with Gelatinous McAnimate at the Wall Street Pizzeria in Kiryat Motzkin, Israel
This little junket around the Middle East (all paid for out of the bottomless coffers of the Evil Gerald, of course) couldn't be easier. There's simply nobody on the buses, but one doesn't travel on buses when one is a world renowned writer of gastronomical proportions. Instead one gets in a taxi and tries to communicate to the driver through the bullet proof glass where one wants to go. As I was saying to Claire Synth-Moog only the other day, the traffic back on Ireland's green pastures would run much smoother if everyone thought they were about to be bombed all the time. Oh shut up, they don't count. Oh honestly, people are so edgy here, I wish they'd just chill out.
So it was first to an intimate cocktail bar with long-time friend and confidante, Beatrice Fucklemore, who is escaping the ravages of the Celtic Tiger with a two-week stay in a kibbutz, where she farms melons and someone is writing her autobiography. Once a little squiffy on their simply fabulous Mai Tai (don't touch them in the Groucho Club, it's a crime) we were off to the Wall Street pizzeria just north of the tranquil port of Haifa.
Well let me tell you, the place came highly recommended, but what a let down. The décor was that horrible nouveau charred effect that is so en vogue at the moment but if you ask moi is just so passé. The tables were in a disgraceful condition and the menu was staid and obvious. If I want Italian I want Italian, not just something that looks like the front of a jar of Dolmio. The Valpolicella was notable only for its distinct absence, and the risotto may as well not have been there, while the bruschetta was burnt to a crisp. As I was saying to Miffa Fiveknockers, manager of new boyband, Back Passage, just the other day, it's at times like these that one almost considers cooking for oneself, if only one could stay sober long enough. The glasses in the dingy dump were filthy and the service was dreadful, without a waiter in sight. The atmosphere was deathly and our table was in such an awful smoky little corner that the only other life visible was a soldier on patrol outside, although he did cut quite a dash pointing a gun from his armoured personnel carrier.
It then transpired that he was pointing the gun me and told us the f****n****g restaurant was a******y closed. Of course we were mortified and it was enough to make yours truly want to commit suicide there and then with a belt full of explosives strapped to my body. Botheration! It thoroughly spoiled the whole evening. As I was saying to Gary Axe, owner of Jillie's Brothello, only the other day, with such a dearth of good places to entertain it's no wonder those Arab chaps get so miffed.
til next time,