A French restaurant reviewed

1 Mar

My friends, I am fast becoming known as Britain’s leading gastronaut, food ponce, nosh bard and culinarianite. This is because when I review a restaurant, the fucker stays reviewed. I’ll review it’s face off, then go back and review it until it’s just twitching and coughing up bits of poppadom and cheese.

That’s not all, mind. My growing reputation is also down to my vast food knowledge. For instance, I know what Pot Noodle is made of. You do not. And I’m not fucking telling you either. Suffice to say, it comes as a surprise. I also know that a balti is the traditional cuisine of Birmingham and has been enjoyed there for at least three decades. Its principle ingredients are meat, sauce and miscellaneous.

However, I must confess there is one part of the culinary landscape upon which I have never really planted a boot. Or a fork. Or a…I haven’t eaten it, is what I mean. I’m talking about French food.

I had always considered French food to be a mix of the farmyard and the butcher’s floor. (Though that may be down to my mother’s constant suspicion of the French people. ‘Never trust people who eat udders!’ she would yell at the television, often while it was switched off.) Apart from the baguette, which is the best breakfast containment device known to man (fill it with bacon, sausage, tomato, bacon, cheese, waffles, ham, eggs benedict, burgers, cornflakes, coffee, fried bread and balti and you’ll see what I mean), French food hadn’t found its way onto my plate.

That changed when I was taken to a restaurant in London, possibly the centre of London, possibly not, called Something de la Something a la Something du Something avec Something. Or something. I forget. Anyway, I was told it was a typical bistro-style place, and that the food was very typically French. Some of it, my host told me, ‘might be challenging’.

Well, I’d visited a couple of bars, pubs, clubs, lapdance emporia and moonshine dens before our lunch, so I was ready for a challenge. ‘Fucking challenging?’ I said. ‘What, it thinks it’s going to scare me off? Where is this cunt? I’ll tear its neck off.’ After a brief nap in the lavs, though, I had calmed down and was ready to eat. Although I did have another little nap first.

A quick survey of the menu told one thing straight away: the French will go to great lengths not to eat the bits of animals most of us consider to be nice. For instance, they eat bits of an ox’s face. They eat glands. They eat organs. They eat all kinds of silly shit.

So, being a game sort of chap, I was more than happy to tuck into the delicious-looking amuse-bouche that was on my plate when I was finally seated. It was a delightfully pale and gossamer-thin long curl of pastry that seemed to be almost floating on the beautiful crockery. I started to eat, finding it surprisingly chewy and texturally interesting. The waiter approached.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘You are eating a napkin.’

‘Ah!’ I replied. ‘Well, it’s fucking delicious. Bit tough, mind. Now bring me a bottle of claret immediately, or you’re fucking fired.’

He paused for a moment, as though about to say something, then left shaking his head, as is the tradition with waiters in any restaurant I eat in.

Anyway, let me cut to the chase. The French eat raw stuff. RAW STUFF. I know! RAW! Not cooked, but RAW. Amazing, isn’t it? So, I had a dozen RAW oysters to start. And once I’d worked out that you only eat the snot in the middle, I found them very enjoyable. (The same waiter suggested I stop eating the shells after I’d downed three and coughed up a bit of blood onto the lady at the next table.) Snot isn’t that filling, though, so I had another dozen or so dozens.

Then – most amazingly of all – I had RAW MEAT. They call it Steak Tartare to throw you off the scent, but when it turns up, it’s just raw meat! With – you won’t be able to get your fucking hat on when I tell you this – A RAW FUCKING EGG YOLK ON TOP OF IT!

This is steak tartare and, like a fat jogger’s nipples, it is RAW.

(This is amazing. I have dreamed of and longed for the day when the hygiene standards of the nation would allow me to eat raw meat. BUT I COULD HAVE JUST MOVED TO FRANCE WHERE THEY DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT HYGIENE! Can anything denote manly, quivering, twitching, awe-inspiring executive power like eating raw meat? Can you imagine how profitable I would become on a diet of raw meat?)

Well, I had a good eight of those, all washed down with some raw wine, and finished with a raw cake. ‘But we must cook the cake, sir,’ the waiter implored. But I was having none of it! ‘I WANT IT RAW!’ I yelled. Very nice it was too, if a bit stodgy.

I was so impressed with the idea of eating raw that I  now eat everything uncooked. Pot Noodle, eggs, potatoes, bacon, chicken, liver and onions – all RAW. And the weight is just falling off me! It’s incredible. I mean, I puke pretty much all of the time, but you get used to that. (Whisper it, but I’m thinking of writing a diet book. It could make me fucking millions.)

Anyway, the restaurant is a triumph, and so is my new lifestyle. My scores are thus:

Food: 9 Knockles.

Booze: 9 Knockles.

Waitresses: 2 Knockles.

Overall: 7.5 Knockles.

I’d recommend La Doodoo du Foofoo a la Poff-Paff sur la Biff Boff for a romantic liaison with a woman who had a vomit fetish. Delicieux!

I am Dave Knockles! Et j’aime beaucoup le viande raw!


6 Responses to “A French restaurant reviewed”

  1. NickPound March 2, 2011 at 11:33 am #

    Did the waitress score so low, becasue she was a man?

  2. Katie March 2, 2011 at 11:38 am #

    Je suis Katie! Et those French grand cons don’t know how to do it right.

  3. Barrel Bottoms March 2, 2011 at 3:15 pm #

    Katie, shall we try the restaurant for ourselves? I’m sure they will let you order from the kids menu if you tip them well. I hope it will keep you distracted long enough to put in those rufi-err..I mean…sweeteners in your cup of tea.

  4. Katie March 3, 2011 at 11:53 am #

    Barrel, are you asking me out? That is too sweet of you. I would never have thought that you are an emancipated man expecting me to pay, especially after recent events.
    I hope you are okay with me bringing my six kids? Had to get rid of the nanny. This ugly mug was staring at my tits all the time. Just contact my assistant. He knows when I’m available. One more thing, though: Tea? Booze was the reason for, and is the only option now, having six kids. And never ever offer me artificial sweeteners. The taste reminds me of contraceptive pills. Fucking disgusting.

  5. Barrel Bottoms March 3, 2011 at 2:53 pm #

    Oh okay Katie, just bring along your kids. I’m sure we can load them off at the nearest McDonalds for a couple of hours or so. Glad to hear you have nice tits.

  6. Katie March 3, 2011 at 8:28 pm #

    Sure. Do they still do McDonald’s birthday parties? One of the little squallers must be due soon. My assistant should know and arrange something.
    Between you and me, my mother always stares at my tits as well and then tells me that as a mother of six, I should wear a bra. She’s also annoying me with other hairy issues, if you know what I mean.
    Alright, darling, see you soon. So much to do tonight. Preparing performance reviews.

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