An occasional series of short pieces in praise of sus scrofa domesticus. The humble pig. A song to the swine, that most delicious and versatile of beasts. Ironically, my personal meaty nirvana isn’t porky- that honour probably goes to a kilo of bone-in ribeye of beef shared with a best friend, with lashings of seductively Read More
Old Monsieur Charles-Guillaume Etienne is apparently the man we have to thank for coining the maxim, On n’est jamais servi si bien que par soi-même. (Here he goes again, comes the collective groan) Bear with me. I mention M. Whatsisname because those words have come to us, not literally but certainly in spirit, as the adage: ‘If Read More
If there’s one European cuisine that knows its way around every part of the pig, it’s Spanish. Chorizo. Jamón. Morcilla. Lomo. Cocido. Butifarra. Chistorra. Cochinillo. The list goes on. After all, it was Andalucia, not Aberdeen or Amsterdam, which coined the phrase ‘you only part of a pig you can’t eat is its squeal’. But Read More
WARNING. If you are hate gangster films, or meat, or terrifyingly grim puns- this post isn’t for you. No hard feelings. Don’t say you weren’t warned, though. You know the scene. Mob boss Leo (the greatr Albert Finney), settled in for the night, newspaper draped over his midriff as he enjoys a late cigar, lies Read More
The brain’s a funny old thing. Absolute catnip to your shuffling zombie of course, though these days the ponderous, twitching gait is now no longer the undead’s sole locomotion of choice. Today’s voguish cadavers have a turn of speed which would shame an athlete. For what it’s worth, I’m in the Romero camp. But the Read More
The pig gets a bad press, doesn’t it? It’s shorthand for personal slovenliness, for indiscriminate gluttony. Its flesh is denied to hundreds of millions by religious prohibition. They don’t even escape in literature. From Homer to Orwell, they are despotic political manipulators or brutish victims, the result of Circe’s enchantments and a vivid symbol of Read More
This blog is a very simple thing.
I won’t try to sell you any hand lotion, exercise programmes, coffee syrups or Patagonian nose flutes. You won’t find tips on dating, ‘wellness’ or yoga mats.
I write because I love it (and food, as indicated by my increasing girth). Greed happens to be my Deadly Sin of choice, but at least it is never shy of providing me with subject matter.
A simple thing, then: all you get is me wittering on semi-coherently about places I’ve eaten at; hence a ‘restaurant blog’ rather than a ‘food blog’, although there are a few recipes scattered throughout.
From mezze to Michelin ‘fine dining’ and all points in between.