It’s no secret that I’m a huge fan of Gorilla. I’ve visited far more times than is considered ladylike and I’m probably nearing the point where I’m in danger of them issuing a restraining order against me due to my incessant stalking of the place.
The trouble is I’m addicted to the lamb burger. When I think of its abundant juices mixing with the creamy garlic aioli I go into a bit of a drooling stupor. Now I’ve discovered that they offer the most amazing upgrade to their fries (thanks The Greedy Girl) with truffle oil and parmesan, I’m considering setting up camp under one of the tables in the gin parlour or perhaps in a toilet cubicle, so I’m never far away from that truffly scent.
It’s not just the food I adore – Gorilla is essentially a bar after all – it’s the drinks that get me going back, time and time again.
Between 5-8pm Monday-Friday, it’s happy hour. That means you can get any of these boozy beverages for £5. Take advantage of the free tap water on school nights kids - we’ve got an economy to keep going.
I’m informed that there are people in the world who don’t like cocktails. For these people, firstly, please do not approach me as I don’t trust you, but there’s also a good wine menu and a nice little craft beer selection that keeps Mr P hydrated.
The most impressive thing of all? Gorilla is the location in which my favourite band Deftones filmed one of their music videos and so during every visit I insist on touching all surfaces just in case lead singer and all around dream boat Chino Moreno has left any morsel of DNA behind (he’s the future Mr P don’t you know?)
I’m told that they also make a cracking breakfast and scrumptious roast, but in the words of the popular song ‘I only have eyes, for the lamb burger’*
French was one of my least favourite subjects at school - I spent most of my time during our French lessons discussing the latest film releases with my co-desk inhibitor rather than conjugating the many verbs. My distaste toward the language is probably due to my experience on THE WORST HOLIDAY EVER™ in Paris when I was 10 years old, which involved being verbally abused by a French man, being dragged around churches during a heat wave by my God-fearing father and almost eating horse (which I have no doubt experienced without my knowledge since.) I did not enjoy any of the above and so after my academic obligation to learn the language passed, I let all knowledge of the French tongue drain from my mind like a forgotten waterfall (apart from the numbers, so I can understand what’s going on during Eurovision). As a result, I have no idea what Michelin label ‘Bib gourmand’ means however after a few seconds on google, I am assured it is an award for a good value restaurant.
A recent recipient of this award is Hearth of The Ram down the road in Ramsbottom – despite being named after an animal’s rear end (and an ugly animal at that), this little village is a renowned culinary oasis lying next to Bolton’s gastronomic desert, with such gems as Sanmini’s, Shoulder of Mutton and countless others that we’ve yet to try. Hearth of The Ram was also named winner of Best Pub Food at the Manchester Food and Drink Awards, meaning we could put off a visit no longer.
Despite such accolades, I was surprised by how quiet the restaurant was mid-week and my first impression was what a glum bunch they were. I didn’t spot a smile among them and could only assume that with so many awards being thrown their way, maybe one had hit a staff member in the head, causing a concussion which had put a downer on things.
It definitely feels more restaurant than gastropub but it’s a nice space with pleasant décor. We weren’t informed of the specials but enquired about them upon hearing the options read out to our neighbouring table (perhaps the concussion had caused memory loss.)
The menu reads very well indeed and there were many dishes which stimulated a level of salivation that is not desirable when in public - but considering this restaurant had just been given an award for good value I was shocked by the prices. With most starters fighting to stay under the £10 mark, this is not a price point that screams thrift to me.
Not wanting to break the bank on a mid-week meal, we skipped the starters, choosing instead to share the bread and olive platter (£3.95) which consisted of light and airy still warm rolls, zingy olives and a tasty olive oil and balsamic mix for dipping.
Service improved when a handsome Aston from JLS lookalike appeared with our mains, breaking the solemnity with a smile and a bit of well needed cheekiness.
Mr P had the perfectly seasoned plaice (£16.95) which came with a creamy decadent mash, samphire, crayfish tails and a sweet seafood bisque so tasty we refused to leave any drop behind. Extra points for the inclusion of snowmen’s noses.
I ordered from the elusive specials, a deconstructed beef wellington (£28) consisting of a fillet steak cooked just as requested, topped with a foie gras mousse, buttery shard of pastry and a rich gravy. All very good, but the small portion of foie gras meant I felt a little short changed.
To conclude, we shared the wimberry pudding – like a Heinz sponge pudding that has been sent on makeover show The Swan and made so beautiful that everybody cries a little bit (on a serious note, you should all buy Heinz sponge puddings, they last forever and will keep us alive during a nuclear winter.) Lovely stuff.
The food they’re producing at Hearth of Ram is nothing short of gorgeous but I think the common man’s idea of affordability may differ slightly from Michelin’s and perhaps a set menu would be a good idea in order to fill the restaurant during the week. That being said, congratulations to the team on their well-deserved awards and I do hope the concussion wasn’t too serious.
Please note: The term Bib gourmand refers to The Michelin Man’s Sunday name, Bibendum. No wonder he doesn’t use it much.
People love to get angry with a list. The Premiere League table has people all over the country regularly scrapping at the weekend and don’t mention the Top 40 chart countdown which often causes an explosion on social media from people damning popular music and culture as a whole (case in point: Cher Lloyd’s Swagger Jagger reaching the top of the charts). I am not immune from such annoyance; as a pig-tailed nine year old girl, I vented my fury at Bryan Adams’ 16th week at number one by throwing a Mr Kipling’s apple pie on the floor in a rage, an act that got me an almighty bollocking, further increasing my animosity towards Mr Adams which is still with me today.
Food lists these days are aplenty and generally cause a right kafuffle; none more so than San Pellegrino’s Top 50 Restaurants. Shouts of corruption, unfairness and a general feeling that Heston Blumenthal should be bopped on the nose for his Dinner smashing right into the Top 10 are voiced from every corner.
In a way, I feel that such a high ‘chart’ position for these restaurants detracts from the experience – my expectations are always too high and I’m left thinking afterwards ‘was it really THAT good?’ as I pull my pondering face, unattractively.
We’d planned to visit 11 Madison Park on our next trip to New York long before it soared up the list to number 5 (and best restaurant in America), an act that left me a little disappointed. I was sure it would be impossible to get a reservation and there would be that inevitable let down, that it sat in a position it simply didn’t deserve.
My fears were unwarranted at least in one regard, when we bagged an 8pm dinner reservation on our first attempt. The dining room is massive, the high walls decorated with fresh hydrangeas and low lighting, leading to a soft ambience and rubbish food photography.
With so many courses, I won’t bore you/me with detailed descriptions of all the food but I hope through the dark graininess you can get a general impression of the awesome quality.
Cheddar: Savoury black and white cookie with apple
Sea Urchin: Snow with smoked cantaloupe and yogurt
Surf Clam: Tomato, beans and savoury
Littleneck clam: Manhattan chowder with razor clam and scallop
Tomato: Confit with lobster salad and bonito
Freshly baked bread & butter
Foie Gras: Seared with summer berries, rye and nasturtium
Carrot: Tartare with rye bread and condiments. Carrots freshly minced at the table.
Black bass: Poached with zucchini and squash blossoms
Sunflower: Barigoule with sunchokes and black truffle
Duck: Roasted with apricots and fennel
Greensward: Pretzel, mustard and green tomato. Served with a wheat beer that was used in the baking of the bread.
Malt: Egg cream with vanilla and seltzer. Made at the table.
Sassafras: Sorbet with banana cake, caramel and vanilla
Red Pepper: Cheesecake with strawberry and cashew
Pretzel: Chocolate covered with sea salt
Chocolate: Sweet black and white cookie with apricot. The meal ending in a complete circle, back where it began.
The whole meal was utterly delicious and we thoroughly enjoyed all of the dishes. A couple of courses aren’t particularly memorable in retrospect and could be considered quite safe but it is undeniable that this is a place that is operating at the highest of levels.
The charm offensive from the staff began as soon as we took our seats. There are a lot of them, but each gave a little of their own personality and some of the gentlemen were absolutely swoonworthy, with their Mad Men haircuts and twinkly eyes (if a man’s eyes twinkle does it mean he wants to snog you? This would mean I missed out on a smooch).
Our meal drew to its conclusion as we were provided with a bottle of cherry brandy to sip at our leisure. I warned them of the potential danger of this as we are two English folk who like a drink, but they simply smiled and told us to drink as much as our hearts desired (maybe he was trying to get me drunk, so we could have that smooch?).
Soon after this, we were treated to a tour of the kitchen, which you might think was an attempt to stop us glugging all the liquor, but within those hallowed walls we were treated to more booze – my third favourite cocktail The Aviation was prepared in front of us among the clink of kitchen gadgetry and plumes of magical smoke.
11 Madison Park seems a very traditional restaurant on paper, but it really is pushing restaurant boundaries. Magic tricks, table side theatrics and an impressive beer list are just a few of the things that set it apart from other seemingly similar restaurants. Of course it’s expensive - it has three Michelin stars, but with that many courses and all the extra sparkle, I can’t help but feel it was all worth it.
It’s not the favourite meal we’ve experienced in America and perhaps not the 5th best we’ve had in the world but it is undeniably world class. Maybe with a smooch thrown in, I’d think differently.
The kitchen’s ethos: We should all live by this.
New York is one of my favourite places on earth. Despite Manhattan being relatively small in terms of land size, there is an amazing amount of things to see. On our previous visit, we were so bogged down by reservations that we didn’t do the city justice, simply moving from one restaurant to the next, our bellies increasing in size and appetites diminishing along the way. This time we vowed not to make the same mistake again and only had one booking for the whole visit, leaving us open to explore at our own (boozy) pace.
My favourite place in NYC is Central Park – I can spend the whole day there, watching the world’s most flamboyantly dressed pampered pooches on their daily walk, as I day dream about giving up my day job and moving across the pond to become New York’s most successful dog walker (I’m VERY good at cuddles.) In Central Park Zoo, I had one of my life’s most substantial moments, when I saw a monkey bitch slap a swan, creating a monkey-swan war which I’m guessing is why the swans no longer inhabit the murky waters around Monkey Island.
We’d spent the morning and most of the afternoon in this beloved place of mine; a day tinged with sadness upon hearing about the death of one of my favourite zoo inhabitants - Gus the Polar Bear had gone up to the great Artic Circle in the sky and I was in need of consolation. After turning to Foursquare for a nearby recommendation, we headed off to Ma Peche, another Momofuku gaff. Sat at the back of the Milk Bar (a MUST for any NYC visit) we’d unfortunately missed lunch but popped ourselves at the bar for some cocktails to toast to Gus (it’s what he would have wanted.)
The cocktail list is split into two – traditional or those that have been momofukued. All were beautifully constructed and eased my sorrow like a hug from Gus himself (don’t tell me that Polar Bears are vicious, I’m in mourning and YOU shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.)
Cote de Peche – Aperol, lemon verbena
Seven Spice Sour – Sake, yuzu, togarashi
There’s a small bar snack menu of which we sampled a selection, because you can’t have a wake without food.
Duck liver pate was thick and creamy, served with a tangy tamatillo and a crusty baguette.
Jerk Chicken wings were crisp and juicy with a real heat courtesy of allspice and habanero.
Momofuku are famous for their pork buns and rightly so. Seemingly made of air, the pillowy buns melt away in your mouth giving way to the luxurious butteryness of the pork belly and zingy hoisin sauce.
Ma Peche was a great place for our mid afternoon snack. It’s a bit on the pricey side, but there’s an awesome punk soundtrack that had me stamping my foot aggressively and a bartender who looks exactly like Justin Theroux (swoon).
Photo courtesy of The Huffington Post
Jealousy is probably the worst element of my nature. Other people’s holidays, pay rises and weight loss are just a few of the things that see me going a pale shade of teal. The recipient of a large proportion of my envy is Michelle Obama. That woman has everything: a pet labradoodle, ample upper body strength and that hunk of a man Obama. She has the whole world in the palm of her hand.
When I’m not admiring/stabbing photos of Michelle, I spend my days begrudging those who are eating well. It seems everybody in Manchester has been dining at Mughli recently and the jealousy has been too much for me to bear.
We used to frequent the curry mile as students – it was our pre-gig ritual. In those days curry was the perfect fuel for an evening of aggressive moshing, alcohol supping and crying whilst asking the Gods why nobody loves me. We picked our venue by which had the silliest name, a tactic that actually worked quite well for us. Mughli wasn’t open then, and even if it was it probably would have failed our silly name test, so I’m glad this method has been left behind, along with my teens (and 20s.)
Do not park
We finally visited on Halloween. The Mughli team really got into the spirit of things with incredibly impressive face paints – one waiter almost gave me a heart attack when he appeared at our table with a terrifying resemblance to Saw bad guy, Jigsaw. I hate that tricycle driving psychopath (jigsaw, not the waiter, who was on foot that night).
It’s very busy and therefore booking is recommended. The décor is authentic yet modern.
We were celebrating that night so started to make our way through the cocktail list. They were all zingy and delicious with an eastern twist.
Long Island Lychee
Poppadoms were lovely, served with a generous selection of dips. My favourite being the Indian salad which did the unthinkable and got me to eat cold sweet corn.
To start I had the halloumi menander – the squeakiest of all the cheeses is battered before deep frying. I didn’t think halloumi could be bettered, but they’ve managed it.
Lamb chops are cooked in a charcoal pit until blackened on the outside yet still dripping with juices from the inside. These were amazing.
Our plates hadn’t yet been removed when our mains arrived, which was a tad annoying, but I quickly got stuck into my butter chicken (thanks for the recommendation Manchester foodies!) This was divine – containing all the creaminess you’d expect from this popular dish but with a real added heat. Red face level: puce
Bombay chicken. Red face level: coral
Ruby murry. Red face level: vermillion
Chennai curry. Red face level: Hell Boy
Despite all the dishes containing an impressive amount of spice, this didn’t detract from each curry’s distinctive flavour.
I found the nan a little on the sloppy side, but despite Peter’s bread looking like ‘Freddie Krueger’s face’, the taste certainly made up for the texture.
Bready Krueger (Peter’s bread)
I ordered a side of gunpowder chips because the whole of twitter told me to do so. I know it’s a little chavvy but curry and chips is an awesome combo and feels a bit more refined when they are made from sweet potatoes and scattered with chilli salt and lemon. Thanks to the whole of twitter.
Mushroom and boiled rice
Please take note, this amount of food destroyed us physically and emotionally. We left with a huge doggy bag and a fear of stomach rupture
Staff were extremely helpful and eager to give recommendations. Although they should be ashamed of themselves for the aforementioned near panic attack.
Mughli is as good as everybody says. The curries are distinctive and the necessary drinks to wash them down are a treat. Just don’t go on Halloween, you might get a fright and lose control of your bowels.
*There was no loss of bowel control on the night.
I love all things festive: Twinkly decorations, the underrated classic film Jingle All The Way, the fact that it is socially acceptable to drink mulled wine at any time during the day… I spend the entire period eating cinnamon products, drinking cinnamon products and as a result, smelling of cinnamon products. It is brilliant.
So imagine my glee upon wandering the streets of a rainy Manchester in search of a lunch destination, when we spotted a giant teepee outside my Spinningfields favourite, The Oast House. Not just any old teepee, a festive one! I entered with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas day.
Inside is very impressive – log fire, fake fur rugs and blankets for if it gets a little chilly. It’s very Game of Thrones and I found it a terrible shame that my fellow inhabitants of the teepee hadn’t come in suitable dress, as I could have had a rather authentic role-play session (I am of course, Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons.)
I enjoyed a mini mug of hot spiced winter cider while I observed my surroundings, on the lookout for enemies or planned ambushes (I was still in character.)
There’s a Christmas three course meal available for £22.50 at lunch and £25 in the evening, but we were in a hurry and so each had a platter compiled of ingredients of our choice.
I had the quiche (cheese and onion) with duck liver pate (£8.95). The quiche had a nice thin base and wasn’t overly crusty which let the filling rule the flavour. Pate was topped with ginormous shards of really good salt and went perfectly with the giant, warm French roll. Chutneys and an monsterous pickled onion gave the plate a bit of oomph. I didn’t touch the raw tomato or celery as they are both foods of the devil but everything else was bloomin’ lovely.
Mr P had the classic farmhouse platter with brie, ham and pastrami (£11.70). I was underwhelmed by the brie which was a little on the cold side and I only like to eat cheese that smells like socks. The ham and pastrami on the other hand were deliciously thick and salty.
Unfortunately we had plans that cut our visit short, but I could happily have spent the whole day there, telling stories of the history of The Tagaryens and their fall from power* as I drank hot alcoholic beverages and gorged on cold meats. But I will be back, in full costume for the Christmas lunch.
*Who am I kidding? I am a giant oaf and therefore Hodor.
I adore all oriental food. Japanese, Thai, Korean… I want to eat all of it, all of the time. The only problem? Mr P is rather underwhelmed by Chinese fare. I however, have been a fan for as long as I can remember – even during my years as a fussy eater I could chomp down a chow mein with such vigour that people worried I would choke to death on a pak choi (which once, I nearly did).
The way I get around this is simple - I implement peer pressure. I will instigate a night out with friends and then start a rumour that the group want Chinese. He is powerless and I am victorious. My recent plan went like clockwork. Off to Red Chilli we went.
There are two Red Chilli’s in Manchester but we chose the one in China Town. It’s a very busy restaurant and you can’t make a reservation, but we only had a brief wait for a table.
We ordered individually but decided to share amongst us. This was an excellent tactic because you get to try so many different dishes and I realised how I have hindered my culinary experience in the past by not having more friends.
A Beijing roast duck between 6 was a free for all. I did what I always do when I need extra energy and thought about Angelina Jolie; using all my anger as a tool - my aggressive fork stabs warned my companions that I meant business. A great example of one of my favourite starters.
I had been warned that the salt and pepper squid was heavy on the garlic, but this only served as a positive for me as it would prevent members of the general public invading my personal space and, god forbid, trying to engage me in conversation. Gorgeous it was too and very generous with the tentacles which always pleases me. Sat on top of super salty stir-fried vegetables which I could not stop eating.
Battered baby squid monster
Selection of dumplings
The menu is filled with weird and wonderful ingredients - I was most impressed with the battered pig intestines which were rich and irony, served with so much dried chilli that I wondered if this was some sort of assault.
Frogs legs were also ridiculously tasty, however serving it over a naked flame with a table full of food and (my) clumsy elbows could have proved a grave mistake indeed. Dried chillies are highly flammable.
Poached mutton was sold to me on twitter as a must order. Not wanting to be cyber bullied as a result of insubordination, this was my selection. This dish kisses you delicately on the lips with its succulent flavour before shockingly slapping you on the backside with its heat – leaving you a bit sweaty and out of breath.
The dandan noodles took heat to a whole new level. Looking at Mr P’s red, slightly swollen face, I knew he was in trouble. Far too hot for my delicate palate, he swore they were delicious. I’ll take his word for it.
Shredded chicken and beef provided a tasty diversion from the other spicy dishes.
Soft noodles were just as I like them, still with a slight chew and light sesame flavour.
Service is rushed and not overly friendly, but I was too busy trying to regulate my breathing to notice much.
Red Chilli did a good job of curbing my Chinese food craving, but all diners should be issued with a health warning. Sorry to use a cliché, but it really does what it says on the tin. In future I will bring along a banana Yop to cool my mouth, hand fan to prevent my face from a sweat-fest and life insurance plan in case of sudden death. If the dandan noodles finish Mr P off as well, it’s all going to the cat.
Until now, this here blog has been strictly about food. In retrospect this has proved to be a rather odd decision, as it is arguable that I enjoy overdoing it on alcoholic beverages as much - if not more, than I adore gorging myself until my clothes become uncomfortable. As I’ve grown older, bottles of luminous green 20/20 were replaced by neon orange WKD before I finally realised that my drinks of choice were more about wonderful combinations of strong liquor rather than sugar and food colouring. Many years of Weightwatching and calorie counting have seen me sacrifice a filling meal – often leaving my belly growling with vengeful hunger just so I could get my booze on at the weekend. This is both an effective weight loss tool and a successful way of becoming inebriated on the cheap.
So yeah, I love a drink. It helps with my shyness, turns me into an unstoppable hugging machine and makes me engage in exercise (normally the Hit Me Baby One More Time dance routine.) Cocktails are my favourite because they are strong and make me feel elegant - as I hold the dainty glasses that serve as their receptacles, I like to pretend I am a modern day Elizabeth Taylor (my version of Liz has frizzy hair and really likes dogs.)
If we won the lottery, there’d only be one place I’d go to toast to our good luck - Marks’ Bar in London. Sat beneath Hix and named after owner, Mark, they consistently prepare the best cocktails I’ve ever tasted.
It’s also great for celeb spotting. The Top Gear gang, Jonathan Ross and Christopher Biggins have all fallen victim to my celeb gawp.*
Smoking pepper corns
Don’t be afraid to order off menu, these guys know everything I’ve thrown at them, without having to look up a recipe.
The aviation & whisky sour
My favourite bartender is a half Jamaican chap with an impressive beard. He makes me rum punch and sets things on fire.
Off menu punch
It’s pricey. If I lived in London, this joint would have destroyed me physically and financially. But every time we’re in the Capital, we can’t help ourselves. It’s become a tradition.
Food is also served to soak up all the alcohol (meaning you can drink more.)
I’d make a trip to London just to sit in Hix’s underground boozy bunker, happily ploughing my way through the menu and my wage. Who needs a house anyway?
*Celeb gawp – staring at a celebrity in a star struck fashion. Gob open. Drooling a bit.
Disclaimer: I do not recommend drinking on an empty stomach. However, it does make a diet more fun.
I’ve got a bit of a girl crush on April Bloomfield. When she graced the front cover of her book, A Girl And Her Pig, with a smile on her face and pig carcass draped across her shoulders like a culinary Xena Warrior Princess, I thought ‘I want to be like her.’ She’s a home grown success story, born in Birmingham yet now wowing Manhattan with her rustic yet refined grub. Our meal at The Spotted Pig was one of my first ever blog posts (which is why it is rubbish) but I’m not quite done with her yet (WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE ALL RUBBISH?!!)
The Breslin is another in April’s holy trinity of restaurants in New York City. I couldn’t believe my luck when I found out that it is housed in Ace Hotel, the very place of slumber in which I had just booked our Autumnal stay! I decided it was destiny. I would meet April and present her with the collage I have been making of her throughout the years and she would embrace me and ask if I would like to meet (her mate) Jamie Oliver.
The Breslin, like The Spotted Pig, holds a Michelin star, however both restaurants are distinctly non-Micheliny. Service at The Breslin, however, is far friendlier than its counterpart – we instantly felt welcome and at ease. It’s no reservations, but on an early Sunday evening there was no problem being seated.
It’s a very cool space – barely lit (which will become apparent in my photos) decked out in deep mahogany and numerous quirky animal decorations.
Cocktails are unusual and strong – so much so that you start to get a little fuzzy half way down the first one. These are the best kind.
Not your grandpa’s whiskey sour
Old forester bourbon, pineapple-rosemary shrub, cardamaro, lemon
Lavender French 75
Gordon’s gin, lemon, herbs de provence, sparkling rosé
There’s a decent beer selection too.
Starters were bang on. Mr P’s scotch egg had a crisp coating and an oozy runny yolk; despite leaving England behind, April still knows how to treat our classics.
My chicken parfait was rich and creamy with wonderful orangey notes, served with toast which was so soaked in oil, it had surely been used to mop up a spillage. Please note: this is not a negative.
I loved the burger so much at The Spotted Pig that I knew I would be ordering The Breslin’s version. This was assembled with a lamb patty topped with feta.
QUICK! SOMEBODY ENTER ME INTO A FOOD PHOTOGRAPHY COMPETITION!
Honestly, I was a bit disappointed. The lamb was cooked so rare that after a couple of minutes it had cooled down to the point of resembling raw mince, which did tickle my gag reflex somewhat. A real shame as the flavours were great, just cold. Thrice cooked chips however were a joy to eat, all of which I did whilst happily dunking them in a zingy, mildly spiced mayo.
What the burger should look like (courtesy of twitter friend @jensenbull)
Mr P’s special of buttermilk fried poussin more than made up for my cold burger - think KFC that has married into a wealthy family and its humble origins cast into the past, becoming a subject that nobody dare talk about. This tasted exactly like that. It came with a really punchy salad made up of little gem lettuce, red onion, Roquefort cheese and walnuts. So tasty that I am trying my best to recreate it at home.
Almond pound cake with raspberry sorbet, goats cheese and mint, was a lovely, not overly sweet end to our meal. The goats cheese an unusual yet welcomed addition to this well balanced dish.
You know what the best part of staying in a hotel with a Michelin starred restaurant is? Room service, for when you become so grossly inebriated that you are not to be trusted dining physically in a restaurant because you’re vomiting quite heavily.
The Breslin Burger – this one was beef and warm! Yay!
Charcutterie board with selection of pickles and chutneys.
We loved our meal and room service (of what we can remember through our drunken haze) so much, that we decided to give breakfast a try.
Again, Mr P ordered the better dish - oven baked 3 cheese sandwich with house smoked ham and a runny egg was exceptional. The perfect hangover cure (it was the morning after THAT night before).
My baked eggs with spiced tomato & chorizo was delicious, however I found the tomato a little overpowering and my toast overly crunchy.
To my delight, we shared The Breslin as our breakfast destination that morning with daughter of Bill, Chelsea Clinton. I feel a certain kinship with Chelsea as we have both been mortally embarrassed by our fathers. My Dad may not have had an affair that made the international news but he did once camouflage himself in a black outfit and walk around the streets of our neighborhood trying to catch me smoking*. I considered trying to hug her as I revealed my empathy, but didn’t want to be taken out by The Secret Service.
I don’t love The Breslin quite as much as The Spotted Pig, which just has a certain extra charm for me, but it’s more central (29th Street) and the food is bloomin’ delicious. Not the cheapest meal you can have in New York, but in my opinion, it’s well priced for what you get.
I unfortunately didn’t get to meet April. Do you think she was avoiding me?
*He did not catch me smoking. I was far too clever for him. **
**I do not smoke. You should not smoke. Smoking ruins taste buds. Food is better than smoking. Don’t smoke, eat food. But not too much food. Don’t be obese. Smoking curbs food cravings. Maybe we should smoke?***
***Do not smoke.