Fancy food.

I like pretty food. Look at that, erm, scallop and ... erm ... well look at it. Doesn't it look dainty and delightful? Oh yes it does. (Of course, if I was being r-e-a-l-l-y picky I'd make the portion about seven times bigger but hey, that's just me.) I think this lust for attractive nosh is sister to my utterly inappropriate method of supermarket shopping too. I am the prime target for those marketing moguls who yell on about fancy packaging to seduce the fools who amble idly down the aisles, casually picking up bright packages or items boasting the words 'rich,' 'stone baked,' 'parmesan crust,' *wipes mouth* and the like. Yep. I am a sucker for food porn.

I even sort of do it with books too. If I'm in a library feeling adventurous enough to throw caution to the winds and NOT get a Richard and Judy voted book, I tend to just browse willy nilly, going for the books with the prettiest or most eye catching titles. Which, if you think about it, is quite funny when you ponder the ol' proverb about not judging a book by its cover. Hmm. Not sure what this says about me but ...

So. Me and my aesthetically charged appetite went for supper (oh and the boy and his wallet came too, of course) and what did I choose? The linguine with the cream AND gorgonzola in. Bacon AND chicken in. My saucer eyes could not be dissuaded. I was definitely going to eat it all. Even the fact that the rather petite waitress needed help just to carry the gargantuan bowl over to me couldn't stop me. DIG IN, I thought. (And yes, yes I did put extra parmesan on top.)

Later as I sat in the bathroom, my cheek resting against the cooling tiles and my tummy yelping furiously at me, I thought about my greed for fancy food. Creamy goodness is just evil wrapped up in an appealing disguise. I sighed loudly enough for Marc to poke his head around the door and deliver the entirely unhelpful line, 'Well I did warn you it would be too rich, didn't I?' before I furiously lobbed the Andrex twelve pack at his big, fat head. (Women are meant to have MYSTERY attached to them. This is clearly quite hard to keep up when your boyfriend catches you on the loo.) So yes, yes I was warned but did I heed? No. No, I did not. But I defy you to ignore the menu when something whipped and creamed and tousled into something beautiful is staring back at you.

Revolving restaurant of DOOM

Ok, so the title sounds dramatic but it was truly, truly one of the worst restaurant experiences of my life. And as a humble foodie obsessive, dedicated to the carbs cause this was shattering.

Yes, I was hanging out of my arse and thus unable to come to sensible eating decisions, or any sensible decisions come to think of it... but my friend, Holly, had come up from Cape Town and was jolly and perky as only the dead sober and moderate can be. (Witch). We decided lunch would be a very wise plan since I had only munched liquid calories in the last 24 hours and my skin was turning a funny colour. APPARENTLY I have Lonely Planet to thank for the subsequent horror... my friend leant over and squawked, 'ooh let's go to Revolving Roma!' It sounded quite fun and I wasn't in any position to discuss anything coherently so I just mumbled 'gafudidiparr' and off we went.

I hate it when people over use the term surreal. You know- when silly, sparkly creatures flick their hair and squeak "OHMYGODWEJUSTBUMPEDINTOEACHOTHER....sooooo surreal." Argh! No it's not! That's a coincidence airhead! *calms down* Anyway what followed actually warranted one of those comments. We emerged on the top floor of a rather shaky building, the restaurant slowly clunking it's way around as only a revolving restaurant born in the 80's can. What greeted us was part horrifying, part hilarious. It was like someone had vomited chintz everywhere. The walls were daubed with fat, slightly leery cherubs and nude Raphellite sort-of-beauties. Everything was in dark mahogony and the carpet bore a slightly exhausted it-was-fashionable-in-the-70's look. The Manager was the only person who took orders (ego trip anyone?) so we sat for forty five miserable minutes before we were graciously handed a menu. I, now almost dribbling from the night before's antics, decided that since I'd been bullied into this (I just wanted a burger) I would have to get hopelessly drunk again to survive Giuseppe's plastered on smile and Isabella's 90th birthday celebrations on the next table.

So I opted for pasta carbonara and a bucket of red wine. Simples. It's an Italian, isn't it? Oh dear. My carbonara arrived in a twee china bowl that looked like it should have been chucked many moons ago and the pasta was cold, covered in tomato and had SPAM in it. Wait a minute- didn't post war Britain eat spam? Hmm? Where was my crispy bacon, egg and cream? I wilted in horror, my headache screaming DON'TMAKEAFUSS as I attempted to wolf down my main course.

A part of me died that day.

I LOVE pasta and that horrid restaurant ruined it for me. Ok that's a lie, I'm definitely eating pasta again- as soon as possible actually- so I can reassure my poor tum that it still tastes nice really. And actually the decor was quite funny. In fact, the restaurant experience was akin to seeing that old relative of your's plastered at a wedding and groping as much bridesmaid bottom as possible. It's horrendous but sort of amusing at the same time. And I was hungover slash drunk throughout the experience. I would warn you all off it but I doubt you'll find yourself in Durban by the water, a little too close to the CBD for my liking, musing on the benefits of a fun afternoon out in an Italian that charmingly revolves around grey tower blocks. But just in case- DON'T DO IT. Lesson learnt.