I live with two strangers. They came into my life in August and have remained, like squatters, in my flat. They’re a couple in their mid-fourties whose only joy in life seems to be to go out for a fag in the sun. Might I add, the only time they left the flat on such a lovely, sunny day too. My flatmate called them bats before she took her stuff and left. I feel that it’s time for me to take my stuff too.
There’s only so much you can put up with.
Pimlico Road is by far my favourite restaurant road. Recently I went to Hunan, I’ve enjoyed a drink at The Orange and have looked with certain interest at Poule au Pot’s menu. This time however, it was Tinello’s turn.
Part of my 2011 wishlist, Tinello caught my eye last year as it was about to hit Belgravia. With its exposed brickwork and funky lamps, it’s almost too cool for Sloaney school. The Italian restaurant is owned by the Sali brothers, two ex-Locanda Locatellis (head chef and sommelier), which means you dine here expecting fine fettucini and virtuous veal (not that veal ever is virtuous but you get my point). Continue reading
The title to this post does not allude to the fact that there isn’t any booze in my pancakes (although this is true). Instead, it alludes to the fact that I’ve never made pancakes before. Oh the shame.
To defend myself, I’m more of a waffle kind of girl anyway. Waffles with apple jam, waffles with blueberries and ice cream – there’s a good list what you can have with your waffles. But this post isn’t about waffles, it’s about pancakes, so stop digressing and get on with it.
I’ve fallen in love with an Italian. He lives off Kensington Square and is kitted out in quite garish colours. His name? Locanda Ottoemezzo. Yes, it’s a restaurant and yes, it’s my new squeeze.
I paid my first visit on Saturday and was sold. Ottoemezzo has an excellent service, one of those menus you could order everything from and fun décor. It’s not the cheapest Italian, but not the most expensive either. Continue reading
My mother sent me a photo of my hometown today. A thick layer of snow covers the ground and they’ve got plenty of weeks to go before the birch trees will be dressed with green leaves. Depressing. Today, however, London is equally depressing and it feels like we’ve been hit by autumn. The rain is pouring down, the proud daffodils are looking rather sad and the cherry blossom trees have no pink lustre. But at least they’re there, and compared to K-town, spring has definitely sprung.