Wilks, Redland, Bristol
On July 30, 2014 by The Plate Licked CleanSome shoes are harder to fill than others. You might not want to be the man to replace Christian Bale as Batman, but you might fancy your chances of improving on Steve McLaren’s record as England manager. In any walk of life it’s a gamble, but sometimes the cards fall kindly. In the case of
In Praise of Pork: bacon
On July 15, 2014 by The Plate Licked CleanAn 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
Pizza Pronto, Penarth
On July 13, 2014 by The Plate Licked CleanOld 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
‘Pinchos morunos’- Spanish pork skewers
On July 7, 2014 by The Plate Licked CleanIf 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
Pieminister, St Mary St, Cardiff
On May 28, 2014 by The Plate Licked CleanWARNING. 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
Sense and Memory, Family and Food
On May 18, 2014 by The Plate Licked CleanThe 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
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.