Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Belfast interlude
Belfast – Interlude – Milky Jugs
If you read the pervious blog instalment (and if you didn’t
what are you doing with your life?) you’ll know that on our 2nd day
we were presented with an outrageous amount of milk for two cups of tea, to whit a 1/3rd of a pint bottle – last seen circa 1971 when Maggie
crushed them all with a massive bulldozer whilst flicking the vees at the
health of the nation’s youth.
This seemed like an inordinate amount for a couple of cups
of typhoo, but as the trip went it became clear that nobody in the catering
industry here has the slightest clue what a reasonable portion of lightly
homogenised is even closely composed of.
So, here is what we had to contend with:
This beauty was previously mentioned, and combined with the last night's milk started us wondering - perhaps the farmer's in NI get some massive EU subsidy for producing milk and this is how they get rid of it...sneaking the surplus in to willing tea shops where unsuspecting punters provide the lactose equivalent of money laundering.
Here we are now in the Galley Cafe at the Titanic experience. That must be half a pint in there surely?
Flag for scale - mug behind really is half the size of the milk tanker.
Still at Titanic, but now in Bistro 401, same half pint of full fat. I'm surprised we weren't mooing by now.
Ah - from the sublime to the ridiculous - Giant's Causeway and the milk comes in a thimble. Must be National Trust cutbacks. They gave you extra hot water though, so you could have at least six piss-weak cups of char unsullied by milk. Perhaps the NT are too squeaky clean to be in on the diddle?
However the Old Inn, Crawfordsburn seemed to be in on the Farmers' scam, sending out this bad boy with our post prandial coffee. It's not as big as some you might say - but when it comes to coffee I'm the only one of four who takes it...
And here's the same fucker at breakfast - Tiptree jam pot for scale. I knocked this over and the bastards only went and got us another one, this time full to the brim...along with the sound of new plastic fivers changing hands round the back.
And last but by no means least, the Tea Room at Antrim Castle provided this little number - gold rim and all. Again, this must have held half a pint at least - I ask you, when have two cups of tea EVER needed half a pint of milk?
So, a scam to fleece the EU of dosh that would otherwise have paid for French Farmers to burn sheep, or do the Northern Irish simply like their tea really, really milky? You decide...
So, a scam to fleece the EU of dosh that would otherwise have paid for French Farmers to burn sheep, or do the Northern Irish simply like their tea really, really milky? You decide...
Belfast Day Two
Day 2 (part one)
Dawn breaks and it is a typically beautiful Irish day –
leaden grey skies and drizzle – and we assemble in hotel reception ahead of our
first full day of sightseeing, a trip to The Titanic Experience, a visit long
wished for by our birthday girl. Before
that however, we need tucker and the receptionist, overhearing this, suggests
we head off to St George’s Market for a Belfast Bap. We’ve never heard of this so it sounds spot
on. Directions are given and we head out
into the wonderfully refreshing drizzle.
After one turn we are already going opposite to the
directions I heard, and before long I’m pretty sure none of us have a fucking
Scooby where we are. Lovely. Fortunately however, we do find ourselves
next to a place called Granny Annies which seems to be just what we’re after,
and Lo and Behold! They do a Belfast Bap, so in we pile.
It’s certainly an eclectic place, with the only way to
describe the décor being Junkyard Chic, or indeed shit.
The toilets look like they’ve been rescued
from a breaker’s yard – the sinks are formed from what look like old car tyres
and the taps are some part of a car’s mechanicals – and there’s plenty of rust
covered corrugated iron cladding and car knick knacks to make sure you click to
the theme…different. But, well ok…
We wait an age for our menus, strange in an half empty
restaurant, although to be fair when they arrive there are several tasty
options to try, all suitably high enough in saturated fat to satisfy the most
hardened of arteries. Granny’s big fry comes with two each of Eggs, Bacon and
sausage, and enough gluten to send the straightest person hypoglycaemic
(there’s potato bread, soda bread and toast
there too) but so littered is it with random apostrophes as to make a grammar
pedant’s teeth itch. Mine are raging…To
whit, the full contents of GsBF straight from the menu:
2 EGGS, 2 BACON, 2 SAUSAGE, MUSHROOM’S,
BEANS, GRILLED TOMATO, POTATO BREAD,
SODA BREAD AND TOAST £6.95
Mushroom’s?
Mushroom’s fucking what you divs?
And whilst we’re at it, why is there no fucking apostrophe in
Annies? You’ve got enough spare you bell
ends…
Anyway, rage aside we all just order tea and Belfast Bap. Which, unknown at the time, leads us on a
quest to discover just exactly how much milk do you need with two cups of tea?
The tea arrives first, and we’re in for a shock. Not since our primary school days and Maggie
Thatcher Milk Snatcher have we been confronted by one of these:
Yes folks, if you're of a certain age you’ll no doubt remember
being force fed a lukewarm bottle of this every first break till you were old
enough to tie your own shoes – the famous 1/3rd pint of cottage
cheese. But here it is, masquerading as a
serving of milk for two cups of tea. Two.
A third of a pint, for TWO. For
fuck’s sake, how milky do they like their tea round here? A simple question to which became more and
more complex as the trip went on…
But first, here’s the Belfast Bap…
Sausage, bacon and runny fried egg, enough to put hair on your chest and set you up for whatever the day has to throw at you. Which turns out to be tea. Lots and lots of tea...
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Belfast I
Belfast – a tale of
two 50th Birthdays
“Belfast?”
“Errm, yes Belfast.” I respond, with an enthusiastic nod,
grinning and wishing I had a map to hand to indicate exactly where in the
British Isles this mystic land is located.
“Belfast?” this time
with more emphasis on the BEL.
Oh lord above…”Yes, Belfast.” FFS. Capital of Northern Ireland and probably the
most underrated city in Europe?
“Belfast, really?
Don’t they just shoot you on sight for being Christian or
something? Why the fuck you wanna go there?”
Jesus in heaven give me strength….18 years since the good
Friday agreement and 22 years since hostilities ceased – but some nobheads still
don’t get it – you’ll still go to Turkey and Egypt no doubt…daft cunts…
And so go most conversations I’ve had since, way back in
February, a plan was hatched to do something different for the upcoming big
birthdays of Lisa and Kieran.
It’s fair to say Lisa broached the subject about going, after years of
me going on about family holidays from way back when (35+ years…) – the beauty
of Norn Iron, the amazing Giant’s Causeway, great people, lovely food etc etc –
“what’s not to like?” she asked. “Well,
do you think Kieran is going to want to do that for his birthday too?” I enquire.
Turns out - with the exception of one rule, which I’ll leave
you to work out for yourselves – he couldn’t get on a plane quick enough to
visit this (apparently massively misunderstood) part of the Emerald Isle, and
of course, his genetic homeland.
And so it is we find ourselves parked in Jamie’s Bar,
Gatwick Airport, two bottles of wine in, discussing plans for the long weekend
ahead, bearing in mind it’s going to be very Irish while we’re there i.e. it’s
going to be pissing down. Turns out,
exactly the same as if it had been dry…
We have an unmemorable flight – which, as I’ve said before,
is really what you want – and an hour later we find ourselves at Belfast
International Airport, a bag down. As we
stand around looking bemused (along with a couple of other passengers also stupid
enough not to travel with carry on only) a gorgeous young girl, with flowing
dark hair, comes down to us, walkie talkie in hand, to help us with the missing
bag. Unfortunately, despite this still
being Britain, she doesn’t appear to speak English, and we have no Romanian, so
we’re all pretty much fucked. She waves
her arms, we wave our arms, and all that actually comes from this is the word “jammed”. Ten minutes later the bag eventually appears
on the carousel and we’re on our way.
But…
…not before Belfast International Airport provides us with
the first laugh of the holiday, and first “only in Ireland” moment…Ladies and
Gentlemen, may I introduce the most useless set of doors in the world ever…
As we’re a bit late arriving at the hotel, we dump our bags
and head off in the direction – indicated by the taxi driver who’d dropped us
off – towards the bright lights of, err, Nando’s. Now, it’s been 35 years since I’d been to
Belfast, but I was pretty certain there were good bars and restaurants around
the area of the Europa hotel (more of which later) – and I was pretty sure he’d
sent us the wrong way. But hey, a taxi
driver on his own patch, why would you disagree? Perhaps he though that, because we’re
English, what we wanted as grub was KFC, Pizza Hut, and the aforementioned
Nando’s. Twat.
Fortunately, we find a lovely looking restaurant called
Kitch, which looks spot on for what we want on our first night. In we pile waving four fingers in the air –
to indicate the number of us for a table, in case they’re Romanian here too – only
to be told that the restaurant is closed.
It’s barely nine O’clock and we’re a hundred quid plus tab, but no,
they’re closed. Well fuck them; they’ll soon
be bust with that sort of attitude – wankers.
Luckily, just opposite and willing to sate our huge thirst
and hunger is a proper Irish gaff – a
Thai restaurant…
Well, any of you who know our small gang on this trip will
know that Thai is our go-to nosh on a night out, so we know our stuff Thai grub
wise. Well, this place is
outstanding. I think they must have
realised, somewhere down the line, that the portion sizes most Thai places
serve (in London at least) weren’t going to cut it here. And so everything is a least twice the size
of back home, which is a good thing.
And, more importantly, delicious.
We offer a huge two fingers to the bellends across the road as we stuff
our faces, drink a gallon of wine, and feel quite smug at our choice. Massaman’d and Pad Thai’d out we head back to
the hotel - but not before Belfast can
throw up a delicious morsel of the stereotypical image of the Gaelic youth…
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Zante 2016 IX (Part 2 I suppose....)
Zante 2016 IX – Final Days (Part II)
We’re at the bar, waiting for the increasingly tardy
In-Laws, and Sot is slightly subdued from his normally ebullient self. He’s spending quite a lot of time with a
bloke at the end of the bar, who seems to be on his own. There’s hushed discussions between the two,
and a series of more and more elaborate cocktails presented, all with lots of
detailed explanation and expansive hand gestures, (well, it is Sot), quite a
few which look like he’s having wank. They’re
getting on great, but something is different.
Eventually, the new bloke leaves, shaking Sot’s hand
vociferously, and suddenly normal service is resumed. Raki is produced, shots poured and headaches
for tomorrow guaranteed. Sot comes over
to serve us our usual, (two white wines, from the special bottle he keeps only
for us, in the right-hand side fridge) and we ask him what’s going on. “That’s my new boss from Austria, checking I
can make all the drinks he needs for when I run his cellar bar over the winter.” Interesting, but why so subdued we ask? Sot’s hackles rise. “There was no Raki at six
o’clock,” he says offended, with an airy wave to the ether “because I needed to
appear professional in front of my new boss.” We burst out laughing, and Sot bristles, but
continues, pointing to his chest “I have a badge and everything now you know,”
a defiant look on his face. Our lovely
Dublin friend points out that even staff in McDonald’s have badges. Sot replies, with a big grin “yes, yes of
course.” Ciara nods and responds “ Even the fucking Johnny no stars.”
When the in-laws arrive - to a rush of technicoloured
cocktails, paper umbrellas and superfluous fruit – Sot asks us where we are
dining tonight. “We’re off to Menir” we
tell him, appropriate arm waving indicating the approximate direction said
restaurant is from the bar. “Ah yes I
know this place,” Sot opines. “It is run
by the man with the bald hair”…
It is at Menir this very night that Nephew discovers he has
the Robertson Family Curse. Having devoured
a plate of Tzatiki, and, rather unfortunately, the huge bits of cucumber that
came with his salad (remember, for many years this boy wouldn’t eat anything
green) he is struck down by a massive case of heart burn – not the slightly
uncomfortable cured by a couple of Rennies and a massive burp type most folks
get – but full on eye bulging, gastric reflux, hiatus hernia blockage type
agony. He thinks it’s too many Mythos
(seriously, WTF?), but those of us in the know, know the curse of the slimy
green bastard when we see it. We give
him a Nexium (voted “product of the year” consumer survey of product
information 2016) knowing it will have absolutely no effect on the gaseous
green barrier currently residing in Nephew’s oesophagus. Basically his night is ruined, and I’m
looking forward to getting all the food Dan now can’t eat for freemans.
Like a trooper though, he pushes through, although I can
palpably feel his pain. The mixed grill
for two wasn’t going anywhere other than into gastroesophageal battle with the green
devil. I’m proud of him. Folks, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it
again – Cucumber and its equally evil sidekick cousin Celery – really are the Satan’s
testes of the food world.
Back at base and all the talk is of the massive storm we had
overnight, people running onto flooded balconies - some of them in the buff -
to rescue beach towels, bikinis and bathing suits left out overnight to dry, and
now subject to what one bar friend described as horizontal rain and super
trooper bright lightning. We slept
through it…
…Oh, and the earthquake that followed. I just thought it was a particularly rattley
bus going past shaking our wardrobe doors, - but others say they spilt their cocktails…
While this discussion is going on, along with more tales of
heroic towel and beachwear rescuing than you can wave a stick at, a car arrives
in the car park, drum and bass to the max, shaking the entire bar. A door is opened and all the optics, glasses
and punters in the bar start vibrating to the sound of Aqua’s Barbie Girl at
full chat. Bloody Nora.
As we’re offering each other “WTFs?” bemused looks, and help
back on to seats, the source of the commotion becomes clear. Raving Ronnie (yes him of ladder death fame) struts
in, swagger full on and car keys spinning on an errant finger, as the sound
from his Kia Cee’d dies as he casually locks its doors with a nonchalant flick
of the key over his shoulder. Turns out,
and who’da thunk it, mild-mannered Ronnie the maintenance man is a hardcore
drum and bass DJ in his spare time…
He offers a booyakasha and high five to Sot and then to
Andy, who simply ends up being punched on the shoulder as he has, well, only
one arm…
…I suppose we’ll only know what follows from
this next time we visit the hotel, but a combination of a one armed barman, a
handyman-cum-grindcore-DJ and a Sot can only mean good things…
