The food arrived moments later. (Before we’d even ordered). I had the roast cravat in a bed of sizzling vinyl, Mrs Q favouring the steamed Macaca eggs in a semblance of varnished orlops. The cravat was chewy, though rich in the essence of xenophobic Tory. The vinyl was amazing—a cavalcade of post-punk sensations from XTC to The Fall.
Mrs Q complained about the orlops. They were clearly from the third deck of the SS Fulcrum and not the fourth, grown on a pirate ship out of Birmingham. The Macaca eggs were divine. They took her back to her time plucking the eyebrows off gnus to sell to antelope brothels.
The restaurant had incredible ambience. We sat in the hovering section, where a rift in the space-time continuum kept the tables and chairs floating above diners below. (Diners like to sit below and eat scraps that have fallen off the plates above. I tossed down a jug of water!) The roof was open that night and we dined in the glorious evening rain. I can’t think of nicer way to spend the night: getting soaked to the bone with the woman I love.
For afters, we shared a half-shaved Chilean miner. It was a little bony, but still tasted of victory. Highly recommended.
So please, next time you’re on Dunbar Street, pop into the The Lollop. You won’t regret it!