Year of Eating Differently (123): Casa Fresh, The Plaza, Oxford Street

Well, it seemed too good to be true, and so it was. 2.75 for a vegetarian motette (like a burger in a flatbread, with lots of beans and assorted mexican stuff). I take my order back to the office, chow down, and notice a suspiciously meaty flavour to it all. Yup, they'd gone and given me something full of delicious, life-giving beef. So in the bin that goes. Now I have to get through the afternoon with nothing more substantial than a Yorkie bar and half a mouthful of beefy goodness. Boo.

Serving suggestion: toss it in the bin

Women I've met via the Internet

A short list of various women I've met (in no particular order - should probably do something about that):

English doctor; apparently fascinated that anyone would run a marathon, emailed the next day to say she was still in the wreckage of a prior relationship
American lady, art historian; said I was too young for her
Woman with big chin; had big chin, too posh. I drank 5 pints of Stella, she went home.
Woman with hairy arms; wanted to be a beautician. I told her about the Tiger Lillies, she thought I actually spent my time killing children, told me so.
Nice Claire; went for a walk around Greenwich Park. Told me I was probably too clever for her. Ex-girlfriend promised to set her right on this score, but by then was too late, she'd met someone else.
Lawyer; went for a couple of very strong drinks in St Martin's Fields in the restaurant there. Didn't really gel.
'quirky_jane' ; worked near Heathrow. Took her to Kew Gardens. Took her to see "England's largest compost heap"; she failed to see the romance in this.
Scottish woman working for an investment bank; went to Ice Bar off Regent's Street. That is all.
Civil servant; went to Giraffe in Wimbledon. Nothing going on there.
Norweigan; too posh. Went to godawful wine bar in Farringdon.
Doctor; went to Koko's, saw 4 indie bands, drank too much Guinness, went home
Grumpy project manager for company that makes shoes; went to see her in Milton Keynes, watched crap film, came home. Didn't speak to her again for three months, then phoned her up and disturbed her while sleeping in China.
Yoga fanatic; put my foot in it by saying I'd never wanted to go to India.
Spanish 40-year old in Oxford; had entire face bruised from falling on the floor the day before she met me. Laughed at me.
American studying for doctorate at Goldsmiths; got utterly shitfaced on Hoegaarden, wine and amaretto. Still in touch. Only positive thing to come out of this.
Secondary school teacher from Croydon; pretty awful.
Somebody else called Jenny; took her to see a stand-up comic at the Soho Theatre. While we both laughed, maybe it was ill-advised to go to a show about a man who has a nervous breakdown and wakes up in his own faeces after his wife left him. Managed two dates, then she went the way of all things. Realised the futility of exercise - I thought I was quite fit, what with all this marathon running and so on, until she let slip that she was one of the first all-female team to cross the Greenland ice cap.
Ultra-marathon runner; God, she could put the booze away. Two dates, after which she figured she'd do better studying for her CIMA and continuing to run 52 miles at a time.
Ex-girlfriend who got in contact after 15 years of silence; wasn't about to put out. Went home.
Australian secondary school teacher; went on three dates. She put the kibosh on it because I was too polite. Fat arse though.
American architect, gobsmackingly intelligent and pretty; failed to fly kite, went for walk around Regent's Park. Clearly out of my depth.
Liverpudlian oceanographer. Never met, because the one time she was down in Kent she got stuck in a power cut in Tonbridge Wells.
Swedish primary school teacher; went to Stockholm to see her. When she turned up in London, turned out she had a bloke already.
Short girl, graphic designer, didn't drink; took her to Imli, accidentally persuaded her I'd been doing cocaine all afternoon
Short girl, TV production manager, didn't drink; two dates, offended her by asking her if she wanted to go away for the weekend. Had a very round head.
Barrister, Oxford educated; had a glass of wine, had to go home for her sister's casserole. To date, this is the rubbishest (and therefore cruellest) excuse
Special needs teacher; met midweek, had about 5 minutes of conversation between us. Afterwards, had to go to the Pitcher and Piano for a slash. On the way in, stopped by the bouncer - "have you been drinking, sir?" Why else would I be going in the Pitcher and Piano????
Woman from Croydon, working in sales, drives an Audi TT; really pleasant company, but somehow there just wasn't something there

Year of Eating Differently (60): Nando's, Frith Street

I've always found Nando's quite an unnerving experience, as far as fast food goes. Part of the problem, but also the point, of fast food, is that the experience is generic - no matter which branch of McDonalds you enter, you should get the same experience. (This is of course something of a fallacy, as borne out by McDonalds' attempts to decorate every 'restaurant' differently, the existence of localised burgers, and so on.)
The thing that has always got me about Nando's, (and it is a genuine feeling of being caught out, rather than something that just rankles a bit with your sense of self) is the inconsistency. In particular, the inconsistent application of hot sauce. Go to the Nando's in Bromley and order something hot, and you can be the big man and wolf it down. Do the same in Islington, and watch at your girlfriend at the time laughs heartlessly as you stagger outside to the next door supermarket in search of milk, only to come back and find she's eaten all your chips. And you're still crying.
Not that I'm bitter, mind you. I wouldn't want to give that impression. But the point is, you're never quite sure what you're going to get and thus Nando's, however accidentally and possibly incompetently, is providing a useful lesson for you about the unreliability and confusion of life.
Furthermore, every other Nando's I've ever been to has got roosters everywhere and some attempt to look a bit Afro-Portuguese. Not the one in Frith Street; here it's pretty much standard West End restaurant decor - a few bits of glass, a few bits of chrome, no stupid 'ethnic' looking furniture. How odd. Anyhow, three of us go to lunch, and while we wait for my vegetarian pitta to arrive, discuss the iniquities of life and how difficult it is as cash-rich, time-poor urban professionals (cart puppies?) to find your life partner, unless you first bumped into one another at play school and spent time staring into each others' eyes ever since. (According to the cosmic ordering school of thought, one writes down a list of every single last thing required of your prospective mate. According to anyone who isn't STINKING MAD CRAZY first dates aren't conducted according to BS5150 guidelines, and with good reason: Blonde hair? Check. Blue eyes? Check. Teeth? Check. Simon and Garfunkel? Check. ... and then all of a sudden ... what do you mean, you've never watched Battlestar Galactica???? Hardly a mature approach to life, is it?)
The pitta arrives. I don't turn red and go into anaphylactic shock. To be honest, I think this means the cook wasn't trying hard enough; I may have only ordered medium, but shouldn't he have had a go at trying to kill me with an overdose of heat? Never mind. Perfectly adequate, and just like (about 50% of) all the other Nando's I've ever eaten. But that's the point.