Having been raised in a world of jacket potatoes, baked beans and cheese, I sometimes feel the need to diversify my intake of sustenance and search beyond the realms of boiled rice. If one was to compare, in terms of culinary fortitude, a proud King Edward to a handful of basmati, an immediate mismatch would be called – the brute strength of the potato completely overshadowing its itty, bitty, shitty, BORING opponent. Actually, let’s further the comparison before I continue. No actually let’s not, I can’t be arsed.
With a stomach rumbling to the point of triggering car alarms, I breached the village limits at an alarming pace and headed towards the relative sophistication of the nearest town with a view to gannet with unscrupulous ferocity the first thing I honed in on that resembled Western fare. Rice was simply out of the question today as the mere sight of it seemed to send me into of frenzy of revulsion – ‘I repel yee, satanic grain’.
After stunting my appetite with half a dozen Wonder Daengs for breakfast, my approach into town featured much salivation as I began scouring the streets for signs of bread and butter or beef and onion or steak and kidney. I knew of one particular hotel which boasted promises of ‘A Real American Breakfast’ on its menu, but I had previously tried it and in turn had previously scrutinized the waiter with a look of bamboozled contempt – This, dear boy, is offensive. Locate your head chef, post haste, and stick this plate up his arse, sideways. No, the Real American Breakfast was certainly not on the agenda for today’s onslaught of piggory.
Just as I was resigned to make the walk of shame into a nearby 7/11 and consol myself with five carrier bags of cheese burgers, I caught a fortunate glimpse of fluttering cloth – the cloth of an Italian flag. Now there’s a thing!
Below the red, white and green stripes was a shop front which exclaimed in lettering the same colour as the flag – ‘Italian Pizzeria and Restaurant’.
‘MAMA TWATTING MIA’ I shouted triumphantly at a toothless old crone selling lottery tickets.
With a hop, skip and an enthusiastic jump, I bounded towards the restaurant, licking my lips like a pasta crazed pervert and burst through the door.
I was offered a menu which was surprisingly comprehensive in its choice; from salad to salmon, lamb to linguini and of course countless pizza options.
After shooing the waiter off so I could further examine the menu without him breathing down my fucking neck, I concluded that I should dine on Pizza Bolognese – ‘succulent ground beef with tomato, cheese and peppers’ this to be served after I’d enjoyed my appetizer of Summer Salad – ‘the cheapest one on the menu’.
I placed my order, issued instructions to the garcon to bring me a glass of iced water and sat at my table, foaming at the mouth in anticipation of my pending repast.
The salad was served to me in record breaking time, which is never a good sign, but it looked edible enough and after a liberal dousing with the provided condiments; balsamic vinegar, olive oil and cracked black pepper, I ate it at an equally record breaking pace. Children’s eyes were covered by anxious parents who appeared troubled by the culinary convulsion which was now taking place on table number 7, and concerned waiters rallied around wiping stray splashes of Caesar salad dressing from windows and ceiling fans.
My main course arrived after some 20 minutes. I’d ordered the medium which came in at a reasonable B165 and with everything seemingly in order upon the initial inspection, now came the time to taste. With a third of the pizza now churning around in my mouth I was able to conclude that the topping was of a ‘fair to good’ standard but I was a little disappointed with the base which I would have graded as a 5 on a scale of 1 to 10, far too thin and without any real oomph to its crunch.
However, I continued feeding with enthusiasm, paid my bill which came to B255 and left, vowing that I will try everything on the menu before this coming Tuesday.