Rocky Road Old Fashioned Sexy Fish
Every food writer needs a bad review. People dearest seeing somebody's dream torn apart in a whimsical way, their entire life'south purpose reduced to rubble by a cutting quip from somebody who writes about human fuel for a living, their self-worth completely vanquished considering they had the audacity to grill their turbot for xxx seconds too long. People absolutely dearest that. It racks upwards the page views much quicker than somebody praising a great restaurant. If I want to exist a true food writer, I have to observe somewhere to hate, and today I recollect I have only the identify.
Sexy Fish is a place of incredible opulence, an Instagram-friendly indulgence of gold surfaces, drinking glass dragons and eye-popping prices. Information technology's a place to exist seen, a glory-haven that once hosted the Conservatives' Christmas Party, which gives you some kind of thought of the typical clientele. I've e'er imagined it as somewhere that people looking to flash their cash come to spend extortionate sums on boilerplate nutrient. Today however, it would be host to a unlike kind of a clientele, equally I ventured there with everybody's favourite writer on the means of production, Karl Marx. Marx famously wrote The Communist Manifesto dorsum in 1848, a critique of the wealthy and their exploitation of the working-class for their own ends, making him the ideal candidate for my spectacular demolition of this breastwork of the bourgeois.
I meet Marx outside the restaurant, at my suggestion. I can't wait to meet the explosion of fury as he walks in and sees potentially the grandest brandish of capitalism he'll ever see. We walk through the door and…
"Wow, look at this place!" Says Marx. "This is amazing!"
We're shown to our table and handed our menus. "Oh my god! They've got black cod! I dearest blackness cod!" Continues Marx.
"What is happening?"
"What do you mean?"
"This! The decadence, the prices! Don't you think it's a flake… bourgeois?"
"Oh… I guess then, yeah."
"You lot guess and so? Does it non make you angry?"
"Why?"
"Because yous're Karl bloody Marx! Is this not everything you're against?!"
"Oh, well we tin't all be angry all the time, tin can we? Sometimes yous just have to let your pilus down and take a proficient time! Hey, why don't we get some wagyu?"
"We're not getting wagyu!" I say, as I encounter information technology priced at £89 for 150 grams. "Look, I'll be honest with yous, nosotros're here to write a bad review."
"Simply why?"
"Because writing about something you hate is much more than pop than writing about something y'all like. Y'all recollect The Communist Manifesto would have been as popular if you'd written about how much y'all enjoy exploiting the poor?" Marx shrugs his shoulders. "Please just try and have a terrible time for me, ok?"
"Ok, I'll endeavor." Says Marx.
"Tin I go y'all anything to beverage?" Says a waiter, interrupting.
"Yes, of course, I'll take the…" I say, equally I browse the bill of fare, looking for something of more style than substance that I can criticise. Alas, information technology's 1 of the nicest and most interesting cocktail menus I've seen, including one particularly delicious sounding drink that catches my eye. The Rocky Road Erstwhile Fashioned is a twist on a regular Old Fashioned, just using buttered whisky, with a toffee twist and a digestive biscuit crumb. Information technology sounds like my dream cocktail, but so really you could sell me annihilation past adding the word 'buttered'. I'd probably take been sold on invading Iraq besides if you'd told me they had buttered WMDs. I'thou basically only ever ane well-placed adjective away from an shipping carrier and a 'MISSION Accomplished' imprint.
I gild the Rocky Road Old Fashioned, the criticism can wait. Marx settles on a Japanese whisky. Sexy Fish professes to accept the second largest drove of Japanese whisky in the earth. Who the number ane is I have no idea, only if I were to hazard a gauge I would say Japan.
Information technology's easy to come to Sexy Fish and rack upwardly the bill like yous're playing a pinball machine, but I've planned this well in advance and know exactly what to order to go on it within budget. We go for the craven wings, beef skewers, the black cod, lamb chops, the Iberico pork ribs, and the duck breast. Factoring in our two cocktails and tip, that keeps u.s.a. within £200. It's a pricey meal, but information technology's hard to go out of here spending less.
Every bit mentioned, Sexy Fish is something of a glory haven, you come here expecting to encounter somebody famous. Fifty-fifty coming in with this knowledge, we're surprised to see who enters the front end door next.
"Oh my god, is that-" I say, aghast.
"Che Guevara." Says Che Guevara. "I'thou hither for the outcome."
"Of course. Right this way, sir." Says the Maitre d'. He leads him through the eating house, missing myself and Marx as he does, and they get out into a back room.
"That was foreign." Says Marx. "What'south he doing here?"
"I have no idea… It's fine though, forget about him."
Our offset dishes get in, the chicken wings and the beef skewers. 'Here we go!' I call up to myself, as the starter's pistol is fired on the review that's going to propel me to fame and fortune. Before I know it I'll exist sitting down with Graham Norton, telling a hilarious chestnut about the beef beingness closer to well-done than medium rare, as Will Smith pats me on the shoulder and tells me I'm the freshest of all princes.
I take a bite of the beef skewer and my blood runs common cold. To my surprise, the beef is juicy and works very well with the asparagus and smoked chilli sauce it comes with. I bollix for a chicken wing, hoping for something to salvage the criticism, but alas they too are crisp and flavoursome. It's nigh like they don't desire me to write them a poor review.
"What do you think?" I ask Marx, as the black cod, the pork ribs and the duck breast arrive at our table too.
"I don't know, maybe he'south hither for a job interview or something."
"I mean the nutrient! I told you to forget almost him!"
"He's a communist! Don't you lot think it's a bit hypocritical?" Says Marx, as he tucks into the black cod.
"Look at you!" I said, equally Marx wipes the black cod from his face and takes some other sip of his Japanese whisky.
"Oh, well this is different isn't it?"
"How?"
"You know… I'm… German." Says Marx, clutching wildly at straws. I accept a bite of the black cod. My heart sinks equally I realise it's unironically tasty. Rich and creamy unlike regular cod, it's surely only a affair of time until some London eatery makes a 'fish finger' sandwich using black cod, at which point London will have finally completed its journeying to condign the Capitol from The Hunger Games.
"This is actually quite good, isn't it?" I say with a sigh, equally I see my Volition Smith friendship dream dying in forepart of me.
"It'southward awful." Says Marx.
"Really?" I say, excitedly.
"Yes. If he were coming here he should have let me know."
"Oh for goodness sake, this once more?"
"I'chiliad going to go and say something." Says Marx, folding his napkin as he gets to his feet.
"And what will he say if he sees you here?"
"Oh, I estimate you're right." Says Marx, sitting back down again. "Ok, I demand you to become and say something."
"Why the hell would I go and say something?"
"Because I've taken your family hostage, Andy."
"Yous've what?" I say, stunned.
"All it takes is one call, Andy…" Says Marx, as he slowly withdraws a calculator from his pocket and hovers his finger over the 'CE' button.
"You know that's a computer, correct?"
"The guy told me this was an iPhone!"
"What guy?"
"He said he was the CEO of Telephones."
"Where did you see him?"
"He was by the bins."
"Did yous see his ID?"
"He said he'd left it in his role."
"Where was his office?"
"Los Angeles."
"So he'd popped over from Fifty.A. for the day to merely hang around past some bins and sell phones?"
"I tin see why you're sceptical, I was too at offset-"
"You should exist bloody sceptical! You've been trying to text people on a calculator!"
"Ok, I don't accept your family, just can you lot please just find him and take a give-and-take? Just ask him what he's doing here?"
"Fine." I sigh. I take i terminal bite of the pork ribs (sadly tremendous), and caput for the Coral Reef room, Sexy Fish's private dining room, and so named due to the huge coral reef fish tank forth the back wall. Perhaps here, in the scene of maximum opulence I will find something to criticise. I swing the door open and-
"Oh my god!" I say, stunned. I come across Che Guevara seated at a table, flanked by Vladimir Lenin, Leon Trotsky, Chairman Mao, Joseph Stalin and Fidel Castro. They're all laughing together, pouring champagne and feasting like kings. The whole scene is like something out of The Great Gatsby, were Gatsby to host exclusive parties for autocrats responsible for the deaths of millions of their ain people, a film I'm not sure fifty-fifty Leonardo di Caprio could take saved.
"I just think the cod could benefit from more miso glaze." Says Stalin, in a thick Russian accent.
"What is this?!" I say, and and then I see… her. Valerie Rhombus, writer of significantly more than pop blog, Meals With Departed Historical Figures. Valerie is an Instagram 'influencer', the kind that has pictures of herself staring wistfully into the sea or brushing her hair out of her face alongside some fake-intellectual caption like 'sometimes to go where you're going you need to become back to where yous started', a quote which only really works if y'all're on a roundabout. She completely stole my thought for my blog and passed it off equally her own by changing small details, such as the name, the font, and making her blog interesting rather than a self-indulgent slaughter-house. I despise her.
"Andy! Good to come across you!" Says Valerie, with a smug smile.
"I should have known it was y'all! What are y'all doing hither?!"
"I thought it would be fascinating to have the clash between the world'southward foremost socialist thinkers and the extravagance of Sexy Fish. It works particularly well in the Coral Reef Room, don't you remember?"
"That was MY idea! Y'all knew I was doing my review here!"
"Your review? Which D-lister have you got this time? Joseph Aspdin?"
Everybody laughs loudly at me.
"Oh shut up, Stalin! I bet y'all don't even know who Joseph Aspdin is!"
"He invented Portland cement." Says Stalin. I have no idea whether he's telling the truth or not. None of us really know who Joseph Aspdin is.
"Then come on, who did you lot invite?" Says Valerie.
"What the hell is going on hither?!" Says Marx, walking through door. All the Communists look stunned and get to their feet immediately.
"Urgh! This place makes me sick!" Says Lenin, as he dramatically throws his napkin on the floor and stamps on it.
"Yeah! I am glad nosotros have come here to… to… experience information technology beginning-manus so now we tin can better understand how to seize the ways of production!" Says Trotsky, wiping bone marrow from his moustache. "Encarmine… capitalism!" He says, shaking his fist at a passing clown fish.
"Oh, knock it off!" Says Marx, angrily. "Yous're all hypocrites! You claim to correspond the redistribution of wealth, notwithstanding hither you all are indulging yourselves with champagne and seabass! What would the proletariat say if they could see you all now? You've brought shame upon the Communist motility!"
The Communists stand hanging their heads in shame. In that location is a moment'due south silence before Che Guevara pipes up.
"Concur on, what are you doing here?" Says Che.
"Me? Well I… y'all know… I was hither as a… you know, as an ironic observer, correct Andy?"
A waiter enters behind us.
"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but how did you want your wagyu cooked?" Says the waiter to Marx.
"Oh for goodness sake, you're just as bad every bit them! You should all hate this place! It's everything yous claimed to stand against merely await at you, you're literally champagne socialists! What exercise you have to say for yourselves?"
"Lamentable." Mumble the Communists as 1, every bit they stare at the floor. "We're very deplorable."
"Ok, proficient, thankyou. And you lot, don't y'all always steal my ideas once again!" I say to Valerie. "Come up on Marx, let's go finish our review."
I become to go out, but Marx remains still. "Marx, come on!" I say.
"Simply… they accept a fish tank." Says Marx. "Tin can I stay here?"
"Of course y'all tin stay here." Says Valerie, smiling wickedly in my management. "Exercise y'all similar sea bass?"
"I dearest bounding main bass!" Says Marx.
"Well nosotros've got plenty, get yourself a seat!" Says Valerie, every bit Marx excitedly runs around to sit next to Fidel Castro.
"You bloody bastard! I demand him for my review!"
"Sorry Andy, at to the lowest degree somebody's seized the means of product this evening." Says Valerie, as she closes the door in my face. I'one thousand left solitary with the laughter of 6 dead Communists echoing through the corridor. I make my manner dorsum to my table and glumly nurse my Old Fashioned (wonderfully buttery), when I'm interrupted by the waiter.
"Alibi me, sir. There's somebody here to see you."
"What? Who?"
The waiter moves to reveal a man I've never seen before stood looming over the table.
"Howdy, are you Andy?" Says the man.
"Yes… who are y'all?"
"I'm Joseph Aspdin, inventor of Portland cement."
I sigh heavily. My evening of misery is, for want of a better word, cemented. "You know what, fine. Sit yourself down and tell me everything y'all know well-nigh cement." I say, as I down my Old Fashioned. I came hither to criticise the place in the hope information technology might make u.s.a. all experience ameliorate almost ourselves, only overall I accept to say…
9/x – Tremendous black cod.
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