Satan’s toothpaste. Sperm-surf. Crafter’s short-cut. Cum. Spunk. Jizz.
Call it what you want; it’s a relatively accepted fact that food should not look like it. The entire surface of a lasagne bought this week in a Covent Garden café, however, did.
Those translucent splashes of thickening greyish-yellow made the usually simple act of eating a lot like playing tennis with your back turned on your opponent. Most table-time was not spent eating though – most table-time was spent squinting to see if I could see the teeny life-giving tadpoles squirming.
Disgust having eroded all my senses, I can’t testify to the taste objectively, but the side-salad was quite nice; a decent crunch and sweetness to it.
And another thing: a lasagne’s layers should be rectangular and solid, like an suburban office development’s floor plan, not some choppy thing like a pasta imitation of 90’s boy band haircut.
This blog features way too many similes.
Aggregate meal score: 3/10