Gorb has decided to come out of retirement. Life has moved on. I’ve done some travelling, changed jobs and moved south of the river. Mr Gorb is still around but I no longer care what he thinks of my spelling, such is life. Rest assured the photography will still be bad.
And so we begin.
Inspiration came from a bad trip to Le Pot Lyonnais. There had been many previous happy and pleasant trips to this little piece of France in Queenstown Road, Battersea. It exists in a void, there isn’t much to eat on Queenstown Road. When I moved to the area I clearly wasn’t thinking straight, however, make the best of what’s in front of you and proceed blindly on.
Le Pot Lyonnais is a French bistro, it’s even run and staffed by real French people, with a menu full of moules, steak baguettes and pomme frites and a wine list of well chosen French wines. There are battered sofas, marble tables and dark wood everywhere. The owner lounges about in Gallic fashion with his red wine and gauloise on the go. The whole place is rather relaxed and sort of Parisian without to much hard work.
We turned up on a Friday night and the waitress managed to throw a pint of larger over Mr Gorb, not just spilt a bit, she actually couldn’t have done better if she tried. Quite spectacular really. We remain relatively good humoured and she clears up, he runs home to change, probably a 20 minute mission. I ask them to hold our food, it appears anyway, I send it back. No one apologises or offers me a drink while I wait (I’ve already got one but that’s not the point). He reappears eventually but the food then takes 20 mins to reappear. We eat and ask for the bill, we pay and leave. Now, I wouldn’t want to seem overly precious but they might have made a bit of an effort, knocked something off the bill or thrown in a coffee or something.
I could blame it on the French and their attitudes. What surprised me most was I didn’t complain. Not a peep. At best, I might have given the impression of being slightly miffed which is rather unlike me. Perhaps I have been living amongst the English for too long. Perhaps it’s nothing to do with stereotypes and I should just not go there anymore.
And so we begin.
Inspiration came from a bad trip to Le Pot Lyonnais. There had been many previous happy and pleasant trips to this little piece of France in Queenstown Road, Battersea. It exists in a void, there isn’t much to eat on Queenstown Road. When I moved to the area I clearly wasn’t thinking straight, however, make the best of what’s in front of you and proceed blindly on.
Le Pot Lyonnais is a French bistro, it’s even run and staffed by real French people, with a menu full of moules, steak baguettes and pomme frites and a wine list of well chosen French wines. There are battered sofas, marble tables and dark wood everywhere. The owner lounges about in Gallic fashion with his red wine and gauloise on the go. The whole place is rather relaxed and sort of Parisian without to much hard work.
We turned up on a Friday night and the waitress managed to throw a pint of larger over Mr Gorb, not just spilt a bit, she actually couldn’t have done better if she tried. Quite spectacular really. We remain relatively good humoured and she clears up, he runs home to change, probably a 20 minute mission. I ask them to hold our food, it appears anyway, I send it back. No one apologises or offers me a drink while I wait (I’ve already got one but that’s not the point). He reappears eventually but the food then takes 20 mins to reappear. We eat and ask for the bill, we pay and leave. Now, I wouldn’t want to seem overly precious but they might have made a bit of an effort, knocked something off the bill or thrown in a coffee or something.
I could blame it on the French and their attitudes. What surprised me most was I didn’t complain. Not a peep. At best, I might have given the impression of being slightly miffed which is rather unlike me. Perhaps I have been living amongst the English for too long. Perhaps it’s nothing to do with stereotypes and I should just not go there anymore.
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