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.