Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks Question Time might be worth watching if Fiona Bruce had more cleavage on show
I F**KING love steak. Nothing more British than getting stuck into a huge chunk of cow meat with a pile of our greatest invention apart from the Spitfire, chips.
It’s good for the environment too. You know those massive methane farts cows stand around pumping out all day, destroying the ozone layer? Soon stop once they’re dead and under the grill. You won’t see that in our woke vegan media.
So it’s my birthday, and I’ve a celebratory table-for-one booked at a nationally popular steakhouse. I get some funny looks as I sit down on my own. Haven’t people seen a divorced man eat alone before?
I won’t give the steakhouse the publicity of naming them – not when they curtly refused me a freebie – but it sounds a bit like Killer and Martyr. Which I guess is more appropriate from a cow’s perspective.
I order a beer. At over a fiver for a bloody Peroni it’s no match for Spoons, but it’s my birthday so I treat myself to a few.
For a starter I go for prawn and avocado cocktail, picking out the avocado. I’m not eating that snowflake shite. It’s okay, but no better than the couple-of-quid plastic potted version in Tesco.
Then the main event. I briefly ponder the Black Angus filet mignon, but decide two small fillets served rare at nearly 40 quid is taking the piss. Besides, in my youth I once drunkenly found myself face-first between two curtains of beef with blood present, and I’m not doing that again.
Ribeye? Full of fat. 8oz sirloin? Better, but still nearly 30 quid. I go for my favourite, prime rump. A 7oz slab of Daisy’s arse for under 20 quid. Sorted.
I eschew the onion loaf and balsamic-glazed tomato it comes with, order chunky chips instead of salad – do I look like Bugs Bunny? – and peruse the sauces. I skip the three peppercorn and ‘classic’ bearnaise – if I wanted French sauce I’d ask them to put some garlic and a beret in a blender – and ask for Colman’s English mustard.
I opt for medium rare. It’s not bad in all fairness, and without all that shit on the side there’s room for dessert, sticky toffee pudding, obviously. It’s as rich as my ex-wife after the divorce, but no step up on the frozen ones from Iceland.
Stuffed, I enquire as to the chances of having a last Peroni on the house as it’s my birthday. They say no. It was only a matter of time before they start banning alcohol.
I pay up, stagger to the door and head home for a celebratory birthday wank. I recorded three hours of an adult channel on VHS years ago, so it’s free porn on tap in the flat. I’m not stupid.
