Nose to Tail eating,

is what they claim.... they lie.

I finally succumb to Mimi's exhortations and book a table at St. John's, Smithfield for our regular gastronomical binges. We're on at 6.30, as they are fully booked. This bodes well. Sadly, the evening has done little to alter my admittedly jaundiced view on British cuisine. This is meant to be classic and as the name suggests, not for the faint hearted. The hairs on my arm quiver with excitement at the sight of Duck hearts on toast on this evenings' bill of fare. It also explains why men are afraid of me despite my generally glamorous aura. Taks and I squabble as he vociferously vetoes my suggestion of two starters for me without sharing with him. The only thing we do agree on is that the menu has precious little nose to tail. Two visits from our waitress later a compromise (deeply grudgingly on my part), and dinner is:

Duck hearts on toast

Roast bone marrow & parsley salad

Lamb sweetbreads, peas and little gem

Chitterlings and dandelion

Greens on the side (against his religion)

Executive summary - British cuisine sounds better than it tastes; A Stinking bishop is a cheese (!!!); This must be the only restaurant in London that has a purely British clientele; Very, very few attractive people dine here; The greens are the best thing on the table. Along with the butter.

My disappointment has nothing to do with Taks failing to pick up yet another waitress with his charm and less than coy wit (Italian this time), or the profusion of badly dressed people in the room. The duck hearts are uninspired and rubbery, making me fondly think of how unfortunate it was that a chicken only has one heart and how fortunate that no one, well, Mim, didn't like it nearly as much as I did growing up. The bone marrow is a sight to behold - four, huge, chunky gheelu haddis with a pile of sea salt and a pile of parsley. Sadly, as flavourful a gheelu haddi is, just topping it with salt and some silly leaves, isn't enough to entice one when one is used to decimating them from the bowels of a kosha mangshor jhol. Slathering this concoction over a piece of toast, does little to enhance the experience. The sweetbreads engender an echoing 'I've had better'.... which leaves us with the Chitterlings and dandelion. Crispyishly fried intestines with flora. Intriguing, different and rather delicious.

A spicy, and complicated Syrah (Domaine les Bruyeres) seems to improve the attractiveness quotient of the diners now joining us, but Taks is fixed on a pair of ugly shoes and I can't take my horrified gaze of a string of white plastic balls around a neck that inspires no lust. We squabble over dessert (this is when he really pours it over the waitress, inviting her to share....!!!) and the thought of Eccles cake with cheese is just beyond gross, and I assert my superior height over the man until he submits to an espresso which I sniff.

Moral of the story. The best things British are their sense of fair play and the greenery that abounds. Leave the food to the rest of the world.