Paper plate dego

“Any dinner that ends with dancing on the tables is a success in my books!” said my sis when we woke up, heads throbbing, after the first London edition of the Paper Plate Dego. Agreed, but there are so many other reasons why this dinner was a success that to solely single out the dancing is to do a massive disservice to the chef.

‘Dego’, for those of you who don’t speak Aussie, is short for degustation. (If you find yourself stuck in the outback, a good rule of thumb for words over 2 syllables is to chop off all but the first and stick an ‘o’ on the end: avo, servo, dego and so forth.)

But why the paper plates? It started out with a lack of crockery and now the name has stuck, so why not? It means less dishes to wash and, in a neat play on words, Chef Sam’s twitter handle can also be read as ‘paper plated ego’.

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Mayhem

Hello out there. Yes, I’m still alive and well. Thanks for checking on me. Often.

I realise it has been the longest I have ever left between posts and I am noticing an interesting pattern in my traffic statistics – the longer between posts the more often you visit. Not a particularly good incentive to keep posting, but it really is about time.

May has been a busy month. My friend, Ray, arrived from Australia on 5^th May for a month, my Mum arrived on the 10^th for the summer, the same day my friend Geraldine (the one with strong opinions on bolognese) arrived from France with brother and boyfriend in tow and I had an exam. All lots of fun except the last part.

So if I’m still alive I must have been eating stuff. Yes, lots of it. To get things moving again I thought I’d share some photos of some of the things I have been eating in May.

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Fernandez and Leluu supper club

Updated on Tuesday, March 15, 2011 at 12:30PM by Vix

The boyfriend doesn’t take well to surprises. He had been in a strange mood all day. I had put it down to a silly squabble we had had in the morning, but it turns out that he was anxious. I should have taken the hints; he had been desperately trying to gather more information on where I was taking him that evening.

I wasn’t letting on much, but he had managed to ascertain the following: 

• It was not The Streets concert in Brixton (disappointing)
• We were heading East
• There would be food involved
• He could wear trainers (he didn’t)
• He needn’t wear a shirt (he did)

But it wasn’t enough. When I stopped the cab a mile too far down the road without explanation it all became too much.

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