quit.
Bring Jennifer in.
People like working for Trump because I make it fun. That is Miss Universe (Jennifer).
I make life interesting. Where else do you get a good time like with Trump. Trump is Trump, what can I tell you?

Male team huddle (yet another), hands together and they shout Excel (their team name). This is truly fucking awful TV.

Jen W: I made the cake, it says Techno Expo on it (Techno is actually spelt Tethno - amazing)

Jen M: Showing a heart rate monitor to old men at the retirement village.
If we win because we're women and they're old men then that's fine I'll take it (she then proceeds to do fairly racy press ups in her gym kit for an old boy).

Jen W: Having sworn; I don't even like to cuss (rolls back and cries for soap for her mouth).

The male team as their reward go to the children's hospital and crassly hand out numerous X-boxes, forget you're dying child; Donald has made a donation (this is set to terrible music and statements such as what's great about this team is we connected with these children just as well as we did with those old people)

Jen W: How can 7 such brilliant women be so wrong?

THE BOARDROOM

Toral: I have impressive work experience. We think thoughts before speaking (she really doesn't).

George: The men had cookies and cheese, they had great cookies (thanks George, that's the great business mind that has helped make Donald rich).

George: You're way off base
Rebecca: She went to the same school as Donald, George
DT: Don't say that George. Toral has to be smart, she went to a school where truly the smartest people in the country go.
The rest are going up to this magnificent suite in Trump Tower (of course it's magnificent). Enjoy the view Toral.

George: Where's the flexibility?
DT: She has no flexibility George (said sagely).

Jen W: My Grandma loved cake, that's why I chose it (this emotional play won't wash with the Trumpster).

DT: (shaking his head in bewilderment) This girl is either gonna be great or a disaster.
George: Time will tell (is there any end to this old boy's incisive analysis?).

On reflection I haven't really done the cringing awfulness of this series justice; get on iPlayer and see how bad it is for yourself but don't be afraid to enjoy it like I do too. Oh and look how dreadful Trump's female assistant is and how awful the decor is.

Right I'm gonna have to watch another episode now.

Sat Extra

My hangover prevented me from remembering that during the Borough Mkt trip I tucked into a lovely pint of organic cider (choose the mild, the dry is disgusting and I reckon a pint of the sweet would be too much to stomach). However, I'd been to the gym beforehand and my only liquid since had been that delicious Monmouth Coffee. This meant that I was hydrating on hugely powerful inbred cider, I was absolutely wrecked come the end of that pint.

To try and sober up I staggered to Fish and had their swordfish club sandwich (swordfish, lettuce, mayo and lightly cooked smoked salmon in a triple decker), delicious and interestingly much bigger than the fish and chips they serve up - mind you it is £12.95. It quelled the lethal cider but I was so full afterwards I struggled to drink my commercial cider later on the evening (note I only struggled, I of course wasn't going to be defeated). 

180

As I sat in The Ship on Saturday night I have to admit that I didn't expect to be joined by the Berkshire Ladies Darts Team but that's what happened. They staggered in from the smaller bar wearing witches hats and claws and yeah they were scary as hell. I can't imagine many men would be brave enough to go toe to toe with this gang, so when they asked if it was ok to sit at our table we weren't going to say no.

Fletch and I entertained Jane, a natural talker, and one who described herself as the thinnest, at 15 stone she might well have been. Flat Head, Bad Tooth also plonked herself down, she earned this moniker due to the fact she had a flat top mullet and a rotting front tooth, sometimes nicknames make themselves up. They were actually thoroughly entertaining and I even got felt up by Jane, who also told me her 24 yr old son would be proud. I have no idea what that meant, hopefully it wasn't alluding to the fact that she planned to have me. Luckily I was spared and they went off in search of a livlier night, Fletch and I weren't wild enough to satisfy this bunch of hardened boozers, they'd been on the sauce all day and needed to go through the gears and they clearly thought we didn't have the minerals. Jane told me you have to be fat to play darts, last night didn't change my opinion. But as I say they were good fun and I hope they win their fixture, somewhat scarily playing at Wandsworth Prison (I'm sure it's not actually in the prison but they wouldn't have been scared if it was). Oh by the way Jane told me I smoked like a girl and thats why I am single, or as she put it "haven't sorted my fucking life out", I'll look into it.

Earlier in the day I had a lovely Autumnal walk along the South Bank to, you guessed it, Borough Market. Trent told me the other day that the Yanks are trying to claim falling browning leaves as something unique to them and that they target 'leaf peepers' to book holidays to see this incredible act of mother nature. Well bloody hell we should do the same, I saw plenty of falling brown leaves on my walk.

Kicked off the Borough Market trip with a visit to Monmouth Coffee Company, their coffee really is the best (I love Fernanadez & Wells but they get their coffee from these guys) but the queues are absurd. However, if you buy some coffee beans you can order a coffee at the same time and skip the queue, cunning eh. I got some Brazilian beans and got them groud down, the smell is amazing.

I'm looking to do some spicy beef wraps and an indonesian pork stir fry this week so I picked up the ingredients for that, including some salsa and tortillas from a lovely mexican lady. I also picked up the ingedients for a corn beef hash which I have just eaten; pretty tasty (although I did burn it a bit as I was attmepting to get the internet to obey my simple demands), deffo have it with strong mustard. As part of the preparation for this I had to boil my first beetroot, not as exciting as drinking with Berkshire Darts Ladies but still pleasing.

Vingt Quatre

The thing about recovering from man flu on a Friday is that you're never quite sure how to react. Do you take it easy and just go home, do you go for a couple of beers and hope that the man flu just rears its evil self enough to send you home to the sofa or do you celebrate and get smashed.

Having convinced myself all day that home was the best option I obviously opted to have a couple of beers. This was meant to be followed by a Pizza Express (I even printed off 2 pizzas for £10 vouchers).

I knew I wasn't going to stick to the plan the moment I set off towards Oxford St instead of the safety of Wandsworth Town. Met Fletcher at the Marquis on Charlotte St, absolutely rammed and of course this being almost November in England absolutely packed outside too. This wasn't particularly pleasant as the little square stank of vomit, as though the previous night there had been some mass puke off involving several contestants. After a commercial cider over ice whilst standing in the road almost tempting the taxi drivers to wipe us out as they swung round the corner we met Daniel in Nordic.

Nordic is a tiny bar which tends to be packed, in truth there isn't a lot going on in this little basement bar except the thought that it will be jam packed with young horny Swedish girls. In my experience it never is but the owners do tend to staff it with some very fit bar maids who are squeezed into some tiny tops and therefore when people suggest going to Nordic you always go, yeah good idea. Anyway having fought off the Northern Line like conditions (hot and packed) we ventured back on to street level.

And here is when I should have gone home or insisted it was pizza o'clock but I was 3 drinks in now and a conquerer of man flu - I could have another beer, sure. But we chose Charlotte Street Blues, a live Blues bar packed full of Friday revellers is not the place for a quiet beer. On the door they are running an amazing £5 data capture scheme. You have to pay £5 to enter, not great but ok, it's a fiver and these days that's less than a packet of cigs. However, they then want you to fill in a membership form, oh so next time we don't have to pay. "No, you always have to pay". Fletcher was dutifully filling in the form at this stage, he told them, you're not having my e-mail address, Dan and I just burst through the data capture nazi, enough of this nonsense, it's time for a drink. A Corona, ok maybe you can have a quiet beer, better have another one though given I've paid an entrance fee. Uh oh what's this with my Corona, a tequila. "You'll love it" grins Fletcher. I've been drinking this shit since I was 15 in Tex Mex in Guildford, I have categorically never loved it, nor for the record do I love sambuca. I Like jager bombs and that's about it in the shot stakes. I didn't love it but I did then have a couple of mojitos and some more bloody tequila.

At one stage Dan almost broke my neck, I was prodding at his drunken carcass when he suddenly sprung into life like an angry bear (albeit a very short one). All those hours he puts in at the gym do mean he is very strong and I really did fear for my life, I had to grab his balls and his arsehole at the same time to get a release. The only other option would have been to have launched him over the bar but the bear may have taken my head with him. Whilst I feared for my neck I have to say, it has never felt so loose, it's quite liberating, thanks champ.

We poured some more booze down the bear before we watched the grizzly stagger off to his wood. Hmm now left with Fletcher, what a surprise. Time for Vingt Quatre? You bet, and we jumped into a cab. A fairly uneventful journey, Fletcher didn't feel a need to sing at the driver, although in fairness he tends to save that for Addison Lee drivers rather than black cab drivers. I did heckle some bloke who took way too long at the cash point whilst Fletcher was waiting to get cab money, tell him he owes us £3 I yelled, Fletcher though had cleverly noted that the chap was Italian and therefore called him an arsehole in his language, something like 'stronzo'.

Vingt Quatre is an odd place, 3 very large chaps on the door who look like eastern european organised crime types and on the inside it is a mish mash of drunken idiots, fitties, freaks and coffee drinkers. Some people have a full English, others a slice of cake. None though I noted were taking them up on their offer of a champagne breakfast, half a bottle of Krug, yours for £99! I mean if you don't buy a ticket you won't win the lottery but really, that's just taking the piss out of the toffs isn't it? Of course some of these young rahs will take Vingt Quatre up on this offer but I hope most people don't, its just exploiting drunk people (although I do like the overtness of it).

We had burgers, which we had to send back because they weren't big enough. The burgers were shit though, no matter that we super sized them, the bacon and cheese that accompanied them were also awful (on the small version you get 1 piece of incredibly small streaky bacon) and the chips were dreadful but strangely I remember the gherkins being nice. Something odd happened during this meal, Fletcher didn't finish his burger, nor the gherkins, he also didn't eat his chips, I was calling him out for being a bird who didn't want to eat carbs and therefore that obviously made him a gay. Went to the toilet and returned to find him asleep, I sighed, we weren't in NYC but he was still sleepy head. Dragged him into a taxi, woke him up to make him pay and then crashed out on the sofa waking up at 9am, dammit, why didn't I make it to the bed?

Now shall I go to the gym to work off my quiet couple of beers?

Man Flu Meals

So this week I've been struck down by the ever evil Man Flu, a real pain as it has coincided with me doing a lot more cooking than late (due to a trip to what is probably my favourite place in London, Borough Market).

Monday saw me take down a pork chop bought from the Ginger Pig - if you've never tried some of their produce then you really should, I once drove to their farm shop in Pickering (I was though living in Leeds so it isn't quite as random as it sounds) to pick up a steak and ale pie. Whenever I'm at Borough Market I stare at the Ginger Pig's little deli section, working out if I can justify spending £5.50 on a warm cornish pasty or whether I deserve one of their outrageously large sausage rolls. This one was of the rare times I didn't give into gluttony. Anyway, I roasted the chop (with a lot of fat to ensure moistness and flavour) with pears, some parsnips and potatoes - this was put together with a lemon and rosemary marinade. Not bad, should have cut the potatoes into a smaller size or par boiled them though.

Tuesday; monkfish night. I got to Borough Mkt late on Saturday and to my surprise every fish stall had sold out of monkfish, I had no idea it had become so popular (I did though pick up some awesome prawns which we had as part of a drunken midnight thai curry feast on Sat). So first of all I had to go to Selfridges, the man flu was hitting me hard and the central line is no place to be. So I went to the chemist there to pick up something to make me feel better, £15 later I had some apparent magic cure which came in 6 little test tubes. Well, they helped a bit but they weren't exactly silver bullets and for the price you may as well stick to Lemsip style products.

Anyway, I then went and bought some monkfish from the food hall - £10.45! I thought this fish was cheap as chips, what the fook happened? Obviously I bought it. I have a failing in Selfridges food hall, much like my one at Borough Mkt, I can't go there and just buy one thing. I found an excuse to pick up a little thai cake, with sweetcorn and spices, good even with man flu. Oh and I also randomly bought some Marmite rice cakes, I've not knowingly bought rice cakes before but put Marmite on there and bang, I'm making the purchases of a female dieter.

The monkfish was cooked in a foil parcel (it should be banana leaf but that would have meant a trip to the thai super market in Putney and I'd spoilt myself too much with Borough Mkt and Selfridges in the space of just a few days) with coconut milk, lime juice, garlic, ginger, chilli and coriander (there should have been lemon grass as well but I forgot to buy it), served with rice to, as Jamie O puts it, mop up the juices.

Wednesday; spaghetti with anchovies, lemon juice, garlic, chilli and pangaritata (breadcrumbs fried in extra virgin olive oil, thyme and garlic). Surprisingly enjoyable and some of the flavour managed to by-pass the man flu.

Este noche; chicken red thai curry with sugar snap peas, mmm. Lime juice I believe is crucial to thai curry, it makes all the difference to the flavour. Now, as I type I think this meal may have finally quelled the man flu beast (it got so bad today I actually had to leave work during the afternoon), fingers crossed.

So some good cooking just a shame I couldn't enjoy all the flavours. Interestingly I appear to have lost a few pounds, now whilst I haven't drunk or smoked this week I've eaten a lot and I haven't made it to the gym once, so I suspect it will pile back on in the coming days or failing that the Autumn rugby internationals start next weekend, so the Guinness will put the weight back on!

Hidden bar in NYC

Fletch and I staggered out into another chilly New York morning and made our way to The Coffee Shop in Union Sq.

Rumour had it that its entirely staffed by wannabe models, well, if true, what a treat laid in wait for them, 2 horribly tired pasty English boys who were still a little drunk from the night before, reeking of booze and cigs.

Well the rumours were correct, its packed full of lovely ladies, not the brightest bunch though. We met Trent, Ana and Carlota there for brekkie. I was the cause of great amusement by mysteriously asking for milk with my coffee, no idea what the simpleton's problem was and as for Trent's pain au chocolat, that proved so baffling (even once simplified to chocolate croissant) that it never turned up. I ordered eggs benedict, pretty poor in truth but the home fries they came with were sensational. Fletcher had some bacon cooked to a crisp in syrup, bad choice my friend, bad choice. Carlota showed us oldies how to do it by wolfing back a big stack of pancakes.

Tommy came and joined us as we minced around the food market at Union Sq, the 3 of us prayed that the cold would distract our hurting bodies and that we might recover. It was really working, even spying Lucy Liu did little, so we decided to push the recovery button fully and jumped on the Staten Island ferry and raced up to the top deck.

On a summer's day I imagine this is beautiful, especially on the return leg as you approach Manhatten. In October it's a beautiful hangover cure but it is a do or die, if you're too weak the cold wind and spray will break you, I've no doubt. After that it was obviously lunch time, perhaps as much as 2 hours had elapsed since brekkie!

Well I say it was lunchtime, it was actually G o'clock in a spot in Soho, I can't quite recall the name, on a corner, black outside, orange sign, maybe something like Fratelli. It is bloody busy and run by shrill angry women who shout, a lot. They bark at those waiting for tables, we got into all sorts of bother for asking for a table for 6 but only 3 of us being present (the others were wondering around the shops), 2 or 3 times we didn't have the full complement, not the done thing. We also got into bother when 2 people left their seats at the bar, the banshee bar maid screamed that they had a table for 2, none of the waiting tourists wanted to get that close to the female megaphone and declined to take the seats, we booed, again not the done thing. The bar maid yelled to one of the waitresses that she was being heckled (oops).

Eventually we got a table for 6, well there were 6 for us, at some restaurants it would have been a table for 2. Concerned that my meat intake was down after eggs benedict I manned up for a bison burger. That was my bison debut, to be honest though I think a normal juicy burger is the way forward but I'd give it another shot.

Lunch done, the others went off in search of culture; Tom, Fletch and I decided to take a stroll around the city but in the best possible way - a pub crawl. Kicking around University Place, we had a beer in the Red Lion, a beer in The Reservoir (where we witnessed an obese couple playing a sort of safari hunting game, they were left wheezing by the number of video game animals they slaughtered, I found the game deeply worrying) and then ten pin bowling, obviously with beers. I'm shite but managed to win a game, so did Tom, unlucky Fletcher.

We returned to the flat, rather than a quick power nap we tried Tom's homemade espresso martinis, hopeless but then again the coffee and vodka was a welcome boost. We then headed off to meet the Pfau in a Mexican place.

I think the Bison had settled now as I wasn't that hungry, a real shame as the Mexican fare was damn tasty - not many places fire up a Guacamole tasting menu with fresh tortilla chips - we also took on a selection of ceviche and some tacos. In truth I haven't eaten much Mexican but every time I do I like it. I guess it's a bit like discovering Thai food for the first time, a whole array of new flavours and each time it is a treat.

A quick point on one of the few downsides of New York, toilets. There are hardly any, and often they are pretty shoddy, why do the yanks like ones which have a short door at the top and bottom with gaping holes in the sides? Anyway, this Mexican had one (albeit it was a rare beauty) for both sexes, I was busting for a piss and had to literally jump up and down whilst I waited for 2 other people.

Throughout the meal Tom had been banging on at Sarah to phone the hot dog place, he carries the nickname, 'Guilbelly' (amongst others, e.g. Gaypride) but surely his tubby alter ego wasn't lining up a desert of hot dogs? Anyway, off we hopped to Criff Dogs. Fletcher, very oddly in my opinion, fooking loves a hot dog and was like a pig in shit when Tom asked him whether he wanted one. Bemused I looked to my left to see Sarah in a telephone box and knew something more interesting awaited us, either that or they had ordered the world's largest hot dog and were calling for it to be winched in.

And interesting it was, a door opened to the side of the telephone box and we entered an old prohibition bar, very fucking cool. We ended up on a table by the toilet, this was both good and bad (n.b. there were 2 of excellent quality, as I said we were in a cool place).

BAD

- Some dickhead Aussie girl came and sat next to us, she was a right fucking pain and couldn't fuck off because she was waiting to use the toilet.

- We had people coming and going every few moments.

- More dickhead Aussies came and sat, bringing their shit banter.

I'd like to point out that I like Aussies, even if like rats you are only ever a few metres away from one, no matter where in the world you are. I found the root of this infestation, back on street level (we were underground) there was an Aussie pie shop with a flag flying - like an unofficial embassy.

GOOD

- Nobody could work out that the door was a sliding affair which meant that we got to bellow "it's a slider" in a hysterical drunken fashion to virtually every patron of the 'john'.

- Fletcher and I started to tell people that we were charging them $2 to use the toilet, that they were free to use it for as long as they liked but could they prepare 2 bucks on exiting the facilities. Hilarious you can imagine but it turned out not to be a money spinner.

- Somebody actually got stuck in the toilet, they forgot they had slid the door open and were now thrashing around like a cat in a box. Cue more yelling of "it's a slider" and manical laughing. This riled the bruiser inside as he thought we were playing a trick on him. Luckily he worked out we were being helpful before he ripped down the door but not before he had pathetically texted his wife to come and help rescue him.

Fletcher was beginning to rock under the weight of tiredness, all day boozing and now bourbon. He decided to try and exact some revenge for all the bitch slaps I gave him the night before by giving me dead inner knees, as you do. Having let him knobble one knee I pulled the other out of the way and he floored my freshly poured double amaretto and ice (I say ice, it was one singular massive cube, apparently somewhat of a signature for this place), tit.

After a replacement was drained we staggered off into the streets of New York, poor old Fletch thought we were bed bound but the poor little sod didn't know I had one more bar in me (Summit). To make it worse I needed to get the address from Tom's flat, so he even tasted safety before I dragged him back out. This though turned out to be a flawed plan, not long after we got out of the taxi and I was enjoying the first sips of an ice cold beer did I catch Fletch starting to drift off (obviously standing up). Actually I've just remembered, I knew it was a flawed plan as I walked down the street and Fletcher staggered behind repeatedly yelling at me to slap him to wake him up, "You were happy to slap me last night, why won't you slap me now? Slap me". I still resisted a bitch slap and tried to reason that all he had to do was wait until my beer was finished.

The barman cranked up the music, Fletcher began to sway from side to side, muttering that he just needed to find a beat to stay awake. Christ, I better drink this beer quickly I thought but actually the collapse came quicker than anticipated. Fletcher grabbed my shoulder, "we need to knock this on the head" he said, I looked at him and realised it was indeed home time and really only a matter of minutes having got out of a cab we were back in one.

We got home, had more drunken fun and games with the lock and then finally fell through the door. Fletcher avoided making the luggage his bed and passed out fully clothed, he didn't even have time to remove his jacket, he literally saw the sofa and let his body collapse - see the pic below and his hungover grinning face showing off his unique sleeping style.

A long day in NYC

So up early with the promise of fantastic coffee... No. 71, seconds from Tom's flat duly delivered, it was a very strong effort, almost as good as my all time fav on Beak St (London), Fernandez & Wells. Whilst collecting my coffee I spied a pot of marmite, I decided not to pass that opportunity up and ordered some with a plain bagel - this would have been belting were it not for the fact that you also need to request butter, I sadly didn't.

A stroll to Tom's office by Madison Park was followed by a long walk down Broadway purely undertaken to work up an appetite. Fletcher was en route from London and had demanded that we go for a burger on his arrival but that wasn't going to be until late afternoon so I needed to burn off some calories to deal with the guilt of effectively having 2 lunches. Lunch 1 took place at Friend of a Farmer, next door to No. 71, trying to keep things relatively light (tricky as they were offering hearty delights such as beef pie) I ordered a chicken wrap. Forgetting this was America, I naively thought that this would be a singular wrap - oh no, silly me, of course there were 2 wraps, strangely accompanied by green beans with garlic. Not a bad wrap although I would have preferred melted mozzarella rather than the cool lumps they wedged in. 

This I followed by a cig and another excellent cup of coffee from No. 71 before Fletcher arrived - not quite bushy tailed but then who the hell would be after enduring immigration hall, although apparently the fucker breezed through in no time. We hit the streets and I led him in totally the wrong direction - its a grid system, apparently you can't get lost, well I tested that theory. However, we rallied and made it to the Shake Shack. Apparently this place is so popular people queue for more than 2 hrs, Tom once phoned at 11.30am to order a takeaway and was informed he would have to wait until 6.30pm!

Luckily for us it was cold and about 3ish so there was only a short queue, the masses may also have been put off by the mentalist who decided to talk (shout) at Fletch and I as we munched on burgers and crinkle cut fries (obviously accompanied by a beer). He was cunning this nut job, to ensure he had our attention he gave us a copy of The Onion, we now owed him conversation. On hearing our accent we were asked if we were from Boston, no my dear boy we are not. Upon learning we were English we got asked questions such as whether we knew the Beatles; painful.

He launched into several monologues about how these were the best burgers in New York but that the beer was too expensive, he gets his own, no surprise his fav beer is over 7% and that he had already drunk his, I would imagine that was brekkie. He also suggested that the whole city produces better pizzas than England and that ones with Italian names such as James and Nick's (classical Italian names) would offer the very best.

All of this was accompanied by the crackle of his radio (playing some form of white noise probably to stop the corporations from enslaving him), a horrible laugh and constant asides about how he hated pigeons but not birds - we opted not to tell him that they pigeons also fell into this group he so admired. 

Finally there was a loose invitation to watch the ball game at his place in the Bronx, we loosely declined and buried ourselves in that copy of The Onion. Elated to have met such an excellent character (he was wonderfully fat, bald on top but with long hair on the sides, and squeezed into a Yankees t-shirt depicting the old stadium, reminding him of better days) it felt only right to start drinking in earnest.

We headed off to the Side Bar to watch some of the game with pitchers of beer. I'm not sure they could have crammed more widescreen tvs into the bar, it was impossible to focus as they were showing different matches, they also had a healthy surround sound system which really leapt into life everytime there was an ad break to leave you swaying. I opted to focus on the beer.

Side Bar was followed up by a trip to an apparent recent addition to NY, Lillies - an Irish Victorian bar (it wasn't going to be an English bar was it). Here the boozing began in earnest s we met up with Ryan, Erin, Mark and Faz - they were heartily reducing the bar's white wine reserves. After a few beers we exited to spruce up for more boozing, returning an hour or so later, the gang were still in place but livelier than before.

Going out for a ciggie, Fletch and I met a chap who pointed out by dragging us to the window to see for ourselves that he was the only black man in the bar - it seemed he was correct, we were less sure about his claim that he was originally Welsh. He also wanted to buy us drinks on his credit card, "the more I buy, the more sky miles I get" and debt I pointed out, he wasn't after my dose of reality and headed back inside.

More drinks followed and the lovely Sarah Pfau rocked up; upon bumping into me outside during yet another ciggie break she pointed out that I looked tired and cranky, there was another adjective, I can't remember what it was, hammered would have been apt. 

Fletcher started to flag, I slapped him about like he was my wife who had failed to get me some eggs. We then hit upon the idea of Espresso Martinis, a favourite, the staff didn't know what they were, I started bitching (with about 1 hrs sleep in 2 days I was getting horribly rude and obnoxious) and slating the staff, Fletcher took the superior tact of explaining what one was and filled with glee ordered far too many.

Pepped up with booze and a hint of coffee we went Meatpacking and hit Homestead, an excellent steak restaurant. I gave $20 to a waiter to get himself and I a pack of smokes, I helpfully hawked trade for the restaurant as I swayed outside, although the cover charge I was quoting for entry strangely kept people out. I also decided to give Ryan a lapdance, this wasn't met by approval, unbeknown to me I was actually in a family restaurant. I pointed out it was 11pm and I wasn't exactly tripping on Bugaboos. In between being an unruly drunken diner I did tuck into a sensational fillet served with a potato cake with a side of delicious creamed spinach. I thoroughly recommend a trip there.

Tiredness was really kicking in now (I'd slapped poor old Fletch hard at least a dozen times during the meal) but we weren't to be halted, oh no. We veered across the road to Pasteis, another lively spot. I tucked into G&Ts and much to my delight found we were in conversation with a gaggle of females but hang on a second, they were women, not lovely young New Yorkers but 40 yr olds from out of town who were talking about gardening. Time for a ciggie break, on my return, much to my dismay, I discovered that they were still talking about gardening.

I haven't come all the way to New York to talk about fucking gardening I ranted (on repeat). When finally asked what I did want to talk about I, slightly oddly, suggested anal sex. This was a no go but my insistence led to one of the oldies to flag up she was a nurse and we got to talk about which 'foreign objects' she had removed from patient's vaginas. People began to drift off, I treated Fletcher to a few more meaty slaps and then the group dispersed. I marched Fletcher off to Gaslight down the road for another drink, he was far from delighted. 

We bumbled around until I caught Fletcher sleeping standing up - a talent but not one known to gain positive reactions. Reluctantly I slapped him into the cold air outside and waited for a taxi, this brought him to his senses, slightly. He noticed the bar and suggested we went in, I pointed out in my finest Anglo Saxon that we had just left that bar and slapped him into a cab.

Amazingly we slurred the correct address and found ourselves outside of Tom's apartment, I had the key but I couldn't operate the simple mechanics in front of me. Sleeping boy had a crack, he failed and doubtless earned another slap or two. Finally when it looked like we would have to sleep in the corridor or wake the disabled person who lives next to Tom (well actually he probably was awake, terrified that some drunken burglars were in the building) the Gods smiled on us and I worked the lock (it really isn't too hard). Fletch fell through the door and decided our luggage was his bed for the night. I imagine this earned him a final bitch slap for the night before he made it to the sofa, obviously he didn't get in the sleeping bag he had lugged all the way from home.

I lay on the air bed, reading Max Tucker, wondering if sleep would ever wash over my shattered drunken carcass whilst listening to Mario, still stuck in the heating system, bang around with that wrench of his.

Pete's Tavern NYC Oct 09

Service is shite on American Airlines so I decided that I wouldn't entrust Delta to fly me to NYC to see Tommy G, oh no, I'll pay £20 extra for the French to take me. Once I confirmed my purchase I remembered that not so long ago one of their planes fell out of the sky on the way to New York - money well spent, I've given it to the garlic munchers who having pocketed it may now surrender me to the gods, bugger.

As it turned out the French were more cunning than I expected, they took the extra £20 and then put me on a Delta flight, they don't fly it themselves, probably too busy being on strike, blockading some road somewhere outside of Paris - 'bloody French' as the old man likes to mutter.

Anyway I got there, late - thanks to the ever miserable immigration hall - having endured some filthy food, I know I'm travelling cattle class but do I really have to be fed like I'm livestock? The taxi driver dropped me off in the cool (fooking freezing) New York air on 17th and Irving, home of Tom G and also Pete's Tavern. Rather than do something sensible like go to bed, we went to Pete's Tavern which apparently is one of the oldest pubs in town.

We minded our own biz, catching up and then the fun started; I went for a ciggie and was forced to talk to Chris, a dickhead and a hedge funder (double bubble). Surprisingly he failed to tell me if he was Irish or not, a rare slip on his behalf but he did take time to inform me that menthol cigarettes (he was smoking one before gladly taking one of my normal cigs) were only for black people and strippers, something I wasn't aware of.

I returned to the bar for more revelations as some drunk (I hope they were) people in their late 40s insisted in talking to Tom and I. 

Their opening gambit was to question whether we knew who President Regan is (technically was), we replied yes and that we also knew he was once an actor and, as an added bonus, if required we could also name other Presidents. 

Our mistake of course was to engage with these people as it apparently meant we wanted to listen to them suggest how Tony Blair had it right in wanting to flatten Saudi Arabia with bombs and turn it into beachfront properties - now whilst Tony had a few interesting ideas during his term in office I'm fairly certain this wasn't one of them. 

We were asked if we were Republicans, I suggested no, somehow this fired them up, we were asked if we had heard of Vets? We queried whether they meant war vets or animal vets, cue a speech about if it wasn't for them we'd be speaking German. Tom thanked them for helping the war effort so early in the piece rather than idly watching the Germans impose their language across Europe. Luckily one half of the foursome left and we were now stuck talking to the other couple but they seemed the gentler pair. 

However, after a few sweet moments about Donald's niece living in London (Slough actually but hey it's a small country) we discovered that this lawyer had some good chat on him too. "She's got foxes on one side of the house and Arabs on the other, hopefully the foxes will bite the Arabs", followed by manical laughing, oh dear Donald. I made a mental note that if I required legal assistance I would rather go solo than enlist the help of this chap.

Tom and I cut our losses and headed back to his flat for a night cap beer and then I made a futile attempt at sleeping, no matter how little I have (I only fell asleep on the plane a few mins before landing) it still doesn't help me get any more. Also, I'd like to point out that the sleeping effort wasn't assisted by the heating system in Tom's flat which sounds like Mario himself has been made prisoner in the vent and is banging his wrench until help arrives - it doesn't. 

On the go

It's been a fairly hectic time for YOP (your old pal) with interviews, stag dos and holidays.

Now one shouldn't divulge too much of what goes on during a stag do and I won't but I question whether I will ever again see men attempt to down a raw egg with the shell, willingly be smacked with an S&M paddle (with a love heart cut into it) and, in my case, spend so much in Spearmint Rhino whilst being unemployed - thank the lord for credit cards!

The stag do was in Birmingham; Broad St is sooo busy and The Walkabout is sooo sweaty and the new Travel Lodge there is hotter than the sun; I guess if you only pay £16 for a room then you can't expect to have air conditioning? Not sure I indulged in top culinary treats... Steak pie and chips from the chippy, chicken tikka kebab in naan at 3am and the dirtiest chicken and liquid cheese (I didn't know cheese came in oil form) burrito anybody has ever attempted to put together.

So from there I scooted off to Mallorca to try and recover. The plan was simple, a few cheap days in the sun whilst not drinking too much... well the sun part was fine but of course I spent far too much and deffo consumed too much booze - as I type this I feel like a swollen Iberian pig who has been fed an awful lot of acorns and is ready for the chorizo maker!

Captain Intensity joined me in Mallorca and was an excellent tourist, happy to lead me astray and happy to do whatever - normally I enjoy being back in London after a trip to the rock but on this occassion I would happily be still padding around the old town.

Having landed bloody late (thanks Trenty for staying up till 1am to be our taxi driver on a school night) we weren't able to catch last orders in the alchies bar round the corner from the flat although the staff were happy to let us stand like plums for 10 mins before informing us that no we couldn't have a little tipple.

Day 1 kicked off with a traditional brekkie at Bar Bosch which is one of the oldest cafes in the city. What is traditional there? It's ham, cheese and toasted bread - pretty much standard fare for brekkie and lunch everywhere on the rock, good luck trying to find an alternative. But that washed down with coffee and people watching is a delight.

We then waited till the midday sun was at its highest and embarked on a marathon walk, YOP in 37 degrees melted, it was a horror show, I think the waitress in Kaskai was terrified that I had sweated through my t-shirt. After that we tucked into lunch at the blue hotel before returning to the old town. For dinner Dan and I shared roast lamb and dauphinoise potatoes at the excellent new-ish French joint just off La Rambla. It was mired slighlty by the painfully loud American couple who we ended up talking to - I can assure you the bald guy wanted to film Dan and I fuck his wife, in fact that was probably the best case scenario. I'm probably never going to fly Delta Airlines if this is a good representation of their pilots.

We ran off into the night popping into Puro which promised air conditioning but delivered a Euro trash sweat fest and a Mojito bar which had awesome air conditioning as well as the amusing sight of a pair of deck hands launching themselves at 2 German girls - one was cute, the other not so much but that didn't bother these boys, they wanted to penetrate enemy lines regardless of the terrain.

From here we hit Garito where they served Dan a goldfish bowl of rum and coke and then Il Divino where I assumed the waitress was a hooker. I barked no when she enquired if she could take me to a table, moments later I realised my very vocal mistake. Embarassed I shuffled off to a table unassisted to watch a genuine hooker work her 'dark charms' on some Germans. Home about 4am after another monster walk, so much for the early night.

Day 2 began with brekkie at Cappucino next to the cathedral, a delightful spot for bacon and eggs and yet more people watching. An awful late lunch in a lovely square was followed by a mooch about toon and then a beer in another Cappucino branch - I think its my fav, built in a grand courtyard. That evening we hit a wicked little dining spot in Santa Catalina, think its called Dukes. It's run by some surfer dudes, "we rode the waves together, now we work together" and it's deffo worth checking out although I was bloody jealous of Dan and Trent choosing the teriyaki steak, my bbq pork ribs were tasty but not in the same league. We then went and geezered it up in Puerto Portals, dangerously young Essex birds fought for the attentions of coke snorting wide boys. Dan and I sippped rum and amaretto and pondered how different us middle class Surrey boys are until 3am - another early night!

Our final day encompassed a well earned lie in followed by a stroll down to Portixol - here we had old school paella at the 100 yr old Club Nautico which is a restaurant cum sailing youth club. Great spot but be warned locals will be served food hours before you are. Then we had coffee at the boutique Portixol hotel before giving Nassau €6.50 for a bloody bottle of water! I have to admit I loved the view and I would return just for that.

The evening saw another return to Santa Catalina and an Italian spot which banged out a franklu superb set of steaks on a hot stone with potatoes, rosemary and garlic - sensational, the seasoning making for a right meaty treat.

Then we staggered off to a bar Anna had promised the owner she would visit some time - it took about a nano-second to realise it was in fact a gay bar. However, somehow a debate began as to whether it really was, Trenty fired off an exasperated and very audible rant, "of course its a fucking gay bar, look at the 2 men behind the bar, the blue lighting, the massive disco ball, the 2 men sitting on thrones and the lack of lock on the toilet". This he repeated in various forms for several minutes... at the end we discovered the owner spoke perfect English and that Trent's 'review' would have been fully understood - that's the family charm. 3.30am finish - bugger (so to speak)!

So after that a roast lamb and red wine treat back in Blightly with the Carnivore Club (Nick and Gavin) at Nick's sensational new pad, complete with boy's room and gym, was in order. It was superb and the wine was cracking, thank you chaps, oh and thank you for introducing me to Tropic Thunder - great movie and how bloody funny is Tom Cruise?! Extraordinary I know but true.

Sliding Chairs

What did you do last night mate? I got bloody blind.

Looking back I guess it was inevtiable but I was surprised at the time. Kicked off at 3.45 with a pair of commercial ciders (no slice, have decided that isn't the way forward) with Edwin (good to see him sporting an excellent beard, makes him look more northern alpha male).

Then off to Century, I decided to walk from Green Park, foolish! I'm not sure I could have produced more sweat, I knew I was in a bad state and this was confirmed when I looked in the mirror to see that my shirt was saturated. Whilst the dress code is relaxed at Century I'm pretty sure that even the coolest of cats aren't sporting the saturated sweaty shirt look - not good, especially as there was a table of ladies next to me. They may have had looks of shock and awe but not in a positive way.

Anyway, Dermot treated me to 2 excellent bottles of white wine, some fat chips, mini pork belly and mash (very good) and some potatoes with cheese and bacon - always a winner! I was already under the gun at this point and then the Designator and GT arrived and more wine ensued, I finished as the Designator likes to say 'boxed'.

To top off the night I fell off my bloody chair - not due to the drink, obviously, but thanks to its design and a very slippery floor on the roof garden, honestly. My flying chair almost wiped out some media luvvie too.

I staggered into the night thinking I would take the tube and train home, that resolve lasted 3 paces before I fell into a taxi struggling to stay awake.

The day had started on a healthy note, Dorset Cereals (cranberry version) and cod with peas and bacon for lunch. I guess the evening part shows why I never got close to losing 2 stone but at least I have drunken fun.

Starting again

Ok so I've got plenty of time on my hands so its time to start another food blog.

Last time I think I said I wanted to lose 2 stone but without cutting back on my lifestyle... well that didn't bloody work!

I did lose half a stone but I've been stuck there forever, I can only assume its because of the iron I pump but the reality is likely to be my refusal to change lifestyle.

This time around coincides with not having a job so I can't promise I'm gonna thrill you with tales of the finest restaurants and the best ingredients but at the same time I'm unlikely to be on the economy range, not even Waitrose Essentials.

So we kick off with today... lunch at The Plum Spot opposite the Riverside Studios, Legger was kind enough to pick up the tab (thanking you old boy) and I tucked into a club salad. Tasty although they could have tossed the shredded chicken and made the bacon crispy.

This was followed by the gym - so far, so healthy. However, I snuck off to The Ship with Wang, apparently I haven't seen him for 2 yrs, amazing and yes terrified by the sands of time going so quickly. He had lemonade, I had commercial cider (Bulmers) over ice and, my new fancy, a slice of lemon... not so good as on Saturday, perhaps you need the bitter taste of the Liiiiiiiiiiiiiions losing to the filthy Boks to make that slice a welcome addition. Anyway, imbibed 3 of those, needed to check if the slice would be good or not, gave Big Suze of Peep Show a solid once over (not a Ship regular but a welcome addition) and headed back to the flat.

Had to pop out to get some parsley and bumped into a fellow resident, Claire, and decided another crack at the slice with ice was the way forward. It also seemed prudent to have some chips (oh had some McCoys Thai Sweet Chicken prior to that, think I let Wang have 2 crisps), overly cooked but given I was well into pint 4, an absolute treat.

Whilst I didn't wobble back I wasn't 100% street legal, anyway fired up a Bill Granger number - I bloody love him but does he have to be quite so camp and smug with it - "Yeah champ I look gay but check out my great cooking, lifestyle and amazing wife and kids"... but he recommends a midweek spaghetti and cod. I was strangely excited by this, even though I was parsley light (not because I'd had too much commercial cider to remember to buy it but because Hudsons were only offering basil and oregano - hopeless).

Wine, butter, garlic and chilli is always a great base and I cooked it with relish... however, it didn't quite hit the mark - surely it wasn't the lack of parsley? I reckon more wine, garlic and seasoning.

Anyway, apologies for a slightly dull return to the blog, tomorrow sees beers at Century - I've realised I am sick 99% of the time if I have cocktails there so it could prove more interesting.