Going off the offal
Chomping on some fried lamb’s sweetbreads the other day at a restaurant in Notting Hill, I suddenly hiccupped. An extraordinary thought had surfaced: I was bored of offal. After ten years of evangelical consumption of animals’ trotters, ears, brains, noses, entrails and so on, I was full up. Not only that, but I had had enough of restaurants that promise (as does Hereford Road, the one I was in) “whole-hearted, robust, simple British cooking.” How about a return to complex, effete and tricksy foreign cooking? My wife, who never abandoned her foie gras habit for ham…
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