Last night a DJ saved my life

'Last night a DJ saved my life' (1), or more accurately two and a half months ago a DJette saved my life. 'What a night' (2). It was Pure 'Muzikizum' (3) when I stumbled into The Salon on that balmy Saturday night. Was I experiencing a ‘London thing’ (4) in PVD? The DJette was 'Insatiable' (5). She had long dark, almost black hair that meandered easily like the Mississippi River. I thought,‘It just won’t do’ (6) seeing and hearing. Feeling like a 'Real wild horse' (7), I had to find out more about this DJette. I finally had an ‘Energy flash’ (8) and decided to throw my hat and ‘Kiss the night’ (9).
Texts go by. ‘Days go by’ (10) and I am restless wanting Wednesday to come by. 'Finally' (11), that day of days rolled around ever so slowly. Waiting at Cook & Brown, I was feeling like ‘The man with the red face’ (12) but also feeling ‘Pumped up’ (13) - nervous but excited. It was a relief when the DJette turned up, coral jeans and all. She was and is like ‘Heaven scent’ (14). 96 Roses, one Sierra Nevada and we were almost definitely in a ‘Higher state of consciousness’ (15). I’m glad I trimmed my midnight walking tour of PVD at The Salon as it gave me a brilliant highlight - a ‘Summer of love’ (15).


Last night a DJ saved my life - Carl Cox (mix)
What a night (Angel Moraes & Ronnie Ventura's Original Mix) - Just Us
Muzikizum - Xpress 2
London thing - Scott Garcia Feat MC Styles
Insatiable (Rasmus Faber Mix) - Thick D
It just won’t do - Tim Deluxe
 Real wild horse (Sharp mix) - Raúl Orellana
Energy flash - Joey Beltram
Kiss the night - Royal Jam
 Days go by - Dirty Vegas
 Finally - Kings of Tomorrow
The man with the red face - Laurent Garnier
Pumped up - DJ Remy
Heaven Scent - Bedrock
Summer of love - Lonyo

A real shocker, Seekonk, MA, July 2012

In the current state of mind, I didn't think something would stir my apathetic state quite so much as this disaster offered by Outback Steakhouse and Cold Stone Creamery. I did not take any pictures so I will paint a picture. I am glad I did not soil the pixels in my camera with these latest offerings.

It was another depressing day. My mood was lower than the rate of interest offered by my bank. Imagine the thought of translating the entire transcript of the Leveson Inquiry into Latin whilst having the soles of your feet flogged with barbed wire. The idea was put forward to try Outback Steakhouse. I had gone before but I think my palate was naive and immature. It was a perfect evening. It was not too hot and not too cold. The blue sky was slowly being engulfed by the molten sunset. Perfect. It was screaming for an outdoor meal....

We parked and made our way to the front door where a family of obese atherosclerotic humanoids waddled out. I should have turned around and gone home right there. Inside, the atmosphere was your standard American restaurant chain atmosphere. The air conditioning units were relentlessly recycling the tired air while trying its best to culture Legionnaire's disease just for our comfort. It was dark inside too. The blinds were closed as if trying to block anything natural filling the room. Here natural is not good.

The customary headache of trying to place my order inevitably ensued. I don't mind waitresses not understanding my accent but trying to guess what I say, writing down what they think and getting it completely wrong vexes me right off. If there are any waitresses reading this, do yourself a favour and just tell me that you do not understand. Getting that off my chest, we ordered a big fried onion thing complete with dip for an appetiser although the word 'appetiser' does not describe accurately this health catastrophe. I ordered, what can only be described as a poor man's surf and turf. Stupidly for my side, I asked for an onion soup.

Calamitous, harrowing, sodomy. Perfect adjectives to describe what violated my oesophagus. First, my onion soup. A piece of bread (I think) with melted cheese floated on the surface as if its sole purpose was to unleash the punchline of this soup once you remove it from the surface. The soup resembled sludge, and it didn't taste too far off sludge. Second, the fried onion thing ('Bloomin' onion'). It looked quite impressive in a cholesterrific sadistic way. This thing was obviously developed by Pfizer with sales of atorvastatin in mind. This onion thing was, however, addictive like crack cocaine. And just like crack cocaine it will fuck you up. If I could fractionally distillate this onion thing, it would have guaranteed my membership at OPEC. Last, my steak and shrimp with seasonal vegetables arrived. My plate looked like a teenager's face. It was greasy and had greasy nasty blotches scattered around. Oh hold it, that was the steak, token shrimps and seasonal vegetables. My token shrimps looked forlorn and were probably glad to be culled. My steak was despicable. They somehow got away with grilling an old boot seasoned with trench foot. Not even Bob Diamond could have rigged this to something acceptable. And the seasonal vegetables were just pitiful.

I thought I could salvage the evening with an ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery. It is difficult to fuck up ice cream. But this is America. My kid's size ice cream was a monster. What was in it was also a miscreation. I thought I would play it safe and get a vanilla ice cream. First, I could not taste any vanilla. Just some generic sweet taste. Second the consistency of this behemoth was like cryo-bitumen. Even the Large Hadron Collider would have trouble analysing what this thing was. This ice cream somehow eluded the Higg's field and was an entity in itself, although the statement is not technically correct as the ice cream would be flying around at the speed of light. Thinking about it, I should have binned it at the speed of light.

The HoDown says: palate sodomy.

European foodball

It is crunch time in the Euro zone. Greece's participation in Europe looks extremely doubtful.  Portugal are relying on zee Germans for a Euro bailout. Republic of Ireland Trapped in Euro hell. I am not talking about the Euro zone financial crisis but the European Championship co-hosted by Poland and Ukraine.

Russia and Poland

The Russians and the Poles have had me on the edge of my seat. Not because I am a voyeur and enjoy watching a good punch up but because they are playing some exciting football. Andrei Arshavin is reminding Gooners why Arsene grew his arms to reach into his pocket for him. Lewandoski looks like a quality Polish striker unlike Miroslav Klose and Prince Podolski (Judases).

Greece & The Czech Republic
Interest rates in Greece would have been at a decent level pre tournament. After a satisfying start considering the austerity measures in the form of a red card to personnel the Greeks had something to look forward to against the Czechs who had been battered in their first game. In parallel, however, with other Greek domestic matters, the Czechs bounced back with a win over the Greeks in the second match. Greece will need a monster bailout to save them from exiting the Euros.

Germany
Ironically the best two players for the zee Germans are poles apart (not Miroslav Klose nor Prince Podolski). Bastien Schweinsteiger has got to be the most German of German names whilst Mario Gomez has got to be the least German of German names (Mesut Ozil, Sami Khedira, Ilkay Gudogan and Jerome Boateng not included). Never write off zee Germans.

The Netherlands
The Dutch are playing like their landscape - flat. Did Bert Van Marwijk send the team for homeopathic treatment in Amsterdam before the tournament? The only thing colourful about their performance is their orange jersey.

Portugal
The pressure on CR7 is intense but his hair looks great. It looks like he has borrowed Zlatan's Invisible Man outfit.

Denmark
I couldn't believe I heard Dennis Rommedhal's name in the commentary. I remember the days when he used to steam up and down the wing at The Valley. I thought he would be at home with his pipe and slippers. What has happened to Nicklas Bendtner? I always enjoy watching him because he is so full of shit. He is like the Paulie 'Magicman' Magniaggi of football especially with his neon football boots. Anyway, the lad has doubled his strike rate for the season scoring 2 goals so far - equal with super Nando Torres.

Italy
Mario Ballotelli must have stepped into H.G. Wells' time machine after he pickpocketed Sergio Ramos. Time seemed to slow down when he was through on goal. I could see the photons leaving my computer screen as Super Mario had his Matrix moment. Or maybe Ramos ran through a worm hole and appeared shoulder to shoulder Super Mario.

Republic of Ireland
The Irish did a great job camouflaging with the turf. I did not see them on the pitch against Spain. Spain just had to negotiate their way round 10 man-sized blades of grass. I can think of teams not in the competition who would do a better job than Trapp's team; e.g. The Netherlands (see above). Most effect member of the Irish team: their traveling supporters.

Croatia
Nice kit. Luka to Man U?

Spain
Torres is back after shooting practice with the Irish. I didn't recognise Sergio Ramos with his short back and sides though. Iniesta is pure class. He is the anti Yaya Toure in terms of aesthtics - short and white - but very good at football like Yaya. Spain play really narrow though with Iniesta and Silva cutting in from the flanks.

France
France's left wing has come to prominence. That is true politically as well on the pitch. Franck Ribery is doing a better job than Arjen Robben in putting the mugging by Chelsea in the Champions League Final behind him. And Jeremy Menez looks like a proper menace (not in the Patrice Evra in South Africa way).

Ukraine
I haven't watched Ukraine very much but it looks like Sheva is back. Roman, give Sheva a bag full of cash and bring him back to The Bridge

Sweden
It looks like Zlatan has lent his invisible man costume to CR7. I can't wait to get a copy of Zlatan's autobiography, 'Io, Ibra'. There should be more drama and fireworks than a Eurovision Song Contest victory.

England
Two games, 4 points and 4 goals from Roy's boys! Carroll looked effective. In other words he did fall over or give the ball straight back to the opposition. And he scored with a bullet header. Watching that ponytail connect with the ball to guide it into the back of the net was pure poetry in motion. In amongst Scotty Parker and Steven Gerrard doing their Brownian Motion impression in midfield, England look like they have a clear plan. In Hod we trust.

Conclusion
Great tournament so far with loads of interesting tactical tactics going on behind the scenes especially with regards to Italy Vs Spain. That was a football analyst's wet dream with plenty of dribbling in the box. An England team has a great chance of making it to the final. Howard Webb and his staff should cruise to the final.


The HoDown's Euro moments so far:

Goal of the tournament: The Pole goal pole-axed into the Russian goal

Fluff of the tournament: Mario Ballotelli's absence seizure in front of goal

Header of the tournament: Shay Given, Ireland Vs Croatia

Best moment of magic: Sergio Ramos tackling Mario Ballotelli via a wormhole

Choke of the tournament: Cristiano None-aldo's impersonation of The Invisible Man

Worse decision: Slavan Bilic wearing a beanie with a suit or Del Bosque's decision to play with no strikers

Surprise of the tournament: Republic of Ireland actually qualified for the Euros?

Pass of the tournament: Shay Given's punch out to set up David Silva's goal


A note on the commentary. I have been watching courtesy of ESPN3 so thank you ESPN for bringing culture to my summer. However, your commentary is terrible. Casey Keller has got to be the worse commentator ever to don a microphone. How can a 2 goal lead be dangerous? And that Taylor guy. What are you talking about? What are you referring to when you commentate? Are you watching the same game? The anchorman is terrible too using terms like 'stramash'? Do you really think the American audience will know what you are talking about?

Unmodern Modern Diner, Pawtucket, RI, April 2012

Sad days. The days of Providence's Special One were numbered. After brutalising my stomach with Hooters' chicken wings the night before I put my stomach back in front of the cholesterol firing line. Having driven past this static time warp some months before I made a mental note to come back. This was the perfect opportunity - Jose's last breakfast.

Breakie gets a thumbs up

Looks like a piss take...

It was a fresh sunny day in Rhode Island. We turned up to the address and Jose parked his car recklessly half in the carpark and half on the pavement next to a telephone pole. The Modern Diner was a clever (or lazy) description of the diner. It quite clearly used to be some sort of mobile truck but over the years its reputation must have outgrown its tin can fabrication, and the owner just stuck an extension to the back. The extension being a new building.

I was expecting Ron Howard to skate up to me with a 24/7 smile and lead me to a table. Instead we made our sorry ways to the counter. My attention was grabbed, though, by the guy next to me generously seasoning something in his bowl with maple syrup. I couldn't work out what it was as it looked sinewy like corned beef. But no, it could not have been corn beef because that uncouth neanderthal is glazing it liberally with maple syrup. Unbelievably it was corned beef as confirmed by our stoic waitress. Un-fucking-believable. Surely mixing maple syrup with corned beef results in a colloid that even the Large Hadron Collider would have difficulties in explaining. I'm sure that Heston Blumenthal would blow torch that shit to carbon puffs and bury it in the Greek economy.

I asked our waitress whether the owner was still around. I got a stout 'yes'. End of conversation. Great. I would have got more information from doing house to house calls in Chongqing investigating Neil Heywood's tragic death and Lord Lucan's whereabouts.  So, I ordered an Eggs Benedict with sausage. Obviously the sausage did not look phallic like a sausage should but it looked like a burger that was placed neatly on top of a muffin. Although I wonder whether this sausage was actually made from pork after picking up a copy of a Jewish daily newspaper whilst meandering to the bathroom. Whilst on my bathroom tour I managed to sample the atmosphere in the rest of the The Modern Diner. It was definitely modern and Rhode Island; i.e. devoid of atmosphere. There was no character. It was full of normal average boring people from boring Rhode Island being boring. Back to my breakfast. It was actually really good save the suspicious kosherness of the 'sausage'. The poached eggs were cooked exactly how I liked them. The yolk was neither too runny nor overcooked but rather it might be considered like foetal fibronectin if you have a vivid imagination. The hollondaise sauce tasted real too. It was creamy, rich and bland but with an obtuse punt to it. It was not spoilt by the addition of superfluous bullshit ingredients that I have come to expect. If it had a bit of zest, say with a squeeze of lemon and a bit of pepper it would have been A star. Nevertheless, I liked it because it was probably bad for me. All of this was served on a standard muffin and garnished with a couple of parsley leaves positioned at the right place at the right time. What was also interesting was the potato hash, which had just enough spice for an interracial marriage. Squirt on some ketchup and bang! Bob's your uncle.

The Ho Down says: There was nothing special about The Modern Diner. It was old and tired as was the food but the old guard never lets you down.

Buona pasqua, tutti! Le Marche, Italia, 2012

The fiscal downturn only allowed us to indulge in 10 courses this year, or maybe we were waving goodbye to Berlusconi with 10 courses. Out of nowhere like the Messiah, St. Carlos of Tevez, the Easter meal kicked off with a buzz of anticipation of gastronomic porn and shattered diet regimes. Due to some sort of religious constraint the Easter meal is all seafood, and I will provide appropriate translations below...

   

Cozze al vapore marinate con salsa di vino bianco, panna, aglio e prezzemolo

Mesmerizing marauding medley of mussels

Vongole servite su vellutata di zucchine
Charismatic concoction of clams

 
Polpettine al salmone e merluzzo

Pucka pallet pleasing polpettine

Fainè ai frutti di mare

Seafood chickpea bake

Tagliatelle ai frutti di mare

Poisson permeated precocious pasta

Frittura mista dell’Adriatico

Fracas of fried fruit de mer

Trancio di pesce spada grigliato con succo di limone, sale e pepe

The Ho Down's honourable holistic (grilled) swordfish steaks

Pesce al forno alla Catalana

This was substituted by gamberini boiled in a cognac, vodka and parsley stock flanked by monstrous grilled scampi

Dessert

Uovo al cioccolato di Pasqua
Ostrich-esque Easter eggs

Frutta

Caffè

Redneck's lasagne, Killington, Vermont, February 2012

We chose the best weekend to go to Pico Mountain Resort. It was as dry as a bone and there was more snow in my freezer than at Pico Mountain, and I had spent 3 or 4 good hours in the back of a Subaru listening to contemporary American chitter chatter. At some point on this ski weekend we would have to reward our efforts carving across ice and mud with some good hearty food.

The owner/clown at the desk was a living breathing caricature of an American. He was as loud as a fart during mass in a Baptist Church, as brash as a New York policeman with a can of pepper spray, as uncouth as a neanderthal in an England shirt, but strangely endearing. He recommended an 'Italian' restaurant, The Pasta Pot, just across the road from the lodge. How convenient.

Bonjour. Je suis le Dark Shadow. Eh eh eh...

After making a reservation (recommended or maybe bullied by Mr. America) we passed away some time playing Uno with sticky Uno cards, courtesy of The Black Shadow. When it was time to make our treacherous way to The Pasta Pot we were greeted at the bar and shown to our table. Good thing we listened to Captain America and reserved a table because I had to fight my way past the raucous crowd of invisible men having an enormous epicurean symposium of gluttony. The interior was what I expected from this neck of the woods. There was nothing Italian about this place. Not even the real (not battery-operated) candles stuck in bottles made it feel Mediterranean. The menus were printed on what resembled sick bags you get on flights. It was a strange touch - a combination of original but wacky. We arrived just for the Hunter's Lasagne, recommended to us by Uncle Sam's beelzebub at the lodge. Hunter's Lasagne for me please, Asia. So Asia was the name of our waitress. I have never been served by a continent before, especially a caucasian Asian continent.

To tickle our alpine bellies we had some garlic bread that was soaked in a lot of butter saturated in a lot of garlic. I would be safe from Dracula that night. My Hunter's Lasagne finally came piping hot. Apparently it was made from a medley of meat - elk, moose, venison, veal?, beef? (it must have also been 100 % unkosher so had to have some pork floating around in it too) topped with a ferocious layer of nondescript cheese. It was a vegan's nightmare and utterly bizarre like a Newt Gingrinch plan to build a Walmart on the moon but not as bizarre as the cheers and whooping the proposal received from his flock of sheep. And bizarrely it worked although I did not know if there were any layers of pasta. Bizarre. The only solid I could taste was melted plastic cheese and minced meat of some sort. The saving grace of this dish was the sauce that ravished this dish. It was very rich and had more character than Rory Bremner. In fact, there was something very English country pub derived cottage/shepherd's pie-esque about the sauce. Amongst all this, however, I could not differentiate my moose from my venison, nor my elk from the other minced stuff. The sauce complemented the meat like Salieri complemented Mozart. It was all very excessive and should be palatably incorrect. Somehow, the destroy-all-ask-questions-later attitude of this Hunter's Lasagne worked.

The Ho Down says: Gastronomic alchemy. It was bastardisation of Italian food to the extreme and strangely, it worked.

El Magote or Ortiz, Providence, RI, March 2012

I'm back, and I'm back with a belly buster. Yesterday was actually my second visit to the address but the first time to El Mogote Restaurant. The previous time at that address was at Ortiz Place Restaurant. If that was confusing so was trying to find out from the owners why Ortiz Place is now called El Mogote. I was as confused as an American in a cafe without wifi.

The Latino and I were driving around some Dalston-like area after flogging a dodgy laptop to an equally dodgy punter when we decided to give the then Ortiz Place Restaurant a punt. Now called El Magote, this place, I am led to believe, is Dominican serving genuine Dominican grub. I just have to believe what I am told as communication with the owners is limited to finger pointing and blank looks.

Bug-eyed by the portions

Upon entering I could not help but notice how spartan the place was. It was more spartan than King Kenny's tactics. White washed walls, a couple of seats and tables, an abnormally long and bare counter and a hot plate. Oh, and Mama Ortiz later to be called Mama El Magote. The arrangement was completely confusing because of a combination of things. Mama Ortiz did not understand the Queen's English, I could not understand Spanish and the menu had no functional relevance. I think it was just there to add a bit of contrast to the white wash wall. Between the two visits I sampled some beef stew, pork stew, chicken stew, roasted chicken and pig trotters. The flavours were quite brilliant. They came straight from the bosom of Mama Ortiz; i.e. big, fleshy and good enough to want to come back for more. The trotters were the best since Del Boy and Rodney. There were no Only Fools and Horses with this trotter performance. Incidently, Mama Ortiz kept piling the rice as if it were as expendable as greenback in the housing boom. Apparently if you don't tell her to stop she will keep piling it on. Great business model. To wash all this down, Mama Ortiz recommended a Dominican drink that looked suspicious with all those E numbers glowing with pride. When I had a look at the ingredients I found, to my horror, that it contained 47 g of carbohydrates, 100 % of it sugar. Hello, iselts of Langerhans. It was nice knowing you.

The Ho Down says: What a find in the Dalston of Providence, and all for less than a Hammy. "Luvly jubbly".

Bob and Timmy's, Jose, Vane and Jon too, Providence, RI, Jan 2012

After the assault on my pallet by winged offal I fancied something a bit more bland and civilised. I was told that Bob And Timmy's in the (historic) Federal Hill served up good pizzas.

Turning up to the front door I had high expectations as there was a small queue to eat in this pokey but homely looking pizzeria. The premises looked a bit odd. It seemed like the kitchen occupied one address and the restaurant was an add on that occupied the adjacent address, or visa versa. Anyhow, right now can't be bothered to find out. I'm sure they spout out the same old rhetoric on the website: "we originated from Italy and started off making home made pizzas using our Italian forefather's secret recipe that has slowly been bastardised with American influences over the decades etc etc. Oh and by the way, we are the best etc etc..."

I ordered a red New England clam chowder to get the gastric flowing and it was quite good. The square bowl it was served in felt completely out of place like tackling in the Premier League. I didn't come here for soup. I came here for the pizza. We ordered a Margherita and a Special Number 2. Interestingly the Margherita came with proscuitto, which surely no longer makes it a Margherita but more like a tomato, cheese, basil and proscuitto pizza??? Anyway, I am getting into semantics and nitpicking here. Better leave that all to Romney, Paul, Gingrich et al. The Special Number 2 had a cocktail of spiced minced meat, onions, peppers and some other superfluous baggage. I think the topping would have been better served as a dish on its own with some rice or potatoes but not as a topping. It top loaded the pizza such that when you picked up a slice everything just came crashing down like Sparky's first game in charge. I couldn't understand the base of the pizza. It was more of a poppadum than a pizza base. It was lacklustre and impotent. Every time I munched into it I kept wondering whether I was eating a giant nondescript wafer. If anything could have less taste than nothing, this pizza base was a paletable vacuum. A communion wafer has more taste than the base of this pizza. The only saving grace of the pizzas was the basil on the margherita. If in doubt, sprinkle some fresh basil. It made the oversize slices of tomato delicate and the blobs of white plastic, supposedly the mozzarella, more or less authentic.

The Ho Down says: O pizza pizza. Wherefore art thou nice pizza?

BoneYard Barbeque & Saloon, Seekonk, MA, Jan 2012

I read a positive but bland article about this place. I had to convince my entourage to cross the border and go to BoneYard Barbeque & Saloon, not to be confused with Bone Yard BBQ. On the first occasion I did not record my experience in any multimedia format for reasons that will be apparent below so the following is from my second visit.

Thumbs up to this place for character. When I walked in I thought I had gatecrashed a Ku Klux Klan tea party announcing that my gay black transgender boyfriend and I had just microwaved our kitten (please note that I did not microwave any kittens so ALF, keep your green biros in your pockets; nor am I Stoke-on-Trent). I should have guessed from all the Costa Concordia-esque SUVs moored outside in the carpark. The interior is very Hooters-like with the (probably fake) wooden interior, soft lighting and sports screens dotted around. Instead of top-heavy Hooters girls there were waitresses who looked more like Mike Tyson's sparring partners doubling up as bouncers. The air must have been 21 % oxygen and 89 % vinegar vapour. The vinegar saturated air certainly did a better job than my Vicks in unblocking my nose.

So we got ourselves a booth and within a couple of minutes, our table was wiped down with a towel that must have had a previous life soaking up sweat from Turkish wrestlers' armpits. Our waitress was no better - she was as uncouth as a wet slap on a cold frosty night. I dared not give her any banter because I didn't fancy my face being used to buff the chrome on her motorbike so I decided that I was going to accept whatever she dumped in front of me. In the end, G-Force ordered some chicken wings with the house sauce, which was suffixed with 'PC'. It did not stand for 'Politically Correct' but 'People's choice'. We also got half a rack of baby pork ribs to make sure we quelled the hunger. I did some research on chicken wings since my pallet last got mugged by these winged cretins. According to a well known source of peer unreviewed information, chicken wings were born in Anchor Bar, Buffalo, NY. There are a number of legends about the origins of chicken wings and this is my take: Anchor Bar were on the receiving end of a delivery fuck-up where a load of winged offal turned up instead of other various poultry parts. The owners, the Bellissimo's (I kid you not), did not quite know what to do with all this rubbish until one night, the son came back to the bar for a knees up with the local Catholics. As you know, a couple of Britneys or five or six gives one the munchies so he asked his mum to cook something up. In a state of panic or perhaps a stroke of genius, Theresa Bellissimo thought that this would be a great idea to get rid of all that shit in the kitchen, namely the chicken wings. As all the Catholic boys were probably getting a bit rowdy after imbibing Father Giles's special Jesus juice and a couple of beers, Theresa thought she could could deliver a couple of hail Marys to flush the altar boys out of her bar by punching them in the gut with some devilish winged offal. So she fried them up and marinated them in vinegar-based cayenne pepper sauce. Unfortunately, and inexplicably, the alchemical gastronomy went down a treat and hence gave birth to chicken wings or Buffalo Wings because they were 'invented' in Buffalo. So there you go. Heston Blumethal, try creating a gastronomic culture with a blow torch and some liquid nitrogen.

Anyway, the chicken wings were good. They were not good in the sense that I would pass up Russian caviar served by Angel Gabriel using a diamond encrusted spoon, but were good because the vapours from the sauce did not reset my sinuses when I opened my mouth. They were not fried to a crisp either so I could not feel an oil slick in my mouth. The baby back ribs were drier than my sense of humour. The saving grace was that they were not covered in bitumen. Sorry, BBQ sauce.

Can a fig tree, my brothers, bear olives, or a grapevine produce figs? Neither can a salt pond yield fresh water. James 3.12
But the Bone Yard BBQ & Saloon can bear edible chicken wings. The Ho Down 1.1

Home made chicken and leek pie, West London, December 2011

It has been a long time, bloggerdons. Don't worry, I have not been on a self-gastro-flagellation over the demise of Kim Jong-Il. Maybe I will start a rumour and say that he choked on a chicken nugget whilst searching Google Maps for his nuclear toys his Samsung Galaxy Tab. The American work culture has instead been getting its revenge and stitching me up like Luis Suarez at a Black Panther rally.

My epicurean festive epic took me on a detour to murky West London where the hoity toity use bank notes as toilet paper, and nip down to the local cafe in their Mini Coopers for a chinwag over the gossip printed in the broadsheet newspapers. The venue was a kitchen modeled on those fantasy kitchens pictured in the Sunday Times Style Magazine. The red Smeg fridge freezer stood smug like a banker scoffing down on a pancetta paninni (a bacon sarnie to us plebiscites) whilst wiping the dirt off his brogues on a protestor's sleeping bag outside St Paul's Cathedral.

We whetted our appetites with some ciauscolo and pecorino before the main event arrived on the hardwood kitchen table. The crispy crust, tanned like a footballer's wife, covered the bubbling lava of chicken, leek (grown in the bossom of the proprietor's back garden) and celery. Breaking through the crust made the crinkling sound of a new bank note being removed with short arms from a Paul Smith wallet. The crust shattered then the smooth filling came centre stage. The filling was just right - not too thick to be a Dyno Rod's best friend (or fiend) but not too watery. It was seasoned just right with the crackling of peppercorns pinching my taste buds every now and again. I totally forgot about the chunks of chicken because I was being mesmorised by the creamy filling. Washed down with some Budvar it was a great weekend in West London. All that was missing was my Mini Cooper parked outside and my Waitrose shopping bags ready for the NYE celebrations. I will definitely be trying to make one of these fantastic chicken and leak pies myself in New Fake England.

The Ho Down says: 'West is best'.