Da Vincenzo's, Sunninghill

Friday, April 25, 2003

Service: * *
Food: * *
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * *

Hmmm. Troy has persuaded me to come to this birthday party. It's a buddy of his who he does laser shows with, and he's just turned some ludicrous age like twenty-five or something equally feeble. Troy has promised me that there'll be lots of babes, and that the place is really cool, and that I can't miss it.

I drove around for an hour trying to not miss it. Even with Troy giving me explicit directions, I almost landed up behind bars by driving into the Sunninghill Prison twice. My car doesn't have a GPS like his Landrover Defender does.

Anyway. The place is appalling. One of those lapa-style places that can seat about 500 paying guests. The type of place cheap people with lots of money take wedding guests to. Or hair-oil salespeople. And sure. There certainly ARE babes. Joy and Renee, Troy's babe and close childhood friend respectively. Problem is, they're both attached. Where's Janine from Nelspruit when I need her? Or Heidi, for that matter.

So sue me. I'm not over the breakup yet. And even if we did only ever see each other in the flesh twice, those two occasions were huge and lovely. And it was about half a year's worth of emailing, SMSing, phoning, longing, fantasising. Sigh. Here's some advice for free... avoid the long distance relationship stuff, okay? Only tears at the end.

Back to Da Vincenzo's. I take the lead in ordering, cos I'm starving after being lost for an hour. But the host is waiting for just one more couple to arrive. They've been waiting for two hours (not only was I lost for an hour, but I was also an hour late).

"Waiter!!!" I shout. It's necessary to shout, cos they're so far on the other end of this cavernous room that they can't see me waving the menu around. In fact, they can't even hear me shout. It's another diner halfway to my target who hears me and shouts on my behalf. A waiter scurries over to him. He points to me. The waiter looks in my direction. Can't see me waving my menu and shouting. Eventually pinpoints me and sprints over ten minutes later.

"Are you ready to order?" he says.

I say, "Yes, I'd like the..."

But Troy's birthday buddy, Christo, cuts me off. "No!" he shrieks. "We're still waiting for another couple!!!" The waiter starts vamoosing into the distance, faster than a crab in an oil slick.

I stand up. "WAIT!"

The guy skids.

I say, "I'll have the pumpkin panzerotti in Napoletana sauce!"

And with that, the whole table starts ordering. Christo, who in later life will turn out not to like women as much as he thinks he does now, puts his head in his hands rather camply and sighs his order to the waiter. But he's too far away for me to hear what he's having.

Now the interesting thing for me about this gathering is that most of the guys look like the closet has been their home for many years, probably under the draconian regime of Afrikaans fathers who would bash any gayness out of their boys. But they all seem to have girlfriends who don't talk. And these boys are all wearing technical laser equipment branded t-shirts.

I suppose I shouldn't talk. I'm wearing my bright orange SABC3 t-shirt, showing my solidarity for the place I'm contracted to.

And with a serious dearth of babes in the place, I'm starting to eye the boys, and wonder if I'm in a closet myself.

But then I remember Janine in Nelspruit, who will hopefully be moving to Joburg one of these fine days to pursue her love of acting. I'll be her understudy.

The Green Venus, Kaapschehoop

Sunday, April 20, 2003

Service: * * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * * *

Bloody hell. Back when I was twenty-nine or so, I did the Blyde River Canyon hike for the fourth time. Sure, there was a bit of pain and all that, but it wasn't the worst thing I'd ever done in my life. Now that I'm all of thirty-five, I think I have to admit that I'm not a frisky young being anymore.

Which is all my way of excusing the fact that instead of hiking 15.4km today, Damon, Wendy, Troy, Joy, and I took the short cut along the road, and went to fetch Troy's green Landrover Defender (it's got one of those snorkel devices up the side, so you can drive into lakes that are 1.8 metres deep). We then drove that to the last hut, the one in Kaapschehoop. And we decided not to eat camp food. So we're out on the town.

And it's a slightly rundown town tonight. Cos yesterday there was an all night music festival, and everybody is totally hung over. It's so bad that the pool players in The Green Venus are playing with no balls on the tables. The smacks were too loud, so they're miming.

The good news is that Janine Groenewald, the star of Damon's first movie, ENGAGE, has driven from Nelspruit to be with us. And I can reveal here, now, that my gut tells me she and I have some journeying to do. I'm smitten. Not only is she beautiful and gorgeous and vivacious with a sense of humour and intelligence, but she's an actress. So she understands the casting couch. And I'm a producer.

Which reminds me of my favourite movie joke. Stop me if you've heard me tell it before...

A producer and a director are walking along the beach at Cannes during the film festival. The director tugs on the producer's arm and says, "Hey, look at all those naked women on the beach! Let's go down and f*ck them!!!" And the producer, wild eyed and fervent, says, "F*ck them out of what???"

Unfortunately, Janine has brought along her special friend, Matthew. I say unfortunately, when I actually mean, "unfortunately for HIM". Cos soon, the hikers who are still awake at midnight on a Sunday in the middle of nowhere after a hard day's trek to fetch the car, those hikers being me and Damon, are somewhat manic. And I'm being spurred on by testosterone generated by exposure to Janine.

So, one thing leads to another, and Damon and I pretend to be filmmakers, and she pretends to be an actress, and Matthew pretends to be an innocent bystander who's never encountered such lunatics ever, and never will again. And of course, the sex scene starts being enacted. In the restaurant. With me rolling a fake camera. And Damon yelling direction.

And of course, like any self-respecting artist, I've got the tools of my trade with me. I never leave home without a sketchbook, a bottle of ink, and my trusty Maped Ruling Pen. The pen resembles a gynaecological excavation device, with two incredibly sharp, strong, metallic points held together by a little spring steel caliper. With this pen, it's possible to circumcise somebody if you should happen to slip and stab them in the groin.

I'm not pointing any fingers at Damon here. He IS a director, and as such, he must be afforded the ultimate respect. Suffice to say that he's demanding a less-controlled performance from young Matthew. "Loosen up, Matthew!" screams Damon while Janine is mounting Matthew's leg, her skirt falling open for the camera, revealing the most delicious white panties I've ever seen up close and personal in a small, Lowveld town. Matthew's being open-mouth kissed, and he's sitting there unable to find anything to do with his hands. Damon shouts, "CUT!!!"

He leans in towards Matthew. "Listen," he says, earnest, ready to pull director tricks out of his bag, "I need you to really feel the part." He points at Janine's crotch. "That part."

At which point, I get a great idea, no doubt spurred on by the word, "Cut!" so cavalierly used by Damon. I figure I'll help Matthew to loosen up. So I grab my trusty Maped Ruling Pen, the one with the twin points made of spring steel, and I jab the thing right between the poor fellow's legs, piercing his jeans clear through to the chair. I remove my hand, and the pen stays there quivering like Excalibur. "Now he's loose," I say.

Damon snaps his finger under the guy's nose. The bloke has turned extremely white. And he's not breathing. Finally, Matthew says, "Uh... that was a lot closer than you might have thought." And that's the last thing he says all night.

Oh... I have to recommend the pizzas. They're brilliant.

The Wattles, Kaapschehoop

Saturday, April 19, 2003

Service: * * * * *
Food: * * * * *
Ambience: * * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

All right. So I overcatered. I'm Jewish. What can I say? Which is why my shoulders are sore and the ring of pain most people call their waistline is sensitive even to my underpants.

It's the second night of a three-night hike, out in Kaapschehoop, near Nelspruit. Seven buddies and I have done the heroic thing, believing we're superheroes, and walking up hill, down dale, kilometre after stinking kilometre. We've gone hiking.

And you know, it's not really all that bad. Except for the pain. And the heat. And the fact that my pack is a good eight kilograms too heavy.

Now you will have noticed that my rating for this establishment, The Wattles, is a little on the generous side. That's cos tonight is my turn to cook for the eight of us. And boy have I cooked well. And it's been service with a smile too. So send me large tips.

I cooked Lionel Murcott's famous lentil briyani. It's an incredible rice dish he taught me involving baby potatoes, herbs and spices and curry powder, ginger, broad beans, and, of course, the indispensible lentils.

Except, of course, that Wendy New -- famous Joburg/New York singer/songwriter phenomenon, Damon Berry's gorgeous babe -- decided earlier this morning that her pack was too heavy. So she ditched the lentils back at Barrett's Coaches. But that's all right. I've improvised with Troy Bentley's Soya Mince concoction and some turnips and tiny gemsquashes.

The dish turns out to be amazing, thanks to Alfred Hilton's exceptional curry powder mix. Alfred is an awesome artist. His portrait of me hangs above my study desk.

People line up, and I dish the steaming rice into their camp plates, and they invariably go "Yummy!!!" on taking the first bite. This is probably because the hike has allowed me to access my inner Hitler, and they're probably just scared that I'm going to gas one of them. (And with hiking food, the gas is very apparent, let me assure you. Yes Troy. Yes Damon. I AM referring to you two.)

Hard Times Cafe, Melville

Friday, March 28, 2003

Service: * * *
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * *

So why am I ogling Amanda, the manageress, wondering what she'll look like naked, when I've got a beautiful girlfriend in Somerset West, just waiting for me to fly down for another visit?

Well... easy answer... I don't HAVE a beautiful girlfriend in Somerset West anymore.

See, after I flew home on Sunday night, nursing my injured shoulder, I thought a lot about some of Heidi's closed body language over the course of our long weekend together. I thought long and hard about how we argued on Friday night after her friends left. I wondered why we were feeling increasingly estranged.

And of course, the answer came on Monday evening in the form of an email. Heidi was basically saying that we're incompatible. And she's probably right. Aside from sharing almost identical senses of humour, and both being great explorers of each other, and being interested in what the universe has to offer, we're really quite different.

So after an initial spurt of hurt anger on my part for being dumped via email, I made some peace with the situation. Thanks for a lovely few months, Heidi. It was beautiful loving you, and I think fondly of you. We've liberated things in each other, and we'll both be moving onto better life-opportunities. I wish you all the best.

Right. Back to ogling Amanda.

She smiles at me halfway through my meal. I'm eating the legendary Danish Feta, Avo, and Chicken Shwarma, the item that was taken off the menu about four years ago, but which regulars still ask for and get. Amanda waits for me to swallow before asking, "Everything all right?" That's so considerate. Most managers wait till you've taken a new bite before asking.

"Delicious," I say, and smile back at her. I wince a little bit, cos the smiling-muscles are loosely connected to the torn muscle in my back. I've been to two superb sessions of physiotherapy, and I'm on the mend. But my shoulder's still a tad tender. A bit like my chicken in the schwarma.

And I'm also still a tad tender about Heidi. A bit like the mashed avo in the schwarma.

Tallahassee Spur, Somerset West

Thursday, March 20, 2003

Service: * * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * 1/2
Babe Count: * * *

I'm sitting with Heidi. Two and a half months have crept by without any physical contact between the two of us. We've run up hundreds of rands worth of phone bills, and now we're together again. Sigh. She's a babe. And I would walk 500 miles...

Actually... I ran 500 metres for her. At the Joburg International Airport. Damon gave me a lift to the airport yesterday, and it took 90 minutes to beat through the traffic, and I had exactly four minutes to make my Kulula.com flight. And I didn't know the aiport had changed. If you've ever flown Kulula, you'll know that once their boarding gates have closed -- thirty minutes before the flight -- they DO NOT OPEN THEM!

So Damon hits the ejector seat in his new Renault Megane, and my backpack and I hit the tarmac, and I run with the thing over my shoulder. Get to where Kulula's boarding gate used to be, and find a sign pointing me South. Hundreds of metres south. So I start running. And put my backpack on in mid-run. And rip my shoulder.

But it's all in the name of love, and I'm desperate to see Heidi, so I run more. And find the lifts are broken. So run up the three flights of rolling stairways. And get to the boarding gate 40 seconds late. And there's nothing that can be done, save to put me on the British Airways standby list.

Now it's around this point that I should have paused to consider what the universe was telling me. I think it might have been saying, "Uh, Roy... should you REALLY be going to Somerset West right now?" But I wasn't listening. I was trying to get my breath back, and ignoring the pain in my shoulder, and phoning Heidi to tell her I'd be late, and phoning Damon to tell him I missed the flight, and sweating.

And I got my flight.

And seeing Heidi at the Cape Town airport was a real highlight of my year. She's beautiful to me, and she was beaming. Both of us nervous as all hell. After all, this is the second time we're physically together over the course of a five or six month relationship.

So now we're sitting in the Tallahassee Spur in Somerset West, and the affable manager with no eyebrows, Barries, is agreeing to give me the kiddies burger instead of the adult burger. I love burgers, but they're normally way too big for me. Heidi goes for the normal sized burger with the mushroom sauce. I ask for pepper sauce.

And Heidi and I are settling down to being comfortable-ish with each other again. Last night was excellent, and I was able to easily forget my shoulder pain under Heidi's ministrations. But right now it's hurting. And there's no sign as yet that Heidi is shortly going to break up with me because we're incompatible.

Fournos, Rosebank

Saturday, March 15, 2003

Service: * * *1/2
Food: * * * 1/2
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * * *

Damon Berry and I have my laptop plugged into the cashier's electrical outlet and we've just been bust bigtime by the woman behind the counter. She's laughing at us, and has her hand over her mouth. We smile back.

Bust doing what?

Perving, of course. It all started when the woman in the blue skirt and white blouse walked past about ten minutes ago. I knew something was up when Damon gave himself whiplash. "Roy!" he said, and I jerked my head around to look. We've got this system going to cover the perv action. If one of us sees some quality babeage, we'll point, as if we're highlighting something interesting in the middle distance. This means that the real object of our affections doesn't necessarily know that we're looking at her.

At this point, the blue skirt disappeared from sight, and Damon and I went back to work. We're doing a budget for our first commercial together. We co-wrote it, I'm producing, and he's directing. I can't name the client at the moment, since it's all hush-hush till their new campaign breaks. What I can say is that when I presented the idea to them, they loved it hugely, and have liberated a neat little portion of their budget for us.

So our heads are together over my computer screen as we try in vain to remove R35 000 more from the budget. We've got to come in at a certain figure, or else the client won't be able to afford it. And we're WELL above that figure, and we just aren't cracking the money-shaving exercise. Damon's just finished his spinach tramezzini, and I've stuck to a slice of hand-made ganache cos I'm still recovering from the damned SABC pie I ate some time ago. So Damon pushes his plate aside, and...

Zhlammo! Damon's in whiplash territory again. And yes... it's the blue skirt. And her butt is about one metre from our table. And she's standing at the cashier, waiting to pay. Both of us are staring. This is wetdream territory. Cos her tiny black thong panties are licking over the rim of the slinky blue skirt. And as anyone knows, the merest hint of panties showing is enough to cause sub-belt thrombotics.

And as the dark-haired butt-beaut pays and starts walking out, the cashier happens to look down and sees Damon and me gawping. So okay. Arrest us. We're grotesque specimens of sexist filmmakers who would run casting couches in an instant if we were famous.

Talking of which... I'm flying to Cape Town on Wednesday, and Heidi and I plan to spend a LOT of time on the casting couch together. Might even shoot a screen test of the two of us to counter these long days and nights spent alone in different cities!

(Some developments on the job front, but I can't say anything about those until I've got offers in writing, and those offers meet my exacting specifications for what a job should entail. You will be kept informed.)

In the meantime, it's three sleeps till Wednesday night.

My Flat, Cresta

Monday, March 10, 2003

Service: *
Food: *
Ambience: *
Babe Count: *

The service here is terrible at the moment, and that's because I'm basically limping around in a musty red sarong, my throat all raspy and sore, clutching my stomach. I've been eating stale Pro Vita biscuits with no toppings. Why?

Because of a Cornish Pasty I ate twice on Thursday. Bought it at the SABC S1 canteen. They keep a stack of pies in a sort of unwarming drawer behind the counter. You choose one, they slap it into the microwave oven for forty seconds, and you pray that it's killed the botulism or bubonic plague or whatever has started taking hold in the innards. This particular Thursday, I was so hungry I ignored my tastebuds.

As a consequence, just as I was coming up the stairs of my flat on Thursday night to drop off my laundry and head straight off to a sneak preview of Charlie Kaufman's new movie, ADAPTATION, the sweating and fever started. And a long intimate relationship with my toilet bowl ensued. With me getting to enjoy the pie several times over. Hmm. That texture.

At around 3:30am I saw the very last bit of black gunk leave me on its journey down to the sewerage farm for recycling into the Johannesburg water. I wanted to phone them to ask them to take the SABC off that circuit, cos I'm sure it's dangerous, what with all the food poisoning coming back into the water supply.

But hey. Friday morning I woke up, went to the chemist to buy some anti-vomiting stuff, did my audio mix session on the promos I made for SABC 3 TALK, and then came home again, to sleep for around 19 hours.

Saturday, did the doctor thing. Got antibiotics. Took them. And promptly found myself revisiting them too. To the tune of several litres and several hours crouching over the toilet bowl.

Which is why I'm at home today instead of at work.

Which is great really. Gives me some time to work out how to earn myself a living down in Somerset West. But I wish I could eat something more substantial than a dry biscuit. And the service sucks! Wish Heidi could be here holding a wet facecloth to my dripping brow. Hmm. On second thoughts, I'd rather spare her the details.

My Flat, Cresta

Friday, February 14, 2003

Service: * * * *
Food: *
Ambience: *
Babe Count: *

So it's been a pretty eventful bunch of months, what with me heading to Somerset West to encounter my cyber-love babe in the flesh, trek 3288 kilometres along the coast in the same car as her, and then return to the bleak world of work, with her there and me here.

Which is all my way of saying that I haven't updated this site for a while cos I don't really wanna indulge in kiss-and-tell behaviour. So I won't.

What I WILL tell you is that Heidi in the flesh is way better than the electronic Heidi. And yes. We're in love. And we're putting out calls to the universe to allow us the opportunity to be together.

It'll probably mean me heading for the fairest Cape, since she has two kids and blah blah blah rationalisation blah blah. Actually, I could use a change of scenery. So Cape it is. And it'll probably involve me making movies and making serious money out of that.

Right now I'm sitting in my study listening to Warren Zevon's latest song -- "My Ride's Here". He's dying of inoperable lung cancer as I type, and that peeves me no end. One of the most brilliant musos to grace my eardrums.

Tomorrow morning, 9 o'clock, I go into the audio final mix studio at Henley to complete the sound work on my movie, ARIA. Guto and I shot a new opening sequence, and it's looking pretty damn cool. I'm starting to feel proud, and all those things artists get terrified about. You know the kind of thing... maybe I think it's cool, but maybe it's a total load of rubbish. But hey. I'm a happy man.

Drop me an email if you wanna be invited to the premiere. We'll be launching it sometime soonish in Johannesburg. Probably around end of April or middle of May. But lemme know now, and I'll include you in my planning. roy@royblumenthal.com.

This morning, I was up at sparrow's sphincter to get to a Valentine's event at work. I had been roped into performing a poem for my wonderful SABC3 colleagues. I wrote it specially for the occasion late last night at Nino's in Rosebank. And I'm glad I did it. Cos it meant killing two birds with one quill -- I got to entertain my work friends and wrote a Valentine's poem for Heidi.

Cool, huh? Wonderful to use art to get laid, isn't it? Now I just wish Heidi were here in Joburg so I could cash in on the sex appeal. Luckily, we'll be seeing each other soon soon soon. I'm invoicing that corporate video crowd who caused me some light brain damage when I did the scripting for their company-wank. So I'll hopefully have a coupla bucks to blow on an air ticket.

Here's the poem I wrote for Heidi...

LONG DISTANCE LOVE ON VALENTINE'S DAY

by Roy Blumenthal

Got a girl far away on this Valentine's day.
She's across the road, but not in my neighbourhood.
She's an ocean away but everything's okay.

Because...

I bench-press my love in the sweat of the gym
so she can know it in the flex of my limbs.
It's long distance love.

It's a tiresome chore when I open my door
cos my house is alone in calling itself home.
She's a continent away, but it's all okay.

Because...

I wave my love in semaphore
so she can know it from the 44th floor.
It's long distance love.

I spread out on my bed, might as well be dead
cos she's in her bed too with plenty of room.
She's a planet away, but that's totally okay.

Because...

I tap my love in speed-Morse-code
so she can know it at the end of the road.
It's long distance love.

I've got a portrait under my pillow so I can feel mellow
but a picture can't kiss or demonstrate bliss.
But it's way okay.

Because...

I surf my love with my tv remote
so she can get it from a satellite quote.
It's long distance love.

She's so far away
and we just wanna play.
So we croon on the phone
but her posture's unknown.
So we rant and we rave
then we sound quite depraved
and we groan and we moan
till we're both in the zone.
But she's out there
and I'm anywhere but.
Gotta jump on a plane
to figure this out.
It's long distance love.

But... in the meantime...

I bit-byte my love on the internet
so she can know it when her keyboard gets wet.
It's long distance love.
It's long distance love.

(c) Roy Blumenthal 2003

PS: Oh...I just thought I'd mention it... when Heidi and I drove 3288 kilometres across South Africa, from Somerset West, to Swaziland, to Joburg, in my red convertible with the top down almost all the way... we didn't have ONE fight. Nada. Zilch. This babe and I are so compatible. It's love, chum. And boy, are we compatible sexually, or what??!

Al's Gourmet Chicken, Greenside

Sunday, December 15, 2002

Service: * 1/2
Food: * 1/2
Ambience: *
Babe Count: *

"May I please have a quarter chicken -- the quarter with a drumstick -- some chips, and some iced tea, all takeaway?" I say to the dude behind the counter.

He barks the order to another dude, who wields a pair of scissors to snip through the flesh, skin, gristle and bone of one of the unfortunate chickens stewing in its own juices on the rotisserie.

I need it to be takeaway cos I've got to rush home and pack for my trip to Somerset West tomorrow. I'm in a frenzy of excitement, cos I'm finally going to meet Heidi face-to-face. She's nervous cos she and her friends performed some kind of avant garde op art on her hair. But that's cool. It's nothing compared to what I do to my own hair. Every day. With a razor.

But back to my order. I see the guy plonking the quarter without the drumstick into a box. "Uh..." I say, "I want the drumstick, please."

The guy who took my money barks at the snip artist. "Leg! With leg! With leg!!" I don't like it when managers shout at their staff to cover their own ineptitude. And then I don't notice that he hasn't given me my iced tea. It's only back at home when I see this. And I'm not wasting my precious packing time to go and get the damn thing.

The chicken itself is ultra oily. It's the smallest portion of chicken I've ever eaten from a takeaway spot. Literally a drumstick and a small piece of thigh. I estimate that I got six mouthfuls out of the chicken. The chips were made from glassy potatoes. And I'm still hungry. Looks like I'll be eating muesli later tonight.

Fournos, Dunkeld

Saturday, December 14, 2002

Service: * * * 1/2
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * * * *1/2
Babe Count: * * * *

"Excuse me!" I say to the waiter, as he disappears after giving me my bill.

He comes back.

"Uh... I'm just wondering," I say, "whether you've made a mistake on this price." I point to the R17.90 beside the entry that reads 'Snapple'.

"No," he says. "That's the price."

"Hmm. That's outrageous," I say, and pull out my 'Coffee-Shop Schmuck' business card, snapping it down subtly on the billfold. "Can I speak to the manager?"

It's a pity, really, this outrageous price. Cos I've just had the legendary Fournos Half Chicken and Salad, which is one of the best value-for-money meals I've seen in Joburg. With one reservation... the size of the salad seems to be dwindling as the months go by. My salad today was really just a few lettuce leaves, exactly two quarter-tomatoes, and three blocks of feta cheese. That's not a salad in my books. That's garnish.

But the chicken itself is unsurpassable. In terms of taste and tenderness, I have no doubt that Fournos makes the best roast chicken in Joburg.

I'm at Fournos cos I've just been to Stax next door to buy tapes. My sports car still has the original tape deck in it, so I have to transfer my favourite cds to tape to play when Heidi and I drive from Somerset West to Swaziland around New Year.

And I'm popping my car on a train on Monday morning before heading for the airport myself.

The manager arrives. She's the woman who came round a little earlier and asked me if I drive a white BMW. I said no, and she moved on.

"You have a bit of a problem with the Snapple price," she says, smiling slightly.

"Yeah," I say. "But first... did you find the BMW owner? Was there an accident?"

"He was parked next to my BMW, and someone smashed it. They thought it was mine. But it's all right. We found him. Insurance will deal with it. But the Snapple..."

And she went on to explain that the takeaway price is much lower than the sit down price, and that she's now paying almost R10 for a bottle of Snapple, and that she hopes with the improvement of the rand that the price will come down.

Which is cool. She's engaging me in a real explanation, and she's kind and concerned. But most importantly, she's not bullshitting me. She's telling it to me straight. And that's one thing I really appreciate in someone. So I end up smiling and paying the bill feeling satisfied by the Fournos ethic.

I'm packing up my various books and drawing books, ready to speed off home to tape the STEALING BEAUTY soundtrack when the manager arrives with a huge smile on her face.

"This is for you," she says. "Because of the Snapple surprise."

She's given me a bag full of freshly baked chocolate croissants. One of the many other things Fournos is famous for.

Thank you!

So yeah. I go away feeling pleased with the service, and delighted to have some tea later.