Took the wife out for dinner. Out of this kitchen came — or going on the time, had already come — a couple of reasonably decent fish dishes. I don’t believe I have yet to meet a chef who looks like the roly-poly stereotype depicted in the cartoon (and that picture is really why I took the shot): I don’t believe most of them have the time to eat enough to get fat, to be honest.
My PhD student of the last five years, Sara, passed her viva voce examination today — with only minor corrections, a very good result (for a good thesis, I honestly did think) — and so took me out to dinner at a Turkish restaurant in Manchester. The place’s waiters definitely had an overblown sense of theatrics. Salman, Sara’s son, looks somewhat apprehensively at one of them striding towards us with the kind of flamethrower that, if carried outside, would probably see him arrested for branding an offensive weapon. All this just to put a second or two of extra charring on the spicy meatballs. Food was good, though.
Bringing a fun (but unphotographed) afternoon to an end with a good meal out. The tilt on the shot is intended to be artistic and spontaneous, but really just reflects my intention to not be too obviously taking a photograph of the table next door to ours.
A tasty pasta dish, being prepared by the good chefs of the Eagle pub on Farringdon Road, London. She’s allowed one bit of pasta to escape, but I’ll let that pass.
Finding myself, once again, in the west Leeds suburbs for an evening, I wandered into this Mexican restaurant for dinner and, as with the other diners, found myself in a training session for a new member of the waiting staff, so things were a little chaotic… But everything came out in good time and tasted fine. So I tipped generously, and tried not to get in the way.
Being 42 