Jimmy's Kitchen

Tonight was a special occasion, so I took the girlfriend to Jimmy's Kitchen, where she'd already made noises about visiting.
It's not like Dave's Living Room, or Nigel's Patio, or Giovanni's Guest Bedroom; in fact, with the dim lighting, velvet seats and conspicuous lack of a microwave oven, it didn't resemble any kitchen I've ever encountered. I think they would have done better to call it Jimmy's Restaurant, but then I know next to nothing about commercial catering.

Food is traditional, with a bit of an emphasis on stodge: steaks and meat pie and deep fried mushrooms and prawn cocktails: high class grub for the 1950s expatriate set. Since I was drinking copious amounts of red wine, I wasn't fazed by this, nor by my vegetable cutlet, which was a strange attempt at a vegetable patty without quite getting there. But I don't think they're there to feed vegetarians: the mystic Jimmy probably believes they're akin to perverts (or the French), and deserve all they get.

The deep fried mushrooms were nice though. And there were peas, which I haven't eaten since February, so that was a good change. Girlfriend enjoyed her salmon though.

Desserts: again, it was like having your head held in a bucket of 1970s concentrate: lemon meringue pie for her, steamed pudding for me. Mine was gingery, but not gingery enough. Or perhaps half a bottle of red had begun to taint my tastebuds. Damn that neverending stream of waiters coming to refill my glass.

So, a fine, if somewhat antiquarian meal. Or so I thought, til I got home and found I was five pounds heavier than when I weighed myself this morning. Damn you, Jimmy, and your kitchen full of unfeasibly heavy foodstuffs!