Sketch's website. A glimpse into madness. Photo: SketchMy latest piece for iStarvin.com is on infuriating restaurant websites, with their horrible music, pointless Flash, clunky graphics and other malignant quirks.
Click here to read it.
a food blog
Sketch's website. A glimpse into madness. Photo: Sketch
A fly and some soup. Photo: Flickr
A crushed Stella tinny. Photo: Sonny Meddle/Rex Features
La Rueda, Clapham. Photo: La Rueda
A burrito being assembled at Daddy Donkey, Leather Lane Market, London. Photo: PR
Cider-braised pork belly at The Princess of Shoreditch, one of this week's round-up.
Roast chicken is the greatest cliché in the kitchen. The trussed, homely, tits-up bird, fatted, auburn and steaming, stickey-out calves and oysters in its back, sleek skin pocked and follicled: brown thigh, ivory breast, muscle speared, sliced and gravied. Everyone knows it, everyone has a Proustian chook. Ask five strangers what their favourite meal is and I bet one of them will say roast chicken, probably their mum's. It's the first thing you roast when you're learning to cook: it's a culinary chapter heading, a gastronomic phylum, and if you do it half-right (and though difficult to do perfectly, it's easy enough to do acceptably) it'll seal, settle and fix something inside you that you'll take to your grave.
The buffet at Taybarns.
Just had swine flu. What a mare. One minute you’re trotting around, snouting about London and feeling just swill, and the next you’re on the straw squealing like someone out of Defoe. Last Sunday, I had lunch with relatives (my own), troughing away like a pig in proverbial – but went home with a lardy shiver and encroaching dread. Woke up on Monday feeling someone yanking my eyeballs into my brain while cattle-prodding my temples and heaping bar-bells on my belly.