Imagine the scene:
It's New Year's Day at approximately 11.30am. Four men, who, having spent a night celebrating into the early hours of the morning, aided by copious amounts of varying alcoholic beverages - find themselves in desperate need of disgusting, greasy fried food.
They diligently make the walk of shame from pretty much fucking Bedminster to the atrocious (is it inside/is it outside, I don't know) monolith that is Cabot Circus.
Having first debated and decided against yet another Five Guys - I mean, why on earth would four guys go to Five Guys? It just ain't a good idea.
So after much nonsensical debate and a hatred for the constant draft provided by the stupidity that is Cabot Circus - again, this place is a shopping mall with no fucking walls, seriously, it's like one giant capitalist jungle gym with a cinema in it and some other shit like KFC and that one shop where they sell loads of kinky shit.. I think it's call Sally Struthers or some shit like that.
Anyway, we decided on Franky & Benny's despite the fact we all agreed we hated that place more than cancer.
Alas, the Franky & Benny's staff turned out to be just as, if not, more hungover than we were. They said the food would be at least an hour - which we agreed was bullshit.
Disheartened, we left that shitbox of a restaurant (oh, don't you worry Franky & Benny's you're next on my shitlist) and proceeded to stumble even more pathetically to the next most appealing feeding hole.
Well, "this place looks alright" said one of the four hungover sacks of shit and we all piled in like a heard of clueless stupid buffalo.
A very lovely waitress indeed showed us to a table and gave us our menus. The music was all this lovely foreign shit like Caravan Passé and Manu Choa. I know this because I'm "cultured".
We ordered some of that sweet sweet orange juice, which tasted like shit to me because I'd brushed my teeth on the walk of shame earlier - I know, not the restaurant's fault I care about my oral hygiene enough that I managed to brush my teeth whilst walking through Bristol.
Pro tip* don't bother with brushing your teeth after a heavy night of drinking until you get home, you know, incase you want some orange juice.
Promptly we decided on our food. Bearing in mind, despite being the angriest man in the world, I was happy with everything so far. The loveliest least hungover Spanish waiter took our orders. What a handsome fellow he was.
Two of us had ordered brunch, myself and the other mug had ordered steak and eggs.
What a fucking disaster that was. I regret nothing in life... not even the amount I'd drank the previous night, which was a lot, because I bankrupted myself in the process.
But I do now have one regret. Honestly, never order steak and eggs in this shithouse, even if it's the last fucking meal on earth.
I reckon, even though the waiting staff weren't hungover, whoever cooked our steaks definitely was.
I believe, and this is only a theory mind you, that the steaks were in fact made in the dishwasher.
Imagine chewing on some chipboard that had been left to soak in a puddle of diesel for about two years, then, briefly grilled to give it a bit of character.
Seriously, I didn't know it was possible to fuck up steak so badly. I paid over ten solid British pounds for that tiny awful piece of steak.
On the bright side however, my second glass of orange juice tasted much better after the mistake (misteak?) that I'd just attempted to eat.
Seriously, next time, I might just jump from the third floor of the total disaster that is Cabot Circus.
Luckily there's an oriental shop (yes that's what it's called keep your pants on) down the road that sells Peking Jelly - I haven't a clue what Peking Jelly is, but I highly recommend it.
What I don't highly recommend, is ever eating at this restaurant ever, not unless you have a vested interest in keeping the Spanish economy afloat.
One star.
For fucking up my steak. read more