I like Italian food quite a lot. I like the fact it’s at its best when simple and made by people who know what they’re doing.

I rarely go out to eat it though, as so often it’s bad. Not bad like inedible, just bad because I could have bought all the ingredients myself and cooked it better at home in about 15 minutes.

Basically, paying to eat terrible carbonara irritates the piss out of me.

Would you believe it was actually the lady woman in my life who said we should try Lina Stores?

“Where should we go for dinner on Friday night?” I asked.

“What about Lina Stores?” She replied.

“I haven’t heard of it.”

“An Italian I know said it’s where she goes when she wants authentic Italian food.”

“All well and good, but I haven’t heard of it.”

After some back and forth, and some Googling, I asked if we could replay the conversation.

“Where should we go for dinner on Friday night?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, where would you like to go?” She replied.

“I’ve heard great things about Lina Stores.” I boasted.

“Ok.”

Much better.

After a brief jaunt through London’s Soho district (I took us to the Lina Stores deli which is on a different street to the restaurant because I’m an idiot) we entered and took a couple of seats at the bar.

I like sitting at the bar in restaurants as it means I can bombard the chef with difficult questions and distraction techniques to see how on top of their game they are. You know, squawking like a seagull while shouting about how long to cook parpadelle – that sort of thing.

To begin, I had a negroni. I like negronis, ordering them makes me feel sophisticated for some bewildering reason.

With this we ate Parma ham and Gorgonzola extra dolce with pear & mustard chutney.

I fucking love Gorgonzola dolce, especially when it’s really soft and runny. I love it so much that I’ve decided I want to die by drowning in it in the Trevi fountain while American tourists pelt my bloated corpse with euros.

We then ordered three plates of pasta to share:

Veal ravioli, gnocchi with peas & salted ricotta and agnolotti with black truffle.

They were all very tasty – the truffled agnolotti being the winner.

As our empty plates were removed the waitress asked which was our favourite and I told her what I just told you. However, she was aghast that we hadn’t ordered their most popular dish – the pici with porcini mushrooms and Umbrian sausage.

Suffering from a quite severe case of FOMO I said we’ll have one of those too. Despite being full. I am the poster boy for greed.

Despite feeling particularly obese, I was very glad we ordered it as it was delicious.

“Did you have dessert, you fat fuck?” I hear you cry.

Yes, I had chocolate cake and an espresso martini. I couldn’t finish the chocolate cake despite it being very good, because I actually felt like I was going to explode.

So, there you go. It was very good, and also very reasonably priced. Go if you want, I’m not the boss of you.

When I heard Nosh & Quaff no longer existed, and Jailbird had taken its place, I was very pleased. I was very pleased because the name ‘Nosh & Quaff’ made me want to rip my eyeballs out. Seems excessive doesn’t it? Well, let me tell you a little anecdote and see if you still feel that way.

It was August 2017 and I was walking through London’s Oxford Circus area, when out of nowhere I saw a restaurant called ‘Scoff & Banter’.

My heart started racing. I looked away. I was shaking. I must have imagined it. Was this a dream?! Surely they haven’t called their restaurant that? I slowly turned back to take a second glance – there it was, as clear as day: ‘Scoff & Banter’. I fainted.

The next thing I remember was waking as paramedics were trying to get me into an ambulance.

“Where’s my girlfriend?” I shouted.

“It’s OK Mr Foodie Boy, you’ve had a bit of a funny turn,” said the paramedic trying to calm me down.

“Unhand me! I need to find my girlfriend.” I got up and ambled away, blood pouring from my head.

“Sorry Sir, who are you here to see?” the receptionist at my girlfriend’s work enquired.

“Fuck off you square,” I screamed as I entered the lift.

“Rob, what are you doing here? What’s happened to your head?” The woman in my life asked.

“We need to go… NOW.”

“What’s going on?”

“There’s no time to explain, but something bad has happened and we need to go NOW.”

We went home, packed up our stuff and headed to Birmingham safe in the knowledge Brummies wouldn’t call a restaurant anything that dreadful.

It’s been great living in this fine city for the past nine months, with the exception of the involuntary twitch I’d get when too close to the sign for ‘Nosh & Quaff’. So, there you have it.

---

I was fortunate enough to be offered to try the menu at Jailbird by the most delightful Paul Fulford.

The space has changed considerably, with the downstairs bar area far brighter and more inviting than its predecessor. The upstairs restaurant is very smart, comfortable and has plenty of exposed brickwork which I enjoy stroking.

To start I thoroughly enjoyed scallops and bacon. The scallops were perfectly cooked and the sweetcorn offered a pleasingly sweet contrast to the salty bacon. Sweetcorn’s sweet and bacon’s salty – who knew? I really am a fine addition to the food blogging world. Scoff.

For main I had a 16oz Flat Iron steak, mainly because the other steaks on the menu were 20oz, 28oz and 40oz – and I’m not manly enough for that.

It was perfectly medium-rare as requested and a quality piece of meat. The massive chunky chips didn’t do much for me, but then I’m not really into massive chunks of potato. I’d prefer frites with my steak, probably because they fit better in my delicate nosh hole.

We quaffed some Australian Shiraz, and I even managed to fit in a chocolate tart because my dedication to obtaining type 2 Diabetes is unwavering. Banter.

It was a splendid evening and the next time I fancy a considerable portion of meat I will return.

I woke up in London the other week, London is a place in the South East of England, it’s famous for all sorts of things, like did you know it’s got its own crisp restaurant?! Mad!

When I got up on that Sunday morning I felt surprisingly fine considering the amount of booze I’d consumed the day before. So fine in fact, I thought, “I might treat myself to a nice lunch.”

A bit of time spent on popular search engine Google.com lead me to settle on Peruvian restaurant, Lima – it’s got a Michelin star and a tasting menu for £45 (lunchtime only).

Upon departing the hotel the hangover kicked in, not helped by the fact that London was muggier than Danny Dyer stealing your grandmother’s purse.

For those of you unfamiliar with hangovers – they are ideally spent in a cold, dark room with a packet of beef monster munch, a toffee crisp and a can of coke. They are not to be spent walking around London in the heat.

A 45 minute walk later… I arrived at the restaurant and waited for the couple with two small children ahead of me to get sorted out. They sat at the front next to the large, open doors where a lovely breeze was floating in.

Asked where I wanted to sit, I settled on the back of the establishment as hangovers are not improved being near small children.

The back of the restaurant was approximately 400 degrees. I asked for a beer before I sat down as beer is cold and can also make a hangover go away.

The tasting menu is called the ‘Peruvian experience’. I settled in and waited for Nolberto Solano to start playing the pan pipes.

Is it fair to judge a restaurant with an almighty hangover? I’m not sure, I’ve either decided it is – because you’re looking for the restorative qualities of the food, or it’s not – because you spend most of the time while eating it thinking you’re about to die.

Fair or not, here’s what I thought.

First to arrive was a bowl of ceviche.

To my massive surprise, a bowl of raw fish actually went down pretty well, as did the next dish ‘Duck escabeche’. Two rather miserly pieces of duck on top of a delicious, sweet and acidic brown sauce – a sauce so shiny I could see my own face in it – which in my state was not appreciated.

At this point I was starting to feel a bit better, so much so I messaged a friend about meeting up for beers after lunch.

Then the next two dishes happened and it all went a bit down hill.

To celebrate Peru’s Asian influences a plate of stir fried veg came out, and they were massively uninspiring.

Then cod with a prawn on top. After dismantling the prawn and having a bite, the taste of full intestinal tract filled my mouth and I wondered what I’d done to deserve this misery.

The cod was sufficiently forgettable that I’ve forgotten eating it.

We were back on track with the suckling pig dish, but by now I was flagging and cancelled the plans I’d made twenty minutes earlier.

The strawberry dessert arrived and I remember eating it very quickly because I urgently needed to get on a train to take me directly to bed.

All in all, it was decent. Although I don’t recommend prawn shit on a hangover.

I’m about to blow your mind, seriously, sit down before you read this next bit.

I just realised that ‘Glynn’ is ‘Lynn’ with a G at the front. Had you ever considered that? I hadn’t. Now think of all the other potential baby names just sat there waiting for use:

• Glaura
• Glouise
• Glily
• Glisa
• Glinda
• Glorraine

I know?! Frankly I could finish this blog right here and it’d have been worth you clicking on it – a great return on investment.

I like Glynn Purnell, almost entirely based on the fact he is also being a Birmingham City fan, but also because he is good at presenting Saturday Kitchen Live. I’m yet to visit his restaurant because I’m a bit scared I won’t like it and will be sad.

Last weekend was my father’s birthday so I thought I’d treat him to lunch. He said he’d like Indian or Italian so I decided to ignore him entirely and take him to Purnell’s Bistro.

I walk past the Bistro pretty much every day, so have always been intrigued what it’d be like. Upon finding out he does a 3 course set menu lunch for £20 it seemed like a winner.

There are only two choices for main, starter and dessert but fortunately there was something we all liked the sound of for each.

The goats cheese tart with black olive tapenade to start was really good, although it did leave me wondering, ‘when does a piece of puff pastry become a tart?’

The blade of beef with confit tomatoes and onion purée for main was pretty good, although it did leave me wondering, ‘are these really confit tomatoes?’

The Earl Grey panna cotta with pistachio biscotti was excellent, although it did leave me wondering, ‘why don’t I have a tongue like a fucking giraffe so I can lick this stupid pot clean.’

It was a really good lunch, especially because it wasn’t hurried (possibly because they weren’t overly busy) but it meant we got to have a few beers, a bottle of wine and a couple of cocktails after – plenty of time to discuss what a fantastic son, and human being, I am.

On the basis of this I’ll definitely be giving Glynn’s restaurant a go once I’ve got some money.

Lots of dashes in that title, not very easy on the eye. I wouldn’t blame you if you stopped reading there. Although, if you just read that sentence – you did keep reading, and if you stop at this point I will blame you… anyway, shall we get on with it?

“So, for your 28th birthday I thought I’d take you to John Peel’s favourite restaurant.”

“Who’s John Peel?” my younger fiancée shot back at me.

“Just a little joke, it doesn’t matter. I’m taking you to Hampton-in-Arden.”

“Is that a real place, or another little joke?”

“Not unless you think a village and civil parish in the Metropolitan Borough of Solihull is a joke?!”

“No.”

I booked us a room at Hampton Manor and dinner at Peel’s. To be honest, such a grand gesture on her 28th was a foolish move, what the fuck is she going to expect for her 30th?

As I’m originally from Solihull (please forgive me) I know of Hampton-in-Arden. A kid I went to school with had a gigantic house there that I went to a couple of times, his dad told me off once and it still haunts my dreams.

I’d heard about the Michelin starred restaurant in the village and occasionally contemplated suggesting meeting my mother there for lunch, but I’ve always considered it a bit too much of a cheek to do the whole:

*Bill is placed on the table*

“THANK YOU DEAREST MOTHER FOR THIS KIND GESTURE,” said while bowing.

Before she’s even looked at it or discussed who’s paying.

So, there’s your backstory and here we are.

Picture this: I’m sat in the lounge drinking a blood orange Collins, think a Tom Collins but with blood orange in it, when suddenly some rather delectable amuse bouche are bought out for us to enjoy.

Next thing you know I’m on the floor, on my back, smashing the amuse bouche against the rocks they’ve been served on – before devouring them like the hungry otter I am deep inside.

“How were they for you?” Lovely Luke the restaurant manager asked. Not even flinching at the fact I was on all fours and squeaking.

“Very nice, thanks.” The lady friend replied.

“Ross, our sommelier will be with you shortly to discuss your wine options.”

Quick as a flash I was back up and human again, otters famously hate wine.

After a brief chat with ravishing Ross, we ordered some white to go with the first few courses and a nice bottle of red for the remainder.

To the food. As with most tasting menus there were some courses that stood out more than others.

For me, the langoustine with leek and ginger and the wagyu beef with spiced cauliflower and black garlic were the highlights.

The two desserts also really need special mention, the first: blood orange, star anise and caramel, washed down with an expert pairing suggested by Ross was an absolute treat. Followed by the chocolate, sherry and vanilla which was equally good – and I’d hit that point of being so satisfied with life that I’d have quite happily sat there drinking until they put me to bed.

Fortunately, the staff didn’t have to face putting me to bed, although I’m sure they would have as they were bloody lovely.

Mothers! You’ve all got one, they might be lovely, they might be horrid, they might be dead, but whatever the circumstance – you’ve got one, get over it.

I myself have one, and she has one too. The one belonging to her is my GRANDmother – she acquired this label because she is over 14 feet tall.

As you can imagine, getting a table to celebrate Mother’s Day can be somewhat difficult when you’ve got a four metre, 93-year-old with you.

Not being the type to give up easily, and also wanting a free lunch (baby boomers have more money than me) I sourced a lunch venue – the Butcher’s Social in quaint, old Henley in Arden. “The ice cream here comes from Poland now, Rob,” grandmother informed me.

I’ve been to the Butcher’s Social before, just before Christmas, but never wrote it up – mainly because I couldn’t be arsed, but also because the service was rubbish, and I hate moaning about places on this stupid blog as I think the restaurants in question will have me killed. In short, they forgot two of the sides we’d ordered and it ended in a ridiculous back and forth about whether or not we’d ordered them in the first place. Little do they know, I know for a FACT we ordered them, as when my step-dad asked for the Aubergine, I went, “oooh, fancy,” one of many attempts to break an awkward silence that evening. Anyway, as that lad in the Lion King says, “it doesn’t matter, it in de past.”

Going totally against the last sentence, cast your mind back to Mother’s Day…

The table was booked for 12:30, two of us got there BANG on time as the last thing I need is the Foodie Boys becoming known as the Tardy Boys. However, my mother and other ensemble didn’t get there until 12:40. They sat down and we had a bit of a chat, as you do.

At 12:45 we were asked if we knew what we wanted, we requested another couple of minutes. Fine, as far as we could tell, the waitress left – but then returned a minute later to tell us we need to order soon as they, “need the table back.” Alright, ya charmer.

Now, I’m fat enough to have eaten in enough establishments to know that often tables will have a set amount of time before they have another sitting, it can be a bit annoying, but it’s fine – provided they have told you in advance. Here though, nothing when I booked, nothing when they rang to confirm the booking, nothing when we first sat down.

FOOD

I had the fillet of beef carpaccio to start, and it was a really tasty plate of food. Served with crispy kale and fried shallot rings it went down a treat.

For main I had the cod, everyone else had roast beef, which all looked pretty good – compliments were aimed at the Yorkshire puddings. The cod came with a bone marrow sauce on top, which intrigued me, and it worked pretty well.

Dessert was a treacle tart with a hazelnut ice cream (which was supposed to be vanilla). It was what I can only describe as MEH.

Back to the service

We were given the menus for dessert and ordered another bottle of wine. The wine was bought over, poured and desserts were ordered.

Five minutes later the waiter came back to inform us that when we get the desserts we’ll have 20 minutes to leave the table, but you’re welcome to go and sit in the bar then.

“Is there anywhere to sit in the bar?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.”

I think the looks on our faces prompted him to go and have a look, and he did find us a table – as much as I’d liked the idea of a massive, old woman out on the street swigging wine.

NOW…

you may think all this sounds like I’m being unreasonable, and maybe I am, but what really did my nut in was we sat in the bar, ordered another drink and before we left (an hour after being moved) I went back towards the dining room to pick up our coats. Around half of the dining room was still empty, so the desperate need for us to move on seemed totally unnecessary.

At the end of the day, it’s a communication issue, but frankly I think it’s quite an important one. Your food could be absolutely world class, but making diners feel like they’re an inconvenience will always leave a sour taste.

Please don’t hurt me.

I’ve done a fair bit of eating and drinking over the past few months but frankly, haven’t been bothered to blog about it – I can only apologise. Please, for the love of Christ, forgive me.

It’s not really fair to compare the four places I’m about to write about, but then when did I ever say this blog was going to be fair?

Let’s start with the bad, that’s what you’re here for.

The Botanist – Temple St, Birmingham

I went here after work as I wanted a beer, after the beer I realised it was fast approaching the hours of dinner (that’s the evening meal to any Northern simpletons reading), I looked at the menu and thought, “do you know what? Despite this being a chain, I’ll go against my better judgement and stop being such a snob,” good move dickhead.

I opted for one of their ‘Famous Hanging Kebabs™’ that’s right, they’ve trademarked hanging kebab – must be pretty special!

Well, blow me down! Look at it!

For just £13 I enjoyed a Lamb Kofta Hanging Kebab™. It was basically some of those lamb kofta things you buy to eat on train journeys from M&S, on a stick, with a handful of chips. Rubbish.

Scott’s of Harborne – High street, Harborne

This was one of those new independents that pop-up in Birmingham, and then all the curated ‘you must go here’ channels start telling you how you must go there.

It was my birthday and I’d taken the day off work so headed to Scott’s for breakfast.

My flat white was a ghastly affair, but there’s no time to go into that.

Avocado, salmon and scrambled egg on toast, think it was in the region of £8.

For £8 I’d hope the smoked salmon wouldn’t have been a bit rescued from the back of the fridge, where it’s sat since Christmas day three weeks previous.

Supposedly, the tapas in the evenings is good, but frankly, I won’t be taking the risk.

Anyway, bored of that.

Good things!

Adam’s – Waterloo St, Birmingham

Yes, that’s right, the Michelin starred restaurant was good! Very good in fact.

We took on the tasting menu like the absolute bloody troopers we are.

The highlights:

Veal sweetbread with mushroom ketchup and shiitake tea – one of those courses that before you’ve had your last bite you’re already thinking about how you want it again.

Scallop, bacon dashi, pata negra and salsa verde. I mean, just look at it.

I’d been waiting to go to Adam’s for a very long time and the food certainly didn’t disappoint.

Salt – Church St, Stratford-upon-Avon

“Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!”

Not my words, the words of William Shakespeare. I think what he’s getting at is: on Sunday it’s nice to go to Stratford for a bit of a walk and some food, and do you know what? The old fucker is absolutely spot on.

Roasts were on the menu at Salt, but I’m so often left underwhelmed by roasts that I opted for cod, lentil dhal and spiced butternut squash puree, and it was a very good decision. It was a cracking plate of food. Luck would have it that two of the people I went with eat so little that I got to try some roast beef anyway – and it was also excellent.

The dessert of chocolate, spiced orange cake and barley crisp went down a treat too.

Why do I take photos of food so close up? What is wrong with me? Will I learn?

Join me next time and find out.

I was on fun time website Twitter.com the other day when I saw a furore about a Times food columnist being paid to write a review of the food at Wetherspoons. Always one to jump on a bandwagon I thought I’d go and eat at a place not renowned for serving good food and then slag it off.

With sod all in the fridge other than bloody soup – tomato and basil (not blood), I decided I’d venture out into the big, bad world of Harborne High Street.

A brief jaunt up the road and there it was, the popular sandwich company Subway. Remember when they used a fat paedophile who became a thin paedophile to promote their business? What larks!

History of Subway

In 1965, Fred DeLuca started “Pete’s Super Submarines” in Bridgeport, Connecticut. In 1968, the sandwich shop was renamed “Subway”. Named after “submarine” sandwiches,  or “sub” (after the resemblance of the roll to the shape of a submarine).

There, that’s something to tell your mates down the pub this weekend. It’ll help reinforce their opinion that you’re a bit dull.

There are around 45,000 Subway stores located in 112 countries, with 2,300 of them in the UK.

I know! Quite a few eh? Time for some maths. 365 days of lunch x 45,000 Subway stores = 16,425,000. Let’s say the average store serves 30 people a day. 16,425,000 x 30 = 492,750,000. Let’s say half of them make a joke about 6 inches / penises – we’re talking nearly 250 million. Unbelievable really.

Subway Harborne

The first thing I noticed as I walked towards the sandwich creation area was the crisps were held behind the counter. The last time I was in one of these places I was free to pick up my own crisps.

Immediately with my guard up, due to feeling that I couldn’t be trusted, I approached the Sandwich Artist. Yes, they are called Sandwich Artists.

“What would you like?” The artist asked.

“I’ll ask the questions. What would you recommend?” I responded.

“Big beef melt.”

“You cheeky, fucker. Oh, there’s a sandwich called that. No. I’ll have a 6 inch, OOH PARDON, Italian BMT. What does the BMT stand for?” I enquired.

“What bread do you want?”

“Herbs and cheese. What does BMT stand for?”

“I don’t know. Cheese and toasted?”

“Brilliantly… meaty… treat, perhaps?”

“Cheese and toasted?”

“YES, CHEESE AND TOASTED!”

Looking at the ingredients for the sandwiches really does get the mouth watering and the tummy rumbling. Mmm delicious, weird coloured meat.

Next thing you know the artist formerly known as ‘sandwich’, opens the flap and removes your warm six inches and is demanding to know what you want to do with it next.

Stick some bloody lettuce and some cucumber on it, please, and a bit of that honey mustard sauce.

Here it is, in all its beauty.

It’s shite isn’t it? We all know it’s shite. It repeated on me throughout the day though, which was nice – value for money.

I contemplated whether I could be a sandwich artist and yes, it turns out I could be.