What I’m about to tell you is embarrassing. However, from now, at least it’ll be easier, through the age old test of whether people will look me in the eye, to decipher who reads this blog and who doesn’t. Basically – a month ago, I had a bad tum-tum after devouring almost 100% of the gorgeous menu at Bouchon Fourchette. No cold, no bug… this was total and utter greed.
I won’t tell you the date or time (so don’t make me) because that would be giving you enough context to then, if this is the kind of thing you do, work out where YOU were when I had the …bad tummy, and so a visual moment in time can develop which I really don’t want. You might not be someone who does that though, which is best.
But, in short, I moved house recently and that same night went to check out Bouchon Fourchette , E8, – a new French bistro on Mare Street. “It’s on our doorstep!!!!” I said, new key locking new front door, thinking I was at the beginning of a proper boozy celebration that would last until the early hours. HA-no-wwwwway.
Bouchon Fourchette is the only place you can get snails, Cote de boeuf, mussels, mint liquor and creme caramel within a 2 mile radius of Hackney Central. And that my mates, is what I ordered. All of it. All of those things. All those rich… *bwww*
I knowwwwwww I shouldn’t have ordered ALL of it. I was excited though. Really happy. And the waitress’ enthusiasm made me childlike to the point of using my fingers as piggies to reel off what we’d like. When I finished, Ben gave me this look that said: ‘You sure about this?’ I laughed, nodding slowly, eyes closed ( patronisingly) because in moments like that I think I’ve got a STOMACH OF IRON!! which of course, nobody has, not even Frank Bruno. The waitress said: ‘that’s enough’ and for a moment I thought she was judging me.
If you will, imagine my mouth opening and closing wide like a madman as each course arrived. Like it was my 8th birthday or something but actually it was an adult celebration I should have exercised much better control over. When the big burly Cote de boeuf arrived, which for those who’ve not had it before, is a HUGE HUNK OF BEEF for two to sh…share, I was full. Totally full.
Ben didn’t even look at it. The waitress cut the rare beast up and I shit you not – there was fear in her eyes. She knew things weren’t going to end well. (NB: this meat was rarer than an unopened Mac lipgloss on a dual carriageway).
We did our utmost for 5 minutes, and then Ben gave up. But me – I kept going and going, shovelling slices of this juicy, bloody arsehole into my body and..bwaaaa.
I was ill man. For two days.
Let this not be a review of Bouchon Fourchette though. Let this be testament of my immaturity. My gluttonous approach to adulthood. My inability to understand SCIENCE. I’m going back next week, though, because I can’t be jading my local French like this. See you soon guys!