New Year, same old

When it comes to New Year’s resolutions I’m firmly in the Homer Simpson camp; ‘You tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.’ That said, I have a hugely determined streak, that surprises even me sometimes, when I want to set my mind to something.

For example, my ongoing Cadbury boycott -  that started in solidarity with the Ewing when they changed the recipe of Cadbury Crème eggs in 2015 - has now extended to encompass a blanket ban on everything Mondalez own, from Kraft mac and cheese to Ritz crackers via Oreos, Toblerone and Chocolate Oranges. Oh, how I miss popping candy chocolate oranges.

Not that I could eat the latter at the moment anyway, thanks to a self-imposed sugar ban that I began on the 13th of October, after ordering a McDonald’s chocolate milkshake for breakfast (yes, I know booze has sugar in it...). It was originally going to end over the festive period, but it's going surprisingly well, so now I am hoping to extend until Easter. Who can resist a hot buttered cross bun?

While I’ve been mostly extraordinarily good, in the style of the popular song I have found myself over the last few months eating four Malteasers (three original and one coated in raspberry flavoured chocolate, from Australia), three biscotti (when very drunk), two slices of Christmas pudding and a chocolate covered date (about as good as it sounds, but it did give me a little sugar rush).

More in keeping with my old habits, I persuaded everyone that what they really wanted was a (fairly) sober kebab on the Saturday before New Year. We had already sunk several bottles of Prosecco and (two sausage roll wreaths) but I did still worry about the wisdom of dragging people out to dinner at what is ostensibly a takeaway shop on Boscombe high street.

The surprisingly plush surroundings of the small restaurant area at the back - I was particularly taken by the juxtaposition of traditional tapestries and tin advertising signs - plus the BYO policy that saw us rock up with yet more bubbles in hand, meant the mood was more happily pissed and not pissed off.

The laminated menu is a short romp through familiar favourites, encompassing a selection of mezze dishes and moving onto grilled meats, with the notorious elephant leg kebabs rotating in the window and other skewers being grilled over a charcoal fire pit next to the counter. 

They didn’t have any borek available- a small mercy, given the volumes of food that followed - but the hummus was pretty good, if unspectacular (currently nothing is beating my own homemade #Nutribulletwanker version) and grilled halloumi came in an ample portion, balanced on a heap of redundant salad.

Starters were accompanied by half a dozen Frisbee-shaped puffy flatbreads, fresh from the oven, which looked like far too many, even for committed carb-fiends, until we realised they also accompanied our kebabs. Chicken shish for the Ewing and the Lion, a mixed lamb shish chicken donner for me. 

The bread, as the online reviews had promised, was excellent. crispy and soft and smoky all at once, although I was slightly saddened there wasn’t some under the meat to soak up the pool of juices and errant chilli sauce, which is what I asked for to accompany my kebab, along with a dollop of good old garlic mayo.

The chilli sauce was slightly curious, more like a Mexican style salsa, that we got addicted to while eating tacos around Southern California and Mexico last year, but no worse for it and a lack of heat probably helped with the corresponding lack of heartburn the next morning (although I did chug a few pints of water before bed to counteract the salt and sparkling wine).

The kebab was excellent – big chunks of lean lamb (neck fillet?) atop a pile of very good chicken donner; shreds of tender thigh marinated in a garlicky herby mix a world away from my student days.

The chicken shish was also commendable. Two skewers of marinated chicken breast, grilled quickly over charcoal and served with mixed salad, coleslaw, garlic sauce and pickled chilli peppers that all ended up on my plate. Not a bad thing to have forced upon you in all honesty.

2018 hasn't been a great one, truth be told. After a very bright start, the last few months, for various reasons, haven't been easy; at all. But these things too shall pass. And with the help of the ever-patient Ewing and all my lovely family and friends, plus plenty of fizz and skewered meats, I'm already exited to see what 2019 brings. If I carry on with the kebab life, gout and reflux, probably.

Wish you were here - Sixty Million Postcards

There are some advantages of getting old. For a start there's the starting to wake up at the crack of dawn, even at the weekend. Although it means I actually get to actually see Saturday mornings for the first time since the halcyon days of watching Inspector Gadget and Transworld Sport while eating my way through a box of Wheetos, sans milk.

Another realisation that advancing age brings is that going for a walk can actually be quite enjoyable (yes, Mum and Dad, you were right, as always). Especially so when it's a gloriously sunny day outside and even more if there is the promise of a heap of fried chicken and waffles at Bournemouth's Sixty Million Postcards at the end of it.

Everyone also knows that going to the gym means twice as much dinner (not that I ever test that theory, preferring to eat my second helpings without going anywhere near a treadmill...). Ergo, a nice gentle stroll along the beach - from Boscombe Pier into town - before breakfast means two pre-lunch drinks are in order. At least.

Firstly bloody marys, cos that's the brunch rules. 60MP provided a nicely poky example of the genre complete with cucumber (useful for the eyes, after these early starts) and extra brownie points for providing no less than three types of Tabasco. They also offer a decent beer selection, with a chaser of frosty Dale's Pale Ale - at a hefty six-and-a-half-percent - going down nicely.

The Shroomhalloumi - the cunningly named halloumi and mushroom burger - almost made up for its lack of beef, although I still feel would have been better with a sneaky meaty patty in the mix. And maybe another slice of halloumi; I'm pretty partial to halloumi.

Yet another meatless option, the veggie fry up, didn't sound like a very enticing prospect, especially to a confirmed egg-avoider, but I was kinda jealous when it arrived. Well, at least over some of it. Alongside the pesky ouef there was Nigella-style DIY avocado with wholewheat toast, some, not completely offensive, veggie sausages, fried red tomatoes and very good homemade hash browns.  

 

An imminent menu revamp meant sadly (in fact, no exaggeration to say dream-shatteringly, as it had comprised my main train of thought the night before), there were no longer any waffles available. I consoled myself by persuading the Ewing to share a platter of chicken served instead with ribs, sweet potato fries, pit beans and coleslaw.

The 'hot and kickin' chicken was, whisper it, maybe even better than another famous fried chicken purveyor. Not only was it as crispy and juicy as my favoured bargain bucket (a surprisingly difficult art to master) it also came with the advertised kick.

As they had neglected to bring any plates out, and I was too impatient to flag someone down, I ended up eating my half of the platter from atop the basket of sweet potato fries. Not really one of my biggest hardships, although probably not very attractive to my fellow diners.

The bourbon glazed ribs came adorned with something that, curiously, looked like processed cheese and turned out to be, even more curiously, slices of 'grilled' pineapple. Slightly strange but actually a nice respite; rather like a mini pudding between meats. The ribs themselves couldn't live up to the excitement of their fruity drapery, but were still a decent effort and, happily, came with the requisite amount of chew.

The other sides - served in tiny ramekins, like something of an afterthought, - were mixed; the pit beans were mostly pulled pork which, despite reaching peak pork sometime ago, is still no bad thing in my eyes. Coleslaw suffered from the addition of huge strands of unchopped coriander leaf that gave it a strange taste and texture (eating it saved the need for floss after the ribs, though).S

Sixty Million Postcards proved a pleasant surprise food wise. Add good tunes, a good drinks list, good staff and a laid back weekend vibe, it made me want to grab another couple of tinnies and slide back into my leather booth for an afternoon session. Unfortunately the prospect of shopping for pajamas in Primark on a Saturday afternoon awaited, which I can confirm is slightly better when you're slightly pissed. And at least it made the walk home seem like something to look forward to.

And while walking may be a new found hobby, I think I'll leave the body building to the experts....