Tag Archives: food

Idle Eye 70 : The 70s

Posted on by
10

Good Lord! Have a look at the mast there. Turns out we’ve managed to get through seventy (SEVEN OH) versions of this literary piffle together. And it got me to thinking, as it does when you’re running out of ideas, that just maybe it would be a bit of fun to do a quick post about…wait for it…the 1970s. Obviously I will have to tie this concept in with the pub, but between you & me I think I can swing it: I’ll just say something about the price of a pint back then (probably about 50p), then have a good old moan about inflation, the Tories and the grand old summer of 76, when you could fry an egg on the pavement and Terry Scott (off Terry and June) pushed me into the swimming pool with his face covered in meringue and scared the living shit out of me for the rest of my years. It’s a long shot, but I think Nibs will run with it ‘cos he’s good like that.

It’s funny. I was having an ale with me ‘ole mate Donald (off Julian Cope) just now, asking him which peeps he remembered most from that time. And both of us came up with pretty much all of the Yewtree candidates. Admittedly we’re both diehard musos, and our reference points were probably the DJ’s that allowed us a path to the songs that would change our lives forever (currently residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure). But even as a soft as shite, lily-livered Southern pansy, I still recall the blackouts when Nibs & I helped our mom dig about in the pantry for the Prices candle multipack as our stepfather crawled the walls upstairs, hurling abuse and worse at the Three Day Week whilst simultaneously sorting the eight track cartridges for his three hour journey in the Jensen the following morning: Walker Brothers, followed by Shirley Bassey, followed by Cleo Laine. And, if we were lucky, we’d get a pound to spend in his absence, half of which usually went on a chart-topper of choice and the other on premium smack, straight off the boats. Innocent times, innocent times…

But no other consumable can define the zeitgeist like a chocolate bar. Mars, Galaxy, Milky Way were just entry-level stellar signposts to the hard stuff. From here we got the Texan bar (sure was a mighty chew), and for misogynist hardcore chocoholics there was always the Yorkie, marketed at the Surrey stockbroker craving a bit of rough via the long-haul trucker. And let us not forget the aftershaves: Hi Karate, Old Spice, Blue Stratos, Bay Rhum, all of which I had purchased long before the fluff came, and the illusion that a socially backward pre-teen actually had a chance with a pneumatic bikini-clad babe had been shattered for good. But never mind that, I still had the lovely Farrah. Always Farrah. Isn’t that right, Charlie?

Idle Eye 69 : The Hole Truth

Posted on by
2

I love a chilli, me. By this, I do not mean your entry level, piss-weak hot sauce nonsense that supposedly compliments your meal. Let me make this clear: My meal does not need complimenting. If you could only see it from where you’re reading now you’d understand why. What my meal actually needs is some full-tilt Chernobyl fallout if it wants to be taken seriously in this neck of the woods. Proper, blow your doors off action. And, to be frank, if it fails to deliver on this front, it’s gonna end up in the green bin. I’m sorry, I’ve tried to be all sensitive and that when I get hand-peeled aubergine and cauliflower baked in eco-friendly chain oil with a hint of lime, but hinting is utterly pointless if you want to be considered a player on the main stage: Thatcher/Ferguson/Bowie/Matthews/Laker. Need I say more?

With this in mind, I opted to sample the Idle Hour curry offerings last night. The £10 multi-deal sounded pretty good, but after a couple of Harveys I wanted my cage to be seriously rattled and my guts begging for mercy. I was not disappointed, but this was largely down to my Auntie Valerie lobbing her Scotch Bonnet at me after wiping it clean of Trinidadian goat remnants. Now, don’t get out of your collective prams: I’m not saying my meal didn’t deliver. It certainly did, but as a vegetarian I wasn’t able to go Trinidadian for that extra Scoville mile. I settled for the Thai, probably more than adequate for you lightweights, but lacking the endorphin rush I have come to consider as standard. Somewhere deep within I know this is a bit warped, but you can’t fight the facts: I am what God made me and I am beautiful, no matter what you say.

Now, for those of you not up to speed yet, Nibs is no stranger to the hole strewth any more than I am. He was my sole witness at a swirly-carpet job in Horsham back in the ’80’s, when the entire restaurant staff watched us consume a lamb phall through the kitchen porthole. It was he that introduced me to Dave’s Insanity Sauce that actually had excruciating on its sliding scale of endurance. And it was he that suggested last night that I may not be able to handle it any more. That, perhaps, I should consider winding it all down a tad:

Take it easy. Dude, you’ve eaten the hottest. Maybe it’s time for you to hand over the baton. Think about your future. Maybe move outta town, raise some kids. This kinda shit is for the rookies, Bro. You the Daddy, you got nothing to prove…

He’s right, of course: I need to wind my neck in. But there’s always another youngster out there and I must do my bit. It hurts though. God, it hurts.

Idle Eye 46 : The Last Good Day of the Year

Posted on by
Reply

I was listening to Radio 4 on Saturday morning (as one does) and this lady came on who had been struck temporarily blind. Oh no! But then she went on about how she had reassessed her life and realised it had been peppered with relentless negativity, and from that moment on she vetoed any such sentiments which in turn improved the quality of her everyday life immeasurably. Anyway, I turned it off ‘cos I was late for the Barnes Food Fair, in which Nibs had a stall doing spectacular Bloody Marys I badly needed to assess for this ‘ere blog and ran out to get the train. Cancelled. Engineering works. But before I did my usual Ian Dury (****holes, bastards, ****ing ***** and pr**ks) I thought of that woman, lifted my head up high & took the replacement bus with pride. Good on ‘em, I thought, for actually bothering to replace the entire train with a bus: Good on ‘em.

And when I got to Barnes Common two hours later, no small thanks to weekend traffic and an unfortunate iOS6 maps error, I was determined to keep this up. The sun was out, small boys were kicking a ball about (jumpers for goalposts) and everything was heading up to be a Breugel-tastic, culinary lovefest. Even a Volvo passenger opening her door into my smalls did not manage to dampen my ardour (although I did get the temporary blindness). ‘Oh yes, life is good’ I thought, after sampling several pints of the red stuff which, in turn, led me to the real ale stall where I discovered Tactical Nuclear Penguin, a 32% beauty I saw no reason not to obtain for the very reasonable sum of £45. Which, in turn, made the Barbers’ Shop singers sound so angelical I was compelled to enjoy a large Pimms in sheer admiration which, in turn, made me purchase a rather delightful fishermans’ winkle box for Ursula despite my misgivings as to its authenticity.

You see, what the R4 lady left out, and this is the salient point, is that you don’t need a life-changing event to make every day of your life the last good day of the year. What you actually need is an arsenal of high-quality booze and the ability to set aside the cold front of cynicism for the sunnier climes of La Dolce Vita. And the former aids the latter, trust me. Now, I know Nibs will be wanting me to big up his efforts right here in the last paragraph but there’s no need. Really. You all ate those award-winning burgers, drank the BM’s and had a great time. And you know what? As I struggled to focus on Nick Clegg’s apology in the freesheets strewn about on the tube home and I listened to that viral tune drawn from the very same, I felt really good for the first time in ages. Shortly before taking a very long ride on the porcelain bus…

Idle Eye 41 : The Face-Off

Posted on by
4

Anyone who has ever attempted the dark art of writing to a 500 word count will implicitly understand what a taut organ it has to be. One sentence, a word even, can throw the balance of the piece so completely off-kilter it has to be dramatically re-approached, and punctuation (don’t get me started on punctuation) must ripple through the paragraphs like miniscule unseen roadsigns, steering the reader towards the inevitable. So imagine my dismay when I got the call from Idle HQ after I had mentally constructed an hilarious appraisal of our countryside:

Nibs : I know you’ve already done this, but I’m gonna need a big up on Britain’s Favourite Burger this week. Keeps it fresh in their minds.

Me : But I’m doing the country. It’s a corker, trust me.

Nibs : Fine, do the country by all means but just stick in a few words about the burger thing. Why not say I got a bronze? It’s topical & you can put that in the keywords if LOGOG will let you.

Me : You don’t get it. I can’t just bung in stuff about burgers. It doesn’t work.

Nibs : Well, make it work then. Cows come from the country, right? There, you can have that one on me.

Me : It’s not that simple, bro. You can’t just stick in a few words. Writing this blog isn’t just bunging in stuff about burgers. It’s a craft! I think about how it all fits together for days and when I know it’s right, I get it all down. I wouldn’t tell you how to cook one of your specials, would I? Yeah, just bung in a few bits & bobs from the fridge? Jesus H!!! I have my art and you have yours. Now let me get on with it.

Nibs : Stop being a dick. I just want you to say I came third in the burger competition. Bloody hell, get over yourself!

Me : It compromises the whole thing, man! Every piece I write is linear, right? There’s a start, I piddle about with it in the middle and then go in for the kill at the end. And it works like that every week which is why people like it. The comfort of familiarity via comedy of repetition. It’s a tried and tested formula that you can’t screw about with. So if I suddenly bring in burgers it loses its entire thrust. Something would have to give and there’s no fat to fry.

Nibs : You just said it, right there. No fat to fry! Now stick that in the blog & stop being so bloody precious! Jeez, anyone would think I was employing Coren.

Me : Ok bro, we’ll play it your way, shall we? Not a problem! Right, let’s kick off with the classic urban take on our impoverished rural cousins. Except they’re not, are they? Impoverished, that is. Down in that Chipping Norton they’re all stinking, right? Enjoying BRITAIN’S THIRD FAVOURITE BURGER while Rebekah gets her

Idle Eye 39 : The Lon*** 2**2 Ol**pi*s™

Posted on by
11

Alright now, that’s enough. ENOUGH! The sinister orgy of branding masquerading as the Lon*** 2**2 Ol**pi*s™ has slapped me in the face one too many times and I have just hit my Michael Douglas in Falling Down moment. I tried to be good, I really did. Over the past few months I have learned to shore up my chakras when it came to vile mascots We**ock™ and Ma***ville™, to shrug off the utter chaos on the roads, to smile encouragingly at hapless joggers bouncing their way towards an early grave, even casting an inquisitive glance at the bizarre structures rising up around the Mall and St James’ Park which I pass every day. The risible logo no longer reminds me of Lisa Simpson giving head and I drew some not inconsiderable mirth from the G4S fiasco. All in all I have been coping pretty well. Thanks for asking.

However, (and here’s the rub), I draw a line at ‘restricted words’. Actually, screw it, I draw a line at the insane paranoia the big four ****ors™ have created, protecting their already saturated global coverage from small butchers shops in Dorset that presumed to arrange a string of sausages in the shape of the Ol**pi*c™ ri*gs™. And when it comes to the biggest of the lot, M*Dona**s™, you have to ask yourselves what exactly they so badly need protection from. It sure ain’t the public, because around every corner you turn, there invariably lurks a statistically obese brand fan squelching down on yet another B*g™ Ma*™ in flagrant denial of their forthcoming trip to the nearest NHS ticker unit. Perhaps, just perhaps, the brutal truth lies somewhere in the exclusion of competition:

If we just get rid of all the other players, maybe the gullible public will actually think our burgers are halfway decent. Because, God forbid, if they cottoned onto the fact that there are thousands of less corporate ways of enjoying wholesome food, (Mondays at the Idle Hour, for instance) they might, actually, stop buying ours. And we can’t have that.

The Lon*** 2**2 Ol**pi*cs™ will be ring-fenced alright, but not to keep out the suicide bombers, the ‘quiet loners’, the snipers, the deranged clerics or Black September. Not this time. Neither will it give much credence to the athletes who will have waited all their lives for those glorious few seconds of competition. Oh no. These gam*s™ are all about keeping the suits happy at the not inconsiderable expense of the general public. And no amount of monocular furry mascots can detract from that. Yes, it would be wonderful to have a level playing field where we could all choose what we ate and drank as we cheered on our respective nations. But dream on, my friends, dream on. And welcome to Britain, 2**2™…

Idle Eye 38 : The Treat You Can Eat Between Meals

Posted on by
2

I have an old school chum, Dicky Woollard, who used to be a crisp wunderkind. He was the man behind all those flavours that, once they hit your tongue, you would instinctively purr ‘Oooh! Sausage and Beans!’ to a select tasting committee responsible for sourcing and funding exciting new avenues in the potato chip arena. This he achieved by pioneering an extraordinarily cost-effective method of seasoning the naked crisp as it emerged from the frier, gasping and pathetically porous, by squirting it with a powerful concentrate that clung to its quarry like a Murdoch to News International. This did away with the necessity to enhance pre-dunk, which unfortunately nuked off many of those MSGs so vital to one’s cognitive responses, and thereby required quantity to Dicky’s quality. In short, he was the Thomas Edison of snacks and, to my mind, one of the unsung culinary heroes of our time.

There’s not much not to like about the humble crisp. For starters, there’s very little actual substance in a bag of ‘em, truly making it the treat you can eat between meals. Furthermore, never before in the history of food has simplicity been made so ruthlessly efficient. Within seconds you can be enjoying a full English breakfast, a Thai jungle curry or an exotic hint of the Orient, all of which have been made possible by a swollen tuber that spends the best part of its useful months underground. A bit like Rocky 2 without the violence or monosyllabic dialogue.

Publicans have long courted the allure of our coated cousins because a), they cost next to nothing and b), the salt count is so astronomically high that it is not physically possible not to order more drinks after a bag or two. Inexpensive business acumen, just ask Nibs. And whilst they face fierce competition from the likes of the nut and, new kid on the block, the savory popcorn, these babies have stood the test of time and have no intention whatsoever of being consigned to the dustbin of yesteryear. Find me a boozer that shuns the crisp and I will show you a liar.

Anyway, I think we’re missing a trick here, and by this I do not mean to tinker in any way with the Godlike precedent set by young Dicky back in the day. No siree. It’s just, well, it’s just the bloody names, innit? If we are living through a time in which a potato can become pretty much anything you like, why draw a halt at cheese and onion or BBQ beef? Dare to be different, people! Let’s have Despair flavour. Naïve Optimism flavour. Kierkegaard’n’Chive. Taxplan’n’Tuna. Or how about New Olympic flavour (as used by Chris Hoy) in an empty packet? See? Teen Spirit. Hospital Corners. John Prescott Scratchings. There are no boundaries other than the walls of your imagination. Now, do your bit: I look forward to further suggestions in the comments section…

Idle Eye 31 : The Third Best of All Possible Burgers

Posted on by
2

I know what you’re thinking: He’s slipped a day, either Bank Holiday excess or Morris dancing. Well, this time it’s neither, and I refer the discerning reader to last weeks entry for clues. Yes, my good ole ISP surpassed itself this weekend, giving me speeds of 0.01mb/s which rendered the internet unusable for the duration. So, let’s waste no more time & get on with the naming & shaming. It’s Virgin Media. That’s VIRGIN MEDIA. Please, if you’re out there & can help yet another screwed-over punter, pop your advice in the comments section (including ultra-violent stuff, don’t spare the rod) and I will buy you a beer. I mean it. Rant over.

Deep breath…

Now, as some of you may already know, Nibs’s award-winning burgers won another award last week. EBLEX, or, to the acronym-phobic the English Beef and Lamb Executive, dole out annual gongs to anyone with the balls to compete against the mighty purveyors of sport-inducing fast food. It is a fiercely contested event with several thousand entries but once again the IH (sorry, Idle Hour) knocked them all into a cocked hat. All but two, that is. So that’s a big bronze for SW13 (South West Thirteen) and diddly squit for the rest of London. Telling, seeing as we are swamped with sleb chefs and the like, and all the more weird for you to have this news delivered by a vegetarian. Them’s the breaks.

I did have visions of being invited (in a reportage capacity, natch) to an opulent, velvet-lined ceremony, a sort of low-rent Oscars perhaps, somewhere in Piccadilly where penguin men and their peacock other halves would chat sotto voce about the state of farming in the UK and the latest must-have ingredient that’s simply divine. I saw Nibs shaking hands with Wossy and, after a short, heartfelt speech during which he fought unsuccessfully to choke back tears, he clasped a 3x actual-size engraved bronze hamburger to his chest with one hand and punched the sky with the other. All to rapturous applause and a 1970’s sound library string section. And as he made his way through the crowd to the bosom of his loved ones, Terry Wogan took the mic from Jonathan and made a shit joke about cows, methane and the third best of all possible burgers. Like he would.

Sadly, this star-spangled fantasy was exactly that. I never got to wear the suit, to weep in the aisles, to shoulder up vicariously to the movers and shakers in the world of burgers. However, as I shimmied into IH Barnes on Sunday with a group of friends clearly impressed by the Bloody Marys, I did feel the need to point out a certain certificate, resplendent in its faux-mahogany frame, and bask in an element of reflected glory. Life is a cabaret, old chum. And I love a cabaret.

Idle Eye 28 : The Sting

Posted on by
3

Mrs Sting : Is that the Idle Hour?

Barstaff : It certainly is. How can I help?

Mrs Sting : It’s Mrs Sting here. You know, the other half.

Barstaff : Hello Mrs Sting. Would you like to book a table?

Mrs Sting : No, not exactly. But I could use your help. It’s a somewhat delicate matter.

Barstaff : It’s not the, er, tantric business again, is it?

Mrs Sting : I’m afraid it is. And he’s getting worse. I haven’t slept in over a week and I was rather hoping you could recommend something to dampen his ardour, so to speak.

Barstaff : Of course. Well, the organic chicken thighs washed down with one of our biodynamic reds should do the trick. Mr & Mrs Meatloaf were in over Bank Holiday and they had to be airlifted home afterwards.

Mrs Sting : I don’t think so. Any mention of thighs and he’ll be at it like a rat up a drainpipe. No, I was thinking of something a little more sedative perhaps?

Barstaff : How about our Stroh 80% volume Austrian rum? Pop a couple of shots in his coffee when he’s out pointing Percy and he won’t be bothering you for quite some time, I should coco.

Mrs Sting : Been there. He bought a case back after the last European tour and whipped through it like lemonade. Gave a whole new meaning to Viennese Whirl, mind.

Barstaff : Hmmm, difficult one. How’s the book going, by the way?

Mrs Sting : That’s precisely the problem! I don’t have five seconds to myself anymore. The minute I sit down at the computer he gets all hot under the collar and chases me round the mansion like in The Secretary. I’m only on the preface and I’m exhausted already.

Barstaff : Can I make another suggestion?

Mrs Sting : Please do. I’m at my wits end.

Barstaff : It’s a long shot but it might have legs. I’ve been working here for a while now and when we get stragglers at the end of a shift, Nibs hops onto the acoustic and anaesthetises them with his astonishing rendition of ‘Wonderwall’. Works every time, trust me.

Mrs Sting : Perfect! I’ll get the chopper out.

Barstaff : Isn’t that what we’re trying to avoid, Mrs Sting?

Mrs Sting : No, I mean I’ll bring him over tonight. Book me a table for two by the traps.

Barstaff : Slight problem. Mr & Mrs Bono have already reserved the traps table. Popular one with the Live Aid lot, it seems.

Mrs Sting : Listen, I want that table. Do what you have to, ok? If it helps, I’ll do a book reading in your bloody pub when I’ve done it. Got that? Good. And clear a space in the garden for the chopper. I mean, the helicopter.

Mrs Sting will be reading excerpts from her frank autobiography ‘One Swallow Does Not a Sumner Make’ in the Idle Hour Rest Rooms when she has written it. All rights reserved © 2012 EyeBooks UK, including the made-up bits. Especially them.

Idle Eye 25 : The Bogs

Posted on by
Reply

It seems that finally, unexpectedly and mercifully, the good weather landed last weekend. And what better way for yours truly to spend it than to head over to Idle Hour Barnes and enjoy a few sherbets on the roof with my younger and lesser sibling. And when we weren’t taking apart the relentless attack on pubs by successive governments, he showed me the plans for the soon-to-be extension which will double the covers and annihilate those wretched lavatories. So, more of you will get in for Burger Monday but less of you will be able to ‘create room’ unless you bring a bag or get creative.

Now, the relationship between ‘what goes in’ and ‘what comes out’ has long been a bugbear for those in the hospitality industries. The latter demands significant landmass by law and yet yields next to nothing in return (when I say ‘next to nothing’, I mean, of course, nothing of salient value. Don’t make me spell this out.) The former, on the other hand, is the meat and potatoes of profit and loss which, at some point in the proceedings, ends up with the latter.

So what’s to do? When margins are tight, where would you compromise? A dilemma one of our most loved TV personalities is probably not experiencing right now:

Housekeeper : Mr Cowell, I think there’s someone in the conveniences.

Simon Cowell : Never mind that now, I’m on the telly.

Housekeeper : No, really. I think there’s someone up there. Will I ring the Police?

Simon Cowell : Yes, of cour… Er, no, actually. Leave this with me.

Housekeeper : Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.

Simon Cowell : Max! My Man! Slight snag. Apparently there’s someone upstairs trying to break into one of the traps. Could you give me my position on this one?

Max Clifford : Armed intruder or crazed fan?

Simon Cowell : Crazed fan, I think.

Max Clifford : I see. Ok, Simon, don’t panic. Would you say it was like something in a horror film?

Simon Cowell : Yes, Max, I would.

Max Clifford : Excellent! Sure they’re not armed?

Simon Cowell : To be honest, I haven’t checked.

Max Clifford : No need. Probably a chick with a brick. In one of your least profitable rooms. I’d turn in if I were you.

Simon Cowell : Thanks, Max.

Max Clifford : Don’t mention it. Goodnight.

I was, of course, making out that Nibs isn’t going to provide somewhere for you to ‘drop the kids off’ for comic effect. It’s part of my weekly remit. To make you laugh but keep it topical. And you have my word: The Porcelain Bus will simply be relocated, not removed. Unless it contains a crazed fan with a brick, in which case he will put in a swift call to Max and leave the rest to the bizarre powers of tabloid journalism. But I very much doubt it will come to that. Or will it?

Idle Eye 24 : The Coren Nation (In Search of Giles)

Posted on by
Reply

Just off the blower from a feisty chat with our Nibs as per:

Nibs: I’ve got a subject for the blog.

Me: I’m halfway through one already. But thanks anyway.

Nibs: No, I really need you to put this in. Half the ****ers who booked for Mothers Day never showed and we were fully booked for a month previous. I’ve turned away over 200 potential punters and we still lost out. I’m livid. And if you ask them for a credit card they get on the horse. Now, make that funny.

Me: Well, bro, it’s not.

Nibs: I KNOW it’s not. That’s what I pay you to do.

Me: Hang on a moment. I’ve just spent twenty valuable minutes writing about how we track down Giles Coren using hunting as a metaphor, given it an hilarious punning title that includes his surname for search engine purposes, I’m balls deep in attempting to link you two bastards together and now you want me to bin the entire thing because you lost out on a few quid?

Nibs: Something like that, yeah.

Me: Ok. Maybe we could shoehorn the two together, something along the lines of Giles finding the blog because all writers google themselves and then feeling your pain about blowing out bookings as the main thrust.

Nibs: He wrote about exactly that in the Times on saturday.

Me: He what?

Nibs: Exactly the same. In his restaurant review. Check out the website.

Me: Perfect! I’ll start now.

Nibs: Tread carefully with Coren, though. I don’t want you buggering up any chance of a review just because you feel like taking the piss.

Me: I hear you, bro. But he’s no fool. I think he’d sniff out any whiff of sycophancy a mile off. Far better to have him riled than for him to think you’re fawning. Trust me on this.

Nibs: I’ll leave it in your hands. But what’s the title?

Me: I thought The Coren Nation was quite sassy.

Nibs: Yeah, I quite like it. But I’m not sure about the Nation bit. What’s the post got to do with the rest of the country?

Me: That’s not the point. It gets in Giles, and there’s a certain gravitas to it, particularly as it’s the Diamond Jubilee’n’all.

Nibs: What about ‘I Can See Four Giles’?

Me: Don’t think he wears glasses, bro.

Nibs: Well put something in brackets after, then. If you don’t like it you can always say it was my idea anyway.

Me: Ok. I’ll think of something.

Nibs: Call me back when you’re done. We’re fully booked again and I want to be sure the buggers actually show. Quite like ‘I Can See Four Giles’: Think you should use it.

Me: Done deal, bro. If you’re up to the wall can I post it anyway?

Nibs: Just promise me you’ll use the title.

Me: Sure.

Nibs: Thanks. It means a lot.

Me: I know…