FatSu UK

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And that's it, FatSu USA is no more! Until February. I should try and eat somewhere different there next time, somewhere a bit more typically Vegas, maybe a restaurant featuring live tigers gyrating round a fully-functioning volcano. But when Dubai is so close, what's the point in seeking out the excessive and showy? And I'm a dull sort by nature. Sofa and a cup of tea type. To that end, post-Vegas, I like to visit my family in England in search of such homely comforts, before coming back to Muscat. Here are my food highlights from the family seat.

I like taking my nephews out. Felix is yawning as he waits for his ice-cream at Scrum-Diddly-Umptious, a tea room that brings some Roald Dahlian confectionery frenzy to my home town in Derbyshire.

Max is hanging upside down for as long as it takes to get all the blood into his head, on the way back from a Fruit Gum spree at Waitrose.



Waitrose is another thing I love. Or any nice supermarket, come to that. They sell wine there. Wine without shame. It's so normal that if you forget you can buy wine, and you get to the till, you can send a five year old off to pick it up for you! "Can I get a nice Rioja for my aunty please?" Adorable. And there are loads of organic things. And they look at you funny if you ask for a plastic bag, and you have to school your countenance not to seem surprised that nobody is bagging your goods for you. I spent an hour and a half in Waitrose, buying the ingredients to create a simple, make-ahead dinner for my sister and her partner. It was such a pleasure (those clean, wide, clear aisles) that I couldn't stop, and ended up making a ridiculous feast, which, while it could indeed have been made ahead, was not, because I forgot to do anything except congratulate myself on designing a menu that could be made ahead.


Most of the time I spend at my parents' house, where I grew up, I'm in the kitchen drinking tea. My mother doesn't like the current fashion for the open-plan concept, those sightlines that blur kitchen and living room. She likes clearly delineated spaces, and, understandable for a mother of five, she likes to be able to get away when necessary into a different room. Unfortunately for her, an interloper like myself can render these lines obsolete by cleverly parking myself on the countertop, mug in hand, for the duration of my waking hours.


And it was in the kitchen that me and my brother staged this little food scene. It speaks volumes for my mother's parenting that, as a family, we actually discussed whether the image below was in poor taste, given the conflicts raging in the world today. But then again, she was the one who added the peeler to the potato corpse's belly. And it was her genius stroke, not quite visible in the photo, of the single Superglue tear on the cheek of the father potato.






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1 comment:

  1. Ronald who?

    I think you had me in your subliminal consciousness

    ReplyDelete