On Friday night, my baby sister joined me for a girls night. She has to drive from outer Mongolia to get to us from where she works, so by the time she arrived for dinner I’d already eaten two-thirds of my own body weight in nibbles, snacks and downright carbs.
So, after a quick call to Mum to point out that although her babies don’t live at home anymore, they still meet up and admit to being related, we choose tapas for dinner.
It had nothing to do with the fact that the restaurant that you reach first when you walk out of my flat and onto the main road, serves wine and Spanish-style nibbles.
Luckily, the closest bar to our home is really, really good. I always think unsolicited food reviews can be a bit lame reading, but this place was so good I’m trying to persuade my husband that we should go next Friday night. Garlic bread comes in piping hot parchment paper; chorizo and new potatoes are the right kind of spicy; green salad is exactly what is says it is; and we worked out how to share a great beef fajitas plate. The leopard print stools at our low coffee table were a little random, but the low leather sofa was perfect for picking at a choice of plates. The staff made me realize that blanket criticizing the British service industry is as unfair as saying that you never get bad service in the States, as they were quick, friendly, and helpful.
And there’s the lame food review I wasn’t going to write. I could also write a lame movie review, but then I’d have to tell you that we were home by ten pm and my younger sister was crying at a chick flick by ten past. And that wouldn’t be sisterly.
Leave a comment