Showing posts with label Italian. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Italian. Show all posts

Sunday, 23 February 2014

Amici Miei - Shoreditch, London


I had Italian lessons once. Perhaps not helped by my copy of the textbook being twenty years out-of-date - Steffi Graf and Pavarotti having been replaced by David Beckham and Rihanna in the game 'Name the celebrity' - I learnt piacere, and that's all. Buying Crocodile Dundee on DVD would have been better value. Luckily, I'm well practiced in the technique of pointing like a monkey at the food I'd like to eat. And regardless of what the constantly winking waitress thought, I wasn't on a date, even if the girl in question does have form for leaving me waiting in restaurants like a stood-up singleton. This time she was ten minutes late. More fuel to the fire of revenge. I've decided on a speedboat through her wedding cake. James Bond style.

Amici Miei on Kingsland Road was where I sat alone. I ordered myself a glass of pin-ot grig-ee-o and decided on a delis-ater pizza. Pronunciation, perfect. This is not the place to sit alone. A small sea of tables for two, candles twinkling, with barely enough light for an Instagram shot and a large glass window exposes diners to the street outside. For the single man, there is nowhere to hide. People pass and gawp, their expressions cracked with sympathy for the lone zoo animal. I point like a monkey, eat like a monkey, and look like one devoid of any companionship too. She's in big trouble. That speedboat is going to take out the altar, vicar, groom, and the father of the bride.

Pregnant style cravings have seen me wolf-down pizzas galore across the capital in the past month. Amici Miei rates highly amongst those. Crispy base, ample mushrooms, and for a pizza with no tomato (my fault for not checking the small print), not too dry. The night was all about the pudding though. Perhaps not sweet enough for my childish tastes, but the polenta cake with custard was a properly good pudding, one that a monkey like me can dig at with a spoon and not feel the least bit conscious about. Custard dribbling down my chin and the second spoon stolen to prevent her from joining in, the waitress shook her head as she cleared the clean bowl away. This would have been one date not progressing to a second. It's fine, I'll find a girl who isn't late and come back again.

Sunday, 13 January 2013

Branca - Oxford


When I'm old and have little more to do than dress and ride the bus for free from 9.00am, my dream - the dream - is to own a restaurant. Not a restaurant to be involved in and not a restaurant aiming for Michelin level food. One that I can shuffle to every day for lunch, sit in my corner, and wait until closing.

It's an Italian stereotype - the old man alone at the lone table sipping wine, beer, coffee, or hovering a spoon above cold soup. He's never going to move and no-one is ever going to take his place. Why? Because he's the owner.

And if I had to choose that restaurant today, it would be Branca
In the heart of Oxford's fashionable Jericho, Branca serves the sort of food I could eat everyday and the sort of cocktails I could drink every minute. We last visited the week before Christmas, when they were  setting the place for multiple Christmas parties. Managing to negotiate the use of a table for a short time, we shared a starter of antipasti, then liver and lamb mains. The lamb was slightly too rich, served with potatoes dauphinoise and a syrup like gravy - I was glad the starter had been light. There was also confusion around the greens. Spinach, chili and garlic were said to be the only thing available, before the lamb was then presented with broccoli. Perhaps they knew this sweet dinner needed an additional green balance.

No pudding or coffee as the coin in the tables metre had expired. Probably a good thing as I was sorely tempted by another mango caipirinha.