fod

The man was stood up now, demanding to know where his food was. ‘If we don’t get our food in the next 10 minutes,’ he said to the diminutive Vietnamese waiter, ‘we’re leaving without paying.’ ‘How fucking rude,’ I said to IC and Petra, we were freshly arrived and were feeling a little smug because we’d been permitted to drink our own wine despite the eatery having a license. The fact we were in a restaurant was something too, all the other places on the Kingsland Road were packed solid, this one wasn’t. Of course I accepted the food might not be quite as good as the popular ones, but having a bit of space, a bit of P & Q away from the Shoreditch types on a Saturday night was an acceptable compromise. I stilled any alarm bells that might be ringing. The waiter came over to take our order, we opened our wine and the rude man went back to his seat. Ten minutes later he was gone.

My weekend started in IC’s flat with Mary, Petra and Mark. The latter wasn’t really feeling up for the club in which Mary was featuring in her capacity as a budding DJ. We had a few wines to get us in the mood and, after meeting Oscar at the busstop, took ourselves off to the bar in Dalston.

It was empty when we arrived which suited me fine but by the time Mary took to the decks the place was full. As I’ve previously mentioned, the electro thing isn’t really my bag but some of it is more than listenable to. The booze helped to sharpen the senses and a pleasant evening unfurled, I undertook a spot of dancing with IC and spent a good while nattering to Euan at the rather pricey bar. As is common with these things time passed quickly with my wallet flapping open and shut like a fishwife’s mouth. I’m not sure what time we departed but the bus was packed solid, bed happened shortly after, I think it was 4.

The hangover was curbed by a fry up at the marvellous café round the corner at around lunchtime, before returning home to play Grand Theft I bought a few bits and pieces from the Co-Op and gave Brutta a minor wipe over. At 4-ish IC and Pru came down to watch Harry Brown. One of the best movies I’ve seen, highly, highly recommended. Mid way through we needed some Cava to help us cope with the incredible tension. The Cava thing went on until 8 or so when we reluctantly decided to go to Clerkenwell to see off one of our crew for some farewell drinks. It was en route we spontaneously decided to get some food.

After about 20 mins 2 of the 3 starters arrived along with my main course, a rather over cooked but nonetheless tasty shredded duck with pancakes and a few strips of cucumber. I waited for the final starter and my companions’ main dishes but nothing happened. I was encouraged to eat my food which was pretty much cold by now. Still, it was okay; I smothered the ingredients with chilli sauce and wrapped it in the pancakes. An hour later still no food had arrived and I was a bit pissed.

Suddenly a sweating man appeared from the kitchen with a small plate of what looked like deep-fried breaded prawns and chilli dip. I explained to the chap we’d not ordered this, we’d ordered grilled prawn on udon noodles, which this clearly wasn’t. To my and our collective surprises he then insisted it was. I assured him that on account of the lack of noodles and the fact the prawns (if that is what they were) were certainly not grilled, it most definitely wasn’t what we ordered, and could he go away now as he was making me feel a little irritated.

But he didn’t go; instead he stood there and told me a barefaced porky. Apparently, he said, in Japan ‘udon noodles’ really means the way deep fried prawns are positioned on a plate, thus. He pointed again at the dish and thrust it under my nose. I think the reason I didn’t grab the plate from his hands and fling it against the wall was because I felt a bit sorry for him. Nonetheless, I won’t have someone taking me for a tit so I simply asked for the bill and then told him I’d been to Japan and I knew exactly what udon Noodles looked like, and what he was bearing wasn’t udon noddles, or grilled prawn for that matter. I jabbed a finger against the side of the plate to make my point and he smiled and went off.

The bill arrived (completely wrong) the necessary amendments were made and we remained seated to finish off the last of the wine. As we were leaving the poor bastard in the kitchen ran up the stairs with one of the missing starters, about two hours late, and offered it to us.

I politely refused, ‘we’ve paid and we’re leaving now,’ I said. He looked at me with a weak tired smile, and held fast. ‘We’re going now mate,’ I said quietly, ‘you have it.’

‘Thank you,’ said the man. And with that we left.

Sunday was spent indoors watching films and Come Dine with Me. Actually, that’s not strictly true, IC and I went to Brick Lane just after lunch to meet up with some friends. I think I must’ve been a bit tipsy from the evening before because I don’t remember much about it at all. Anyway, we were back by 4. IC wasn’t feeling very well so it was a good excuse to just nest. After dinner we watched The Office with the horror of Monday appearing in our guts, well, my guts at least, IC wasn’t going anywhere.

This band have just announced they’re splitting after 40 years. Here’s one of their classics, you’d have to have a heart of stone, really…