SUPERACUTELY

Lunch at Ottolenghi in Islington with mum yesterday. Seriously, I finish my shoot for Rankin Live and all I can do is harp on about the godly spread at this decanent foodie mecca. When normal service has resumed in my starved brain, I shall let you know and perhaps post the Rankin up. 

It's simply chic establishments like this that make London the greatest city in the world. It's such a sad, sad thing when I risk panic attacks whilst deliberating over what to order. Every morsel unearthed onto its glistening platter is voluptuously fresh, practically rude. Naked, curvaceous, dripping, tender. THIS IS FOOD PORN. If only I could find a picture that did the cakes and pastries justice; I guess you'll have to see for yourself. Those cakes are my God damn crack.

EDIT

Geez, I wasn't lieing. Some bint wrote a poem about them. Why does every other person in the entire world manage to be more coherent with emotions than I? 

The Easy Cakes of Ottolenghi

‘food that is closer to the source … emanating from genuine instincts’

In his salad days of skins and caves, man

gave chase. He slaughtered buck, swallowed

the heart. He knew adrenaline, hauled woman

after woman by the hair. That’s all gone.

Now there’s money and a new ache every day,

sags in unexpected places, a loss of collagen

and desire. Hunger’s always knocking

at the edges, just the tongue that’s jaded.

The waitress leans into the table:

Sorrel sir, or salsify? The soft salt melt

of sea-bream, halibut, a thrill

of salsa, quince and pomegranate.

Then dessert: the easy cakes of Ottolenghi

drip their syrups, glisten in the night, secrete

fresh tones of apple, grenadilla, rose.