A day trip.

A little over a week ago I went to visit my good friend and fellow Sporkmeister (you bet I wrote that) Bob in little old London town. Bob will have you believe that he eats only biscuits and, having seen the inside of his fridge, I can confirm that this is frighteningly true. Why hasn't he died yet? Lord only knows. Anyhoo, while I was around, I made him stuff his big face like any normal person would, and I think he enjoyed it. The highlight of the weekend started off on a trip to Brick Lane and a visit to the endlessly awesome Beigel Bakery. If you've never been there, you're wasting your life. Exhibits A and B:

After all that excitement, it wasn't long before I needed a drink. And some lunch. I know that for some the bagel itself would've counted as lunch, but still. In the words of Gordon Gekko: Greed is Good. And I'm pretty sure he was talking about lunch when he said it too... Right? Anyway, after some shuffling around, we went to the mega-awesome Carpenter's Arms for a refreshing beverage, or five:

The Koestritzer was a new one on me, and I feel like I've made a friend for life. Vedett is always a winner, and it's nice to see things like the Anchor Steam Beer available, especially alongside so many other fine drinks. That Caribbean rum was pretty cheeky too. However, not wanting to let Gordon Gekko down (he wasn't there) we naturally had to have a bit of tuck, and this we did in style. Colchester Oysters, Escargot, and a very fine meat/cheese board were our weapons of choice, and we ate every last bullet. Right down to the, er, handle? I don't know.

Stonking. Even old Biscuity Bob was having a whale of a time. Just look at him:

Ooh, the excitement. This was more food than he'd eaten all month. For real. For his is the wild life. Anyhoo, having dined like greedy fat kings, we toddered on down the road, stopping for drinks hither and thither in our effort to reach a late night whiskey bar who, by the time we got there, wouldn't let us in. Ah London town. You sure are a wild one.

Diary of a morbidly obscene biscuit addict

4.

I have been going through a wildly experimental phase, pushing the boundaries of biscuit eating to the very limits of time and space. I have been on a supersonic journey and have returned with the following knowledge.

COOKIES ARE THE SAME AS BISCUITS IN THE CONTEXT OF KNIFE & SPORK

Ha! Controversy!

I tried to do a bit of research but stopped after one lazy Google search. Turns out it’s all down to the Americans making biscuits wrong right from the off. When they realised that their versions of biscuits weren’t actually all that nice they had to try again. But they couldn’t call them biscuits, they’d already screwed that up and so the cookie was born.

I am going to claim right, here right now, as a self appointed biscuit expert, that cookies are just big biscuits. Yeah Maryland, you’re not cookies, you’re just biscuits, or by my logic only small cookies, which are called biscuits. So says I. And I reckon I’m right. Right?

Enough of this high-brow biscuit existentialism! To the point!

I have recently got into the terrible habit of buying Sainsbury’s white chocolate & raspberry cookies. Casting my eye over biscuit shelves across the land I must conclude that these are possibly the most unhealthy biscuit items ever. Basically a wonderful combination of soft cookie dough, annihilated raspberries (to ensure no goodness remains) and great globs of white chocolate (the only kind of chocolate that doesn’t actually have any chocolate in it!).

Fig 1. These are they. Bloody gorgeous!

If you could describe any food stuff as being comfortable, it would be these cookies. They are so delightfully soft that I just want to get loads of them and make a cookie bed. I would sleep and nibble in equal quantities. I would be a slothful glutton and a fantastic genius to boot. I would start a church of cookie and biscuit disciples will worship at the altar of the little round baked consumables. I of course would never attend and maintain that wonderful air of mystery, and besides by that point I will need to be crane-lifted out of my cookie bed and you’ll see me on the next series of Britain’s Biggest Loser.

And on a side note, they come in packs of four. Which means you have to eat all four. Preferably one after the other in a violent and rather unpleasant scoffing action.

The Pasta Papers: II

I would eat pasta every day twice a day for the rest of my life. You know, if I had to. I’m not Stanley Kubrick. Or whoever that director was who ate one dish every single meal until he was sick of it and then switched to another. My memory is failing me and so is the Internet, but I could swear I read it in the New Yorker. So if someone wants to read every issue from about 1996 to 2001 to check, I’d be very grateful.

ANYWAY.

Here is another pasta dish I ate about four months ago but I’d eat it again right this second if the farmers’ market was in town, even though I just had two enormous bowls of pasta and am feeling a bit sick:




Where the heck did those place mats go? It’s like I’m on safari! In my house! Also there are mushrooms.



But not here! Because I ate them all!



So. Insanely. Good.

I really can’t remember what I did, since I just discovered that I ate this meal in September. But I probably sliced some garlic and sautéed it in some olive oil and then chucked in the sliced mushrooms until they were nice and done and then BAM! fresh parsley and lots of black pepper and parmesan. So good.

The Eggpire Strikes Back!

It happened again. This time I've gone for little tiny quail's eggs, and I lovingly gave each little guy an eggy bath before he was coated in bread crumbs. It made for a crumbier, crunchier, yummier egg all round. There was still some assistance, this time from my mum, as well as time for meat goggles and another losing attempt from Emmett to gain some Scotch goodness. In your face, dogman!