Fancy Sacrifice

You’ll be happy to know that the Fancies are on the road to recovery. I wasn’t really given a choice, given that being sick is an inconvenience to H, so by that evening I’d pulled myself together enough to go to a restaurant and pick at some toast. Thank God that I could still drink the wine at least!  You know what I say: don’t think of it as vomiting and diarrhoea, think of it as a week’s worth of spin class!

Anyway, H and I spent some time trying to figure out exactly what I’d eaten (I’m assuming this is the source of my misery, given my relatively rapid recovery and the lack of drippy nappies around the house.) and it could have been almost anything. I reckon I’m just as likely to get sick from a bag of spinach as an oyster, don’t you? This is the risk we take when eating, whether at home or out. Take, for instance, the supposed Norwalk virus outbreak at The Fat Duck last year. We’ve got friends that work in the industry (of course we do) and I’ve heard that Heston Blumethal’s kitchen is one of the cleanest anywhere, with some of the strictest food hygiene standards. If it can happen to him, it can happen to anyone.

Then again, I’d be pretty pissed if I paid through the nose for lunch and then the next day paid again. So I’ve thought about it, and what if I became your Virtual Diner? I can go pay ridiculous sums of money to eat in places that normal people would never set foot and if I get sick the next day, you still get all the enjoyment of the experience without actually spending the day crouched over your toilet.  Plus I have to pay the sitter!

H and I actually had that conversation as we enjoyed some decidedly mediocre sushi at the Japan Centre Saturday evening. Mitsukoshi: Really? Can’t you do better? You are at the Japan Centre. How can you let the Russians (Sumosan) outdo you? You should be ashamed. The actual raw bits were lovely. But all the composed dishes were kind of sad. And the service was rough. Which is fine in bed but not when I’m dropping £400 on a meal. Maybe if we’d been seated in the cozy little sushi counter area, we’d have had a different experience. Instead we were in a room lit so brightly that I thought I was about to be interrogated. Of course, none of this stopped us from eating it all right up.  In fact, it just gave us something more to talk about. Sometimes a meal isn’t just about the food.

H thought if I started blogging about restaurants it would create a massive tidal wave of fear among the London restaurant scene. I believe he has a grossly over-inflated view of our importance. Which is conceivable, given his grossly over-inflated sense of self.

Anyway, if there is somewhere you’d like to go but just can’t get a reservation or an appropriate credit line, give me a shout. Maybe I’ve already been there. Maybe I’ll have to work on it. But I’m happy to do it. Risk my personal safety. Work an extra 2 hours at the gym. For you. Because I care.