Le Bistrot Pierre dropped a ball. Alas, when somewhere sets itself high standards you feel like a true Brit, willing them to fail in some way. Well not so much willing them, I am a paying customer after all, but I wanted to see if the positively note perfect culinary establishment could keep up the seasoned satisfaction we had encountered. A plate of Boeuf Bourguignon would say not. I wondered for a while if I had an ignorant palate. I could taste burnt. All I could taste was burnt. Sauce? Burn. Onion? Burn. Meat? Burn. Yet I still needed Pete and the waitress to elk me I was right. I mean, if the girl had said it’s supposed to taste that way, I would then have to have the dilemma of whether to say oh right then, this tastes shit, change it please.
We came home, had a glass of red, watched the x factor in ten minutes, skipping the crap like one direction, Katie and the four generic girls and then called it a night. That meant that with the additional hour I was up for before nine am, which is a miracle weekends wise chez ours these days. Alas this was the last week, as of midnight tonight I’m following a marathon training schedule again. I’m still regretting this so far, and I’ve not started! Next Sunday, I start my long runs, although it’s started sedately at six or seven milers so that won’t be too bad. It’s when it’s 15 miles in the snow that I’m going to want to throw myself in the path of a train.
My fruit was boozy and fabulous, so I started cake number one. I prepped the tins a la both Nigella and Delia. That involved lining the bottoms with parchment and making a big parcel of the sides inches above the top of the cake tin. Easier said than done, plus I came to the end of the roll of paper, which necessitated a trip to Waitrose for more. Plus washing powder. And of course cooking chorizo, de cecco pasta, a leg of lamb and broccoli. I buy such random impulse items. It was worth it just to start the Matiz up. Had not driven it since September I realised. Once I’d mixed up the ingredients, I put cake number one in. All in all it took over five hours to bake two cakes. Immediately upon being baked, I had to brush them with booze (brandy as bourbon all gone), wrap them in foil and let them cool. Another 4 hours each. I had finally put the cakes to bed in a paper and foil place of slobber at about 8pm tonic. Every bite taken ought be enjoyed, dear world, as a labour of love.
Tried Nigella’s recipe for pasta with marmite. What a revelation. It’s my new favourite thing, and I hate marmite. It was rich, tasted a bit meaty, but delicious. The woman is genius, for bringing his to me and tempting me to try it, as a hate it person usually. I will be eating that on many occasions to come.
Right, post baking madness, I’m exhausted and have a day of it tomorrow. I’m turning in. Good night dear readers, whomsoever you are. Are you there? I’m sure you are. And if not, at least I get to tell myself I’m going somewhere with my life. Even if it’s just to the supermarket and back, it’s better than standing still. And at least I’ve learnt pasta plus butter plus marmite equals delicious. That’s an achievement.
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