Bristol – where you go when you leave London but you’re not edgy enough to move to Birmingham. Not my words, the words of Russell Howard*. *Russell Howard did not say this.

Recently I had a free weekend, and whereas normally I’d spend this sat on my arse, watching football and ordering at least two meals to be delivered directly to my face, I decided to leave the house. Fancy.

Where to go? What to do? I looked at various places I could get to easily from Birmingham then did some quite complicated mathematics.

Cost of train + abundance of places to eat = 

With the numbers crunched, and never having been to Bristol before, I consulted the good people of Twitter.com about where to eat. I was told my best bet would be Wilson’s. And, would you believe it, the people of Twitter.com were right for the first time ever.

I arrived in Bristol and immediately hopped on another train to Redlands. A brief walk which involved more than a couple of thoughts of ‘oooh, it’s quite nice here,’ I arrived at the door of Wilson’s where a chap in chef’s whites was chatting to some locals.

“Good day, I’ve been sent from Birmingham to try your wares.” I announced, pushing the Bristolians away. Jan the owner in the chef’s whites led me inside. 

With a negroni in hand a selection of snacks came out. Malted sourdough with a pigeon liver parfait was excellent, it turns out pigeons have livers?! Who knew.

My favourite snack was the buttermilk fried rabbit with tarragon emulsion. A crispy, salty, delicious nugget of rabbit. If my investors ever get back to me you can expect a KFR in every town across the UK very soon.

My favourite courses from the tasting menu were:

Mackerel, lovage, kohlrabi and oyster poached in mackerel bones.

Quail, sweet corn purée summer truffle.

Guinea fowl, girolles, guinea fowl leg with cauliflower moose and old sourdough.

The guinea fowl in particular made me feel very pleased with my decision to leave the house.

Then, dearest reader, a Gooseberry soufflé arrived. Now, I don’t normally order soufflés as once I had one in France (YEAH, FRANCE) that was so shit I vowed to never waste my dessert again.

This successfully erased that memory, my god it was amazing. Delicate, light but packed full of flavour. Turns out Jan knows Rob Weston the head chef of La Trompette the only other place I order soufflés. After wanking on to Jan about how much I wanted to sit there and eat soufflé all day, I left, full, a bit pissed and quite content.

I marched towards some massive, fuck off bridge, stared at it for a bit and then went for a pint. Then I got up and walked some more. Interesting this bit isn’t it? ‘I wonder where he walks to next?’ you’re thinking, well, hang on a minute and I’ll tell you.

Ready for another pint, I spotted a pub in the distance. There was a cat in the window which immediately aroused my suspicion. Don’t worry, ‘suspicion’ is not what I call my penis. Bag of Nails is the name of the pub, I strongly recommend reading the Google reviews as there are some crackers.

“When my friend asked for a Strongbow dark fruits she replied “well I’ll have to see your ID if your asking for a drink like that”, which was extremely patronizing and made us feel very unwelcome.”

Pints polished off and a few cats stroked (yes, I could have put some rude P based alliteration here but frankly you should all grow up) I headed off in the direction of dinner.

Paco tapas is situated by the water of the River Avon, very nice.

Highlights:

Croquettes were great. I mean croquettes are always nice, but these were really nice.

The Presa Iberica (poorly pictured in the background) was cooked to perfection over the hot coals – I think I’ll write melt in the mouth. Pathetic bit of prose but I nearly need to get off the bus.

The only thing I didn’t enjoy was a charred leek with romesco sauce, not because it didn’t taste nice, for it did taste nice, but the knife I had wasn’t sharp enough to cut through the leek, so it just ended up being a straggly mess, a bit like your mum.

I asked for a sharper knife and was told they didn’t have one, but I suspect it’s because they knew I’m from Birmingham.

Concluding notes: Bristol is nice, I would return. Many thanks.

 

Some of you may be surprised by the number of pizza restaurants rising up in Birmingham recently, research suggests we can expect no fewer than four dough flinging outlets per person in the city centre by 2020, quite the prospect.

Of course, anyone with an even reasonable grasp of history won’t be surprised by this, as Birmingham’s obsession with pizza goes much further back than just the last few weeks.

Pizza Hut – where pizza was invented back in 1980, used to own the Rotunda and plied the good people of Birmingham with the stuff.

Brummie historian Carlton Chinny:

“I’ll never forget my first stuffed crust pizza. I was in the Bullring market minding my own business when pizza started flying down from the sky. It was a PR stunt by Pizza Hut, they were lobbing meat feasts from the top of the Rotunda. 11 people had pepperoni based injuries.”

The other important occurrence of the 80s was the birth of Father John in Sparkbrook. At the age of 15 he had his first pizza in the Rotunda. “This is shit,” he said, “I could make better fucking pizza than this.” And so he did, Father John’s Pizza was born. With sales not matching his expectations, he decided to take drastic action and Papa John was born.

What other bullshit can I come up with about Pizza and Birmingham.

Pizza Express was invented on the Aston Expressway.

Where to eat pizza in Birmingham

Now I’m going to show you three good places to eat pizza in Birmingham city centre. Three places that every other food blogger in Birmingham has already told you to eat pizza in.

I’m not going to bother explaining what pizza tastes like because, come on. Oooh the tomatoes were tomatoey! The anchovies were particularly anchovyey.

Franco Manca – 19 Bennetts Hill, Birmingham B2 5QJ

Rudy’s – 9-10 Bennetts Hill, Birmingham B2 5RS

Otto – 14 Caroline St, Birmingham B3 1TR

Which was my favourite? Thanks for asking. The answer is Rudy’s. The dough was perfectly chewyey, it was very reasonablyey priced and you could get a half decent negroni for £5.90. I could write, ‘and the rest is history’ here as a nice little out. I’m not going to though.

 

Mermaids. Hygge. Herring.

Amuse-bouche

A man I know moved to Denmark a couple of years ago. That man? That man is one of the co-founders of the most important food blog of all time – foodieboys.com

That’s right, we set this up back in October 2014 to take the piss out of the food blogging scene in London. Our first blog was about London Cocktail Week, but we went and reviewed a Wetherspoons. All very, very clever.

For some reason we called ourselves Toby and Tony and used to write stupid reviews of places we’d been. We’d somehow get invited occasionally to eat food for free, either because someone thought we were funny or someone was utterly crap at their PR job.

Then, in 2017 I moved to Birmingham and ‘Toby’ moved to Copenhagen. What a loser. Imagine choosing Copenhagen over Birmingham.

I decided to continue this blog because frankly, I need something to do on public transport. I’m glad I did, this year I’ve had more views than in 2017 and 2018 combined – what an absolute hero.

Sadly, it wouldn’t have been possible for ‘Toby’ to continue contributing as he has not only moved to Denmark, but he also doesn’t like fish and now lives on nothing but hot dogs.

The main problem I have these days is the name we chose, as often people don’t realise it’s all a bit of a joke and actually think I’m the sort of wanker who would describe themselves as a ‘foodie’, but anyway, there we were and here we are.

Despite his total lack of commitment to the art of Food Blogging I decided to go and visit ‘Toby’ in CPH. I’d heard it’s a real foodies heaven! Foodie foodie foodie.

Breakfast – direktørsnegl at Lagkagehuset

Be still my beating heart, literally, my heart will stop working if I eat too many more of these.

Every day I went to a branch of the Lagkagehuset chain and bagged myself a direktørsnegl. A chocolate and cinnamon pastry swirl.

“Denne fede mand kræver et direktørsnegl, tak,” I’d say, and they’d happily oblige.

Oooooh baby they’re good, so good. If someone starts selling them in Birmingham I will break in and steal every single one of them while you sleep.

I think the good thing about having something you know you shouldn’t be eating for breakfast is you’re more likely to choose healthily for the rest of the day. Which brings me on to…

Lunch – BBQ at Warpigs

“James (that is Toby’s real name), for the love of Christ take me to the trendy meatpacking district. If I don’t see some meat being packed ASAP I’m going to force-feed you pickled herring until you vomit,” I demanded.

He obliged, and next thing you know I was knocking back fucking expensive Mikkeller beer in the sun.

Handily they let you eat food while you drink beer, and it’s good drinking food: BBQ from ‘two gigantic high-quality smokers, the biggest in Europe, that can smoke up to 2 tonnes of meat a day.’ Two tonnes of meat a day, almost more than your mum.

There wasn’t much brisket left, but I got the last little bit after I fought a man to death. I also ate hot links, buffalo chicken wings, macaroni cheese. WHOA MAMA!

The wings were a bit on the scrawny side but everything else tasted marvellous.

Second lunch – Grill Art – Reffen

Reffen is a street food market by the harbour. Street food is going to be massive, mark my words. What it is, right, is food but rather than sitting and eating it in a restaurant you eat it from a tray stood up or at a bench, honestly, it’s mad.

I went to Grill Art because it smelt good, and they were giving out tasters.

The taster was a bit of beef, very nice, so I naturally ordered the special which was a rack of lamb. Excellent it was too. With this in mind, have a photo of the view and not of the food I ordered.

Light snack – Hallernes Smørrebrød – Tivoli Food Hall

If I was to guess, I reckon ‘smørrebrød’ almost definitely translates as ‘stuff on bread’, for that, dear reader, is what it is.

As a man who doesn’t really like sandwiches (wraps are the way forward) these were almost definitely designed just for me.

Rye bread, covered in stuff. We chose the following stuff: pickled herring, prawns, chicken liver and smoked salmon. If chickens had any sense and lived in the sea you could say we had a seafood feast.

I loved the pickled herring, which no one else did, so I mainly ate that. Very Scandi of me. Watch me pay more tax and be generally happier. Losers.

Dinner – Marv & Ben

At Gatwick the day before we flew, I got an email – it was from Noma informing me that a table had become available the following day. “FUCK,” I said, and contemplated booking it. Then I remembered I’m not a millionaire.

Instead, for our fancy meal we went to Marvin and Benjamin, and what a lovely meal it was.

FULL DISCLAIMER:

I’d had a few beers when we went to this, and had a aperitif and also did the wine pairing, and BOY do they not hold back on the wine pairings. Seven large glasses, well, nine, because my wife didn’t want one of hers and I really liked one of them so they gave me more. I was what I can only describe as ‘a bit pissed’ by the end.

However, I can tell you that there were a few standout courses.

New potatoes, lovage and cured witch flounder. This was delightful and reminded me of a dish from Sat Bains. Dipping the spoon into the foam and bringing out some rich, crunchy deliciousness.

Lamb, wild garlic and gooseberries was also excellent.

You also get a constant stream of bloody tasty freshly baked bread throughout the meal, which probably stops most people getting hammered. NOT THIS GUY THOUGH, GOOD TRY, DANES.

All in all, if you like food you might like Copenhagen.

Obviously I didn’t actually eat all this in one day, but hasn’t it given the blog the most lovely structure?

Full disclosure: I paid for this entire meal, well other than a pot of BBQ sauce. I can explain though. You see, I couldn’t spot anywhere on the electronic terminal to add ‘extras’ such as sauces. A kindly member of staff (probably realising who I was) offered me it for free. However, please don’t let you think this has clouded my judgement on the shit food.

As my grandfather used to sing, “Chick, chick, chick, chick, chicken, let me cover you in buffalo sauce and put you in a tortilla you stupid, fucking bird.”

Grandfather was an angry man, but boy did he love fried chicken. He used to serve it to American fighter pilots during one of the wars probably.

Next scene

Grand Central. “Just popping to Grand Central to run some errands,” we’ve all been there. You see, my watch doesn’t work properly. The hand designed to count seconds just slightly juts back and fourth between 34 and 35. The manufacturer of said timepiece told me to go to one of their stockists, and blow me down there was one in Grand Central.

To cut a long story short, they wanted to charge me £25 to send the watch to the manufacturer.

“Couldn’t I just do that myself?” I asked.

“Yes,” the shop assistant responded.

“Very well, I shall have my watch back and I’ll go and get myself some lunch”

That is LITERALLY what happened, there’s no room for exaggeration here.

What to eat though? Terrible macaroni cheese? Crap tapas? No, let’s go and try that new chicken place.

Slim Chickens

First things first: the name. Is it a play on ‘slim pickings’? As in, there’s not much choice? Or is it something to do with Louis Burton Lindley Jr, better known by his stage name Slim Pickens,  who was an American rodeo performer and actor? I guess we’ll never know.

The other reason it’s a crap name is it makes me think of weird, skinny chickens trapped in cages. I want to eat big, fat fucking chickens not scrawny bastards.

There was quite a queue when I approached, a queue I briefly joined until I realised they’ve got those electric payment terminals, I hopped over to one and competed to get my order finished before the bloke next to me.

A buffalo chicken wrap, fries and a sparkling water was my order. What? Yes, sparkling water, look, I’m watching my figure.

Let’s start with the fries – shite. Bland, lukewarm, shite.

Buffalo chicken wrap – quite shite. A modicum of buffalo heat on a miniscule amount of quite reasonable tasting chicken encased in a noticeably cold wrap.

£8.95.

You’d have got the same thing and better chips for less than a fiver from McDonald’s.

A burger from Bonehead would have been 45p cheaper. Christ, that’s just made me sad.

TOP TIP

If you want to watch someone rubbing the raw chicken in buttermilk grab this seat for  the hottest view in town.

 

If I told you there’s a pub in Quinton knocking out very decent Indian food you’d probably say, “OK, fair enough.” If I told you this pub is owned by Tosh from the Bill and Samantha Fox you’d probably say, “seems plausible, tell me more.” I give you the Copper Fox Grill.

A few weeks ago with a hangover at seven on the sickter scale I decided to get out of bed and go for a walk.

As we all know, the old saying goes, “if you find yourself hungover, get out of bed and walk to Quinton,” and who am I to break with tradition?

What actually happened is I walked to Grove Park in Harborne and then carried on wandering, then like a wise man spotting the star – I spied a pub in the distance.

What happened next will shock you.

The sun was out, so I sat in the outside bit, the football was on, I had three pints, some chilli chicken, daal makhani and a small mixed grill and my hangover disappeared. Magical.

The chilli chicken is one of those things you know you probably shouldn’t be eating with a slightly luminous orange sauce, but ideal hangover material.

Lamb samosas were filled with a keema matar type filling and went down better than your mum.

The daal makhani was very good and plentiful, so plentiful it comes in a bucket. Perfect.

The mixed grill certainly isn’t the best you’ll get in Birmingham, the chicken tikka wasn’t up to much sadly, but it was decent and cheap.

Well done everyone.

The end.

GIFTED – that’s right, I didn’t pay for this. Sure, you can stop reading now if you think that means you won’t be getting good, honest opinions, but then ask yourself – why would I lie to you? Have I ever lied to you? Why are you so suspicious all the time?

If I lied to you then I’d possibly start lying to other people – like a domino effect… I’m going to be honest with you here, I shoehorned in ‘domino effect’ so I could do an analogy about the Vietnam War throughout this review, to relate to the name of the folk supplying the food at Ghetto Golf.

However, I don’t think I can be bothered. Let’s see how we get on. Like John F. Kennedy’s escalation in Vietnam, let us begin.

Apocalypse Cow. Think: Burgers and Fries. Got it? Good. Now forget burgers and fries because before I ate any burger or fries I stealthily ate some Lasagne Bites. I hid amongst the neon dildos to avoid detection, like the Viet Cong may have done, and greedily stuffed them down my throat. They were surprisingly nice as I’d anticipated them tasting like something from Iceland.

Burgers. We had a Blue Moo and a Mother Clucker – one of them is beef and one of them is chicken, I’ll leave you to decide which is which.

The Moo is a single patty, with some brisket on top and blue cheese. Sadly I couldn’t taste much blue cheese, the brisket didn’t add much. Similar issues with the chicken burger, it didn’t taste of much and the chicken was a little tough.

Unlike Lyndon B. Johnson’s involvement in the Vietnam War, things got significantly better.

We ordered the salt and pepper chicken loaded fries. Time for another disclaimer (see I’d never lie to you). I feel it necessary to inform you that I fucking love chips. I love chips like a fat man loves chips. And no, I’m not being paid by big potato (although if this is possible I’d be happy to – I’m looking at you AHDB Potatoes).

These chips came with some crispy chicken, spring onion, chilli, hoi sin sauce and sriracha. If I’d been pissed / hungover I predict I could have polished off about 400 portions of these, before having a massive heart attack and having my corpse incorporated into a mini golf obstacle.

Just as Richard Nixon did, we ended the war with Reese’s Cheesecake. Cheesecake covered in Reese’s pieces, chocolate and peanut butter sauces.

(Nay)face palm here, it was very nice indeed.

Let’s play a word association game, I’ll say a word and you have to say the first thing that comes into your head.

Me: Oysters

You: SEX! GAGGING! SEA CREATURE!

Whoa there, well I’m certainly glad you didn’t accompany me to The Oyster Club last week.

As a man of impeccable taste you won’t be surprised one bit to hear that I like oysters, there’s something about slurping something from a shell and dribbling sea juice down my chin that really does it for me.

Having dined at Adam’s a couple of times I had high hopes for this place (I could have used the word eatery there but I wouldn’t do that to you).

Seeing tempura oysters on the menu filled me with joy and nostalgia. I first had something similar at The Merchant’s Tavern nearly six years ago, it was the night I told my wife I love her on the top deck of the 242 bus – a simpler time.

Here, I found myself declaring my love once more, the tempura oysters were delicious. I could have sat eating them until I needed an awkward hospital visit.

“What seems to be the problem, Mr Boy?”

“I ate 400 oysters in 15 minutes.”

“FETCH THE PUMP.”

For my main I had halibut and chips, I’d read a few people mention the price of this – and having to buy the chips separately, I could be wrong but I think they’ve amended their prices. Now, I know some of you are never going to agree that paying £23.50 for fish and chips can be justified, however, I’m here to tell you you’re wrong.

It was so good, I went all quiet as I ate it. The light batter on the perfectly cooked fish was a delight. The big, fat chips perfectly salted and vinegered.

Washed down with a reasonably priced glass of Picpoul it’s a perfect pay day treat.

My only gripe was the dessert, we shared a chocolate fondant with salted caramel ice cream. The ice cream didn’t taste of much and the fondant didn’t taste too dissimilar to one you’d get in an M&S 2 for £10.

So, in summary I’d highly recommend perusing the menu at this Birmingham city centre eatery.

*Picks up mic, turns cap backwards*

♫ I’d really love to be alone without all the
Ache and pain and the April showers
But it ain’t long before I long for you, like a
Ray of hope, coming through the blue moon

When it all gets dark again
The whole thing falls apart I guess
It doesn’t really matter ’bout the rain
‘Cause we’ll get through it anyway
We’ll get up and start again

‘Cause we could be gifted, gifted, gifted
We could be gifted ♫

That’s me using the Lighthouse Family song ‘Lifted’ to inform you that I didn’t pay for this meal.

“Very clever,” you’re thinking.

Well, hang on a second and let me tell you that this night also involved karaoke, where if you were so inclined, you could sing the Lighthouse Family.

“Wow, you really are the most important thing to ever happen to food blogging in the Midlands.”

Dim Sum in Birmingham

I’ve been craving dim sum for a little while so when Paul Fulford was kind enough to invite me along to Wing Wah I was delighted to accept.

On arrival I was greeted with a Bellini and a chat about rice wine, which resulted in me downing a shot of rice wine – my kind of hospitality.

We enjoyed an extensive Dim Sum menu which included prawn dumplings, sweet char sui pork buns, soup dumplings and buns shaped like mushrooms with a salty and sweet custard inside.  

I particularly enjoyed the scallops cooked served with glass noodles and the abalone – mainly because I’d never think to order abalone but now I would.

• 

• 

We were then hit with a selection of the larger dishes from the a la carte menu, highlights included fillet steak with truffle, very tasty crispy aubergine and duck in plum sauce.

Karaoke in Birmingham

Full of wine and very tasty food a few of us headed downstairs towards the karaoke rooms. These private, themed rooms include Bollywood, Mongolian and traditional English pub.

Buble warning:

Will I return? Yes. Where will you find me? In a karaoke room, knocking back rice wine, singing the Lighthouse Family and ordering plenty of dim sum.

“Where would you like to go for your birthday, dearest?” My wife asked.

“Oooh, ideally a university town.”

“Which?”

“One where most the tossers I attended school with went.”

“I’m not sure there are any good restaurants in Loughborough.”

“No, Nottingham you fool!”

Is there any better way to celebrate turning 34 than by going to Nottingham? Probably, yes.

Is there any better way to celebrate turning 34 than by going to Nottingham and spending more money on food than you’ve ever spent? Also, probably, yes, but that’s what I did and you’re going to have to get over it.

Any food blogger worth their truffled salt knows that 34 is the peak time for food blogging, your taste buds are at their prime before they give up and die.

With this in mind I thought a Michelin star job was the only way forward. I looked at where I could get to from Birmingham without a car, or spending £400 on train fares, and settled on Sat Bains in Nottingham.

I read a lot about the venue – it being by a motorway and a big pylon. Some commentators seem to have an issue with this, but frankly if you don’t see a pylon and immediately start salivating I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with you. I like pylons so much I actually asked if we could eat outside but was informed this wouldn’t be possible. Here is the pylon. 

We were fortunate enough that this year my birthday fell on a Saturday, meaning that Mr Saturday Bains would be in cooking that evening. I hear his brother Thurs Bains isn’t anywhere near as good.

What was the most expensive meal I’ve ever had like? Well, the service was excellent, the sommelier was fantastic, the wine pairings were great and of the 11 courses we had I’d say five of them were superb, I didn’t get the fuss about one and one was pointless.

Shall we discuss some of the courses I loved? OK.

Smoked eel /apple/turnip/seaweed /Manjimup truffle. YES, if you’ve bothered to read any of the rest of my reviews you will know that if you stick smoked eel in front of me I will bark and lick your face like an excited Cocker Spaniel.

Glazed veal sweetbread /celeriac/remoulade/thyme. The sweetbreads were finished in butter in the pan at the table. A wonderful reminder of how delicious butter is, and how we’re all going to die.

Something called Sherwood Forest or something similar – think it was venison. It had a sort of gel dome. I’ll level with you, I can’t be arsed to describe it, go and find out for yourself.

Dessert: Lenton lane inspired by the rocky road. YES BITCHES. This was splendid. The first bite of chocolate I was all, “Whoa! That just tastes of fags.” It’s been infused with tobacco you see, HOWEVER, when you had the chocolate with the rest of the components of the plate it was fantastic.

Indifferent to

‘From the embers’ – potato/kombu/caviar. I think this is one of Sat’s signature dishes, and I’m sure it’s actually amazing, and you all love it and I’m wrong, but to me, it was just fine.

Pointless

Coddled egg additional course. When you’re doing a tasting menu and there’s an additional course you’re always tempted, it’s basic psychology (probably).

You think, “I’m spending all this on food anyway, what’s another £11?” Well, it’s £22 in total if there are two of you, it would have been £77 if there were seven of us, and so on. When it doesn’t really taste of anything it’s upsetting.

Prior to

Before Sat Bains we had a couple of cocktails in Cottonmouth in Nottingham city centre. Sensibly they’ve put the word ‘cotton’ and ‘mouth’ together, as otherwise you Google ‘Cotton Mouth’ and get results such as:
“Cotton Mouth is a disease your fish can get and it needs to be dealt with quickly.”

Fortunately diseased fish mouths were the last thing on our minds here. Quality cocktails, our favourite was the Sabbatical – Gin, white port, dry vermouth, Riesling and pineapple. Sure to perk up even the most miserable of Pike.

Next

The next day I really wanted to go to Alchemilla but they’re shut on Sunday.

Instead, we ended up at Bar Iberico for some tapas and it was right good. Have a picture.

If upon hearing I’ve returned from three nights in Florence you were to ask me:

“How many paintings of the Baby Jesus did you gawp at?”

Or:

“How many marbled penises did you fondle?”

I’d be forced to shout, “NONE,” at you. I’d then explain that instead of queuing up to stumble, chin-strokingly, around art galleries I instead took to the streets, eating and drinking – an endeavour I proudly take on just for you, the avid reader.

Italian food consumed:

Pasta, cheese, meat.

Italian drink consumed:

Red wine, espresso.

You simply cannot argue with my choices.

History

I used to not really be into Italian food because I’d always eaten it at crap restaurants. Then a few years back I got a job which entailed eating and drinking in Italy quite a bit and I, quite sensibly, fell in love with it.

Italians

Italians can be right funny fuckers when it comes to food, everything has to be done a certain way and use certain ingredients and ‘nonna first made this 4,000 years ago’ etc – but I’m starting to get it.

For example, the pasta sauces I had in Florence were all so rich and beautiful they could have made a lesser man weep. One I had at an Italian in Birmingham recently was watery and soulless and actually made me weep. Honestly, they had to drag me out of the place kicking and screaming.

Where and what

On our first day we popped over the river to get away from the tourists. We ended up spending most of our time over there in the Oltrarno area, and frankly I want someone to buy me a flat near Santo Spirito. Do email me if you’d like to take up this opportunity

We first stopped off at Il Santino wine bar for a glass of wine and a snack.

A couple of glasses of Brunello Di Montalcino and a plate of crostini later and I could have died a happy man. The crostini, of what was essentially sausage meat on toasted bread with slightly melted, truffled pecorino on top, was every fat man’s dream.

If you visit Il Santino it’s worth also popping into their bakery S.Forno which is the most Instagramable bakery you’ll ever see.

We also ate in their restaurant on our last night Il Santo Bevitore. My wife tells me she enjoyed it, however I can’t comment massively as I was pissed. You see, she only wanted a glass of wine with dinner but I accidentally ordered a bottle of some fancy fizz and a bottle of red which I had to finish to myself because I am a dedicated drunk.

Unexpected lunch

One day it actually bloody rained, a real kick in the teeth for this staunch Remainer. I’d planned most of our eating destinations but my wife, mentioned above, suggested we get out of the rain and just go into a restaurant for lunch without even letting me Google it. It hardly bears thinking about, horrible, reckless behaviour.

Annoyingly, it was really good. La Ghiotta doesn’t look like much, and it’s full of actual Italian people which was somewhat disconcerting. Half a litre of house red wine was €4 and a delicious plate of parpadella with duck sauce was €8.

One of my planned meals was a slight curveball – Io Osteria Personale is more tasting menu district than big bowl of hearty like mama used to make land. We went for the 6 courses chosen by the chef. The standouts were beef tartare with an intense mushroom powder on top, slightly torched mackerel with sea vegetables and a bergamot broth and an octopus dish – which was almost fantastic. The octopus cooked to perfection on a celeriac cream but then ruined with a lime sauce dotted on the side that tasted like it would unblock your kitchen sink.

And finally, the one thing I’d really been looking forward to eating – bistecca alla Fiorentina. Massive, big manly meat.

A big, ol’ Porterhouse steak arrived at the table. The cut we got was without doubt a bit fatty, however, the meat (and most of the fat frankly) was divine. Like, so good I keep thinking about it..

We also had a pasta starter made up of lampredotto and salsa verde – lampredotto being the fourth stomach of the cow. Great work, cows.

We had this at Osteria dell’Enoteca washed down with another fantastic Brunello – these chaps also run a wine bar which we tried out – Enoteca Pitti Gola E Cantina.

If you want a more traditional lampredotto head to Simeone’s for it in a sandwich.

If sandwiches served to you by lovely, Italian men is your thing you should also head to Semel. A tiny, one-man shop serving up an array of ‘panino’. The stand out one for us was the pear, truffle and pecorino.

So, in summary, if you want to spend too much money on great food and great wine you might enjoy Florence. I do hope this information is helpful to you.