a photo which we got off the interweb. Not even sure if it’s the same restaurant to be honest.

AFB doesn’t really do restaurants. In fact, I’m not sure whether we’ve ever ‘done’ one before. I guess I could look through our annals, but I don’t much fancy doing that to be honest. Part of the reason for this is because ‘annals’ is a weird word; another part is because I am tired, having just consumed a halloumi wrap from a place called E Mono, just outside Finsbury Park station.

E Mono is basically the epitome of everything that AFB looks for in a restaurant. Firstly, it is cheap: £3.99 for a ‘regular-sized’ wrap, which is actually pretty big. Secondly, there is none of this “do you want to eat in or eat out?” crap. No, they just wrap the goddamn thing in a piece of paper, tear off the end, and let you decide where you want to eat it. The responsibility for the in-or-out decision is entirely devolved. Autonomy prevails. And should you decide to eat in, you can just take your wrap (or chips, or weird Turkish milk drink*, or whatever) over to a table, pick up one of the numerous free local papers lying around, and just cotch. (Now there’s a word I haven’t heard in a long time.) Should you decide to eat out, you can walk for about 30 seconds, get on a train at Finsbury Park, and annoy fellow passengers by dribbling salad juice down your chin then wiping it on your sleeve. But what do you care anyway? You’ve got a halloumi wrap. Just look them in the eye are say “WHAT ARE EWE LOOKING AT?” Get it? Coz halloumi is from a sheep! Or is it a goat? Whatever.

And thirdly: the food itself is of a high standard: big chunks of salty, rubbery halloumi, warm wrap and generous amounts of crisp salad. I do have a qualm though. They put too much salt on the chips. But doesn’t everyone nowadays? Ah what a world we live in. And just because everyone does it, does this mean that E Mono are thereby justified in doing it too? This is a profound philosophical quandary, and I am too full of halloumi to think about it. Thanks, E Mono, for freeing my mind from the shackles of life’s big questions. I am adrift on a halloumi raft, floating on a sea of that green stuff they put in the salad. Rocket maybe. Maybe the metaphor would have been better off somehow exploiting the fact that ‘rocket’ is a homograph, but BALLS to this high-minded talk.

Readers, I apologise. I don’t know why, I just do.

*A topic for another day, friends. A topic for another day.

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