I defeat the Brassica. At bloody last.

Eagle-eyed readers of this blog may or may not have noticed that I haven’t posted much of late.

To those of you ho have noticed, I am ever so very sorry that I have not committed my inane rambling to screen in a little while.

To those who haven’t noticed, I have perfected my nonchalant shrug.

I mean, it doesn’t bother me.

Much.

I would love to say that the reason I haven’t been around much is because of exciting things, like Christmas parties, and then Christmas proper, and then starting a new job, and then having too many friends and families to see, and too much wine to drink, and too many holidays to plan.

But no, this would be lies.

The REAL reason i haven’t been around much is because I am FAR too busy cooking cabbage.

No, really.

Food-wise, it seems like my whole last two months have revolved around cabbage.

It started off pretty innocently, with a savoy creeping into the veg box around November.

I really rather like cabbage, so I was excited, and wondered about new things I could do with my green-leafed friend.

Little did I know that it was the beginning of the end.

Savoy.

Curly kale.

Not so curly kale.

Then there were brussels sprouts, obviously.

A white cabbage.

A whole Brassica family.

A plea from the Little Pink Kitchen for mercy.

I googled, and discovered that most chef’s suggestions for turning such delights into a tasty dinner were to add so much to them that they didn’t really taste of cabbage at all.

I have added bacon bits, and cream, and cheese, and garlic, and wine, and nutmeg, and onions.

I have coated cabbage in pastry, and mashed potato, and crispy breadcrumbs.

I have used cabbage as a wrap for chicken, and dumpling fillings, and stuffing.

I have had it as a main dish, as a side dish, and as a pudding.

I have, on one occasion, sent a bag of withering kale to the bin.

And I have sat back and thought of spring, when the cabbage will be no more.

When I will reignite my love affair with this beautiful, tasty, green leaf and its many, many counterparts.

Until then, I shall continue to invent recipes like this.

Enjoy!

___________________________________________________________

Tip some flour into the bowl of a free-standing mixer.

Add half a teaspoon each of salt, sugar and yeast.

A spoonful of oil.

And some hand-hot water.

This is an action shot of the water heating up a bit.

Taking a fun picture of water is HARD.

Taking a fun and in-focus picture is apparently even HARDER.

Turn the mixer on to medium and let the dough come together.

You will probably need to add more to get it looking like this, but its easier to add than take-away, so I started off mean with my measurements.

Place the bowl of dough somewhere vaguely warm.

I put it in my special pizza dough proving cupboard on a radiator.

While that is proving, get cracking with the toppings.

Sorry about that last sentence.

It was a bit Jamie Oliver.

Oh well.

These things happen.

Grab a punnet of cherry tomatoes…

Cut them in half before putting them on a baking tray with salt and sugar…

As well as olive oil and balsamic.

Fire that in the oven.

Then melt some butter in a frying pan…

Add your red onion, finely sliced…

The garlic, grated…

And the kale, all shredded up.

Turn the heat down low, sprinkled with salt and a little water, and allow to cook away for 20 minutes.

After 20 minutes grease a baking tray with oil…

And plonk the dough on top.

I don’t even bother rolling mine, I just sort of squish it about the place until its flat.

Rustic charm?

Laziness?

You decide.

After you have made that decision, take the tomatoes out of the oven…

Chuck them on the dough…

And sort of squish them about a bit.

Rustic charm?

Laziness?

You decide.

Top with the kale mixture.

And then, a surprise ingredient for a kale, goat’s cheese and red onion pizza.

Some goat’s cheese.

Whack the whole lot in the oven for 20 – 25 minutes.

And serve, with the smug satisfaction of someone who has defeated the Brassica and found a tasty way with some curly kale.

Kale, goat’s cheese and red onion pizza
Serves 2. Cooking time 1 hr 20 minutes.

150g curly kale
2 garlic cloves
1 red onion
250g bread flour
1/2 tsp fast-action yeast
1/2 tsp sugar, plus a pinch
1 tsp salt, plus a pinch
150g goat’s cheese
125 – 150 ml hand hot water
1 tbsp olive oil, plus extra for drizzling
50g butter
300g cherry tomatoes
1 tsp balsamic vinegar

1. Pre-heat the oven to 175 degrees.
2. Put the flour, yeast, olive oil, half a teaspoon of salt, half a teaspoon of sugar, and the water in a mixer.
3. Turn the mixer on to a medium speed, adding more water until the mixture forms a dough.
4. Once the ball of dough has been in the mixer for a few minutes, cover the bowl and put it somewhere warm.
5. Chop the cherry tomatoes in half, and place on a baking tray. Sprinkle with a pinch of salt and sugar, the balsamic vinegar, and 1 teaspoon olive oil.
6. Put the tomatoes in the oven.
7. Melt the butter over a medium heat.
8. While waiting for that to melt, finely chop the onion, grate the garlic and shred the kale
9. Add the onion, garlic and kale to the butter, along with 1/2 teaspoon of salt and about 2 tablespoons of water.
10. Turn the heat down and allow to cook for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
11. Remove the tomatoes from the oven, and grease a baking tray with oil.
12. Roll out the dough and put on the oiled tray.
13. Top the dough with kale mixture, tomatoes and goat’s cheese.
14. Put the pizza in the oven for 20 – 25 minutes, until browned and crispy.
15. Serve.

The Little Pink Kitchen. Getting to the heart of the issues that matter.

Dear Mr Mark, or Mr Spencer, or Kirsty in customer services, or whoever reads this thing.

I am not much in the way of contacting companies, really. I use to work for a call centre, and believe me when I tell you I dealt with quite enough stupid questions and inane complaints to ever save me the desire of wanting to come up with my own.

However, on Christmas morning this year, Santa Claus (actually my little sister, but Santa makes it sound more fun), presented me with a small golden tin of joy and wonder.

Actually, I tell a lie.

On Christmas morning it wasn’t a tin of joy and wonder to me.

On Christmas morning, to me, it was a small golden tin of afterthought.

‘Where are the salted caramels?’ said I.

I mean, she could have at least got me a novelty perspex shape containing jelly sweets.

Or even just some Percy Pigs.

I’m easily pleased that way.

But no, she decided to get me a bloody golden tin full of rubbish, boring, grown-up chocolate.

It didn’t even contain any booze.

And so I rebelled against the rubbish, boring, grown-up chocolate.

Until now.

And it is only now I discover that this chocolate is perhaps the most delicious I have tasted.

‘Chunky, chewy chocolate’ I believe the small golden tin of joy and wonder claimed to be.

It has macadamia nuts, and caramel, and sea salt and a tiny little mouth orgasm in every bite and SO much more than just ‘chunky, chewy chocolate’.

So, Mr Mark, or Mr Spencer, or Kirsty in customer services, for the love of Colin the caterpillar, please tell me I can buy something like this in your stores year round.

Or even if there is a sort of reject pile somewhere, full of chocolate deigned too rubbish, and too grown-up, and too boring. Full of small golden tins of joy and wonder, abandoned in favour of novelty shaped perspex.

I would place my tail between my legs, eat some humble pie, and apologise to this chocolate for my own ignorance, for judging it on appearance alone.

And then I would give you some money, take this chocolate, and enjoy many a happy tea break.

It would make me the happiest girl in all the land.

Mr Mark, or Mr Spencer, or Kirsty in customer services, or Colin the ruddy caterpillar, or whomever may read this, I hope the other complaints and enquiries you receive today are about somewhat more pressing matters.

Except, for this customer, there is no matter more pressing than this.

And so, I look forward to your response.

Kind Regards,

Sarah Patterson
www.littlepinkkitchen.co.uk

When being a grown-up isn’t quite how you planned…

When I was a teenager, I thought that when I was a grown-up, I would buy all the exciting cereals my mother wouldn’t let me have.

Like, seriously.

That was pretty much my only life aspiration.

Some wanted holidays.

Others wanted cars.

I wanted coco pops.

I stood in the mothership’s big blue kitchen and dreamt BIG.

So why, pray tell, this morning, did I rise from my slumber to do the following?

Place some home-made apple and raisin compote in a dish.

Top this with some home-made yoghurt.

And then finally, sprinkle some home-made granola on top.

Why did I do this?

More importantly, why on earth did I enjoy the taste sensation this created?

I’ve changed.

I’m not sure I like it.

Little Pink Christmas

So Christmas 2011 came and went in the Little Pink Kitchen. It was the wee pink place’s first time hosting the main event, and we managed to cram 9 people into our tiny wee house.

Reasonably comfortably.

No mean feat.

Although the copious amount of booze Mr P had hidden in the shed might have helped.

Aside from the main event, we have seen a lot of friends and family, eaten a lot of food, and drunk a lot more than is sensible.

Goodtimes.

I hope the holidays have been as good for you guys.

Christmas Eve chips.

Good old Ballymena Rugby Club.

A Christmas Day picnic breakfast.

Not a picnic for any great romantic reason.

Mostly a picnic because every conceivable surface of the Little Pink Kitchen was covered in ingredients.

Cranberry sauce.

There is no such thing as too many cocktail sausages.

Fact.

I think this is the funniest picture of my husband i have EVER seen.

That includes the one of him dressed as Father Ted.

And the one of him dressed as a woman.

Bless him.

Christmas.

It’s all about Baby Cheeses, after all.

The best part?

My brother could totally beat me in a cook-off.

The Little Pink Kitchen comes over all embarrassed when Gareth is in control of the Big Blue Kitchen.

Colouring in party hats is actually the most fun you can have when sober.

Took me hours to finish this one-off.

No recipes.

Its fecking Christmas.

Just cook the dinner the way you, or your Mum, or your dad, or whoever, has been cooking the dinner since the beginning of time.

I tried a new stuffing recipe this year.

It was gorgeous, but it wasn’t the buttery, herby stuffing I have come to expect alongside my turkey.

Spend your time colouring in party hats with your cousins instead.

It is way more fun.

Perhaps my favourite thing

Sometimes I go to fancypants restaurant openings, get accidentally horribly drunk and spend the next day needing to overdose on carbs.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Sometimes I have a stressful week at work and end up wanting to not go near a kitchen.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Sometimes Mr P abandons me for the weekend in favour of fast cars going round big tracks.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Sometimes Mr P abandons me for the weekend in favour of cars so slow they are stuck in a barn in the Castlereagh hills, unsure of when they will be driven again.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Sometimes I am full of exciting news I want to celebrate with my family.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Sometimes my sister comes home from England and I feel like I haven’t properly welcomed her back until I have eaten with her.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Sometimes our family are having to bury someone very dear to our hearts.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Sometimes my family are celebrating exciting news.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Sometimes it is raining so much, my wee red car of joy is at risk of looking like a wee red boat.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Sometimes it is perfectly temperate, weather wise.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Sometimes it is Sunday.

On such occasions, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

Eagle eyed readers of my Summer holiday blog might have recognised my father as, well, Northern Ireland’s best political analyst.

To me, he is Northern Ireland’s best roaster of potatoes.

I think they are actually my favourite food.

There are quite a lot of occasions where really and truly, only my father’s roast potatoes will do.

East belfast gets very lucky on the restaurant front

A couple of months ago, a little bird told me that Tony O’Neill, head chef at The Merchant hotel, we going to do his own thing.

That ‘thing’ launched last night.

Tony has managed to replace KFC on the Newtownards Road with something very cool.

He has created a space that reminds you of Spuntino, or Polpo, or one of those cool London places.

And the food at Il Pirata matches the space, offering small plates of Italian treats. I never really properly review food, more write it up, but I could do a happy dance of joy that a restaurant has opened in Belfast that isn’t serving bangers and mash, and salt and chilli squid, and scallops with black pudding. I love all these things, but my taste buds, they tire. My taste buds, they want this stuff instead.

Pork sliders, that pack a proper chilli punch.

Mushroom arancini, butternut squash risotto with an almost obscene amount of herbs, crunchy fritto misto. No salt and chilli to be found. Well salt, but you know what I mean.

Ragu that tony has been cooking since about 1764.

Panna cotta with biscotti.

Mr P was very excited that they offer Belfast Black, and the wine list is entirely from Italy.

So good was the wine last night that my head might just be a little hurty as I write this.

It opens ‘properly’ on Tuesday, 13th December. They don’t take reservations, but its a huge space, so I’m quite positive they can fit us all in.

‘Us all’ because I will most certainly be back to try it out ‘properly’.

Il Pirata
279 Upper Newtownards Road, Belfast

A spicy soup.

I haven’t blogged in a while because its December and I run a chocolate factory for a living.

Chocolate factories get kinda busy around this time of year.

I made this soup because its December and I run a chocolate factory for a living and it takes not very much effort.

It’s really tasty, too.

I suggest you try it.

Melt a lump of glorious, glorious butter over a medium heat.

God I love butter.

SO much.

Roughly chop half an onion.

Then fry in the butter for a few minutes until they soften.

While that is softening, you can peel…

And chop…

Your veg.

I’m all about the multitasking.

Add some curry powder to the onion…

Some apple juice…

The vegetable bouillon…

And the chopped vegetables.

Bring to the boil, and simmer until the vegetables are nice and soft…

Before adding some milk…

And water.

What, you want a picture of water?

For serious?

You’ll be asking for my first-born next.

Not happening.

Add some salt.

And blend up before serving.

You might need to heat it up a little more, should you use super chilled water or require super hot soup or something.

Quite frankly, I’m far too busy to be worrying about soup temperatures.

Nice Sarah might come back in January.

Might.

Enjoy the soup!

Spicy parsnip and apple soup
Serves 2, although can be easily multiplied. Cooking time 30 minutes.

50g butter
1/2 onion
3 parsnips
2 small potatoes
1 tbsp curry powder
500ml apple juice
500ml milk
250ml water
2 tsps vegetable bouillion
1/2 tsp salt

1. Melt the butter over a medium heat.
2. chop the onion and add to the butter.
3. While the onion is softening, peel and chop the parsnips and potatoes into large chunks.
4. Add the curry powder, chopped vegetables, apple juice and bouillon to the onions.
5. Bring to the boil, cover, and simmer for 25 minutes.
6. Add the milk, water and water.
7. Blend.
8. Check for seasoning and consistency, adding more salt or water if required.

The rest of lovely London.

To assure you that I do some stuff on holiday that isn’t eating in fancy pants restaurants.

The National Gallery.

Being tourists in Trafalgar Square.

Downing Street.

The coolest wee cafe ever up Lower Marsh.

Meeting up with chums from my trip to India.

Realising I need to go home and seriously reconsider the length of my skirts.

Getting up stupidly early the morning after 17 billion courses of food just so I could do a real life yoga practice in a real life yoga studio with some very dear friends.

Magic.

The Gherkin.

Poking around the markets.

Enjoying a post-yoga brunch at the Breakfast Club in Spitalfields.

Finding a new life slogan.

Falling in love with the architecture of St. Paul’s.

Getting to eat at Spuntino at last.

I cannot emphasise enough just how good the truffled egg toast was.

Truffley, eggy, cheesy bread.

Oh god.

I want it in my mouth again please.

Now.

The peanut butter and jelly sandwich was pretty tremaze as well.

Peanut butter ice-cream with blueberry jam filling?

Yes please.

Playing with leaves in Green Park.

Keeping Charles and Camilla safe and sound.

Finding an awesome wine shop and getting very annoyed I was flying hand luggage only.

My bank balance thanks me.

Want. To. try. This.

Feasting on a Sausage Rolls Royce from Fortnum and Mason.

You can take the girl out of Ballymena and all that.

Going to M&M world.

Its like taking drugs or like something that makes you want to take drugs or something.

All this and not a single peanut butter M&M.

Not seen here: Camden market, cocktails with chilli in, seeing my bestest bud from school, hooking up with one of the coolest couples I know, bars containing a couple shagging, other bars containing drag queens and about 17 million cups of coffee.

Lovely, lovely London.

I’ll be back soon.

Promise x

I’ll see you when we get there….

Normally, when provincial food bloggers like myself talk about their trips to that there shiny London, they witter on about being SO EXCITED by it all.

Everything is EXCITING.

They get on a plane and are EXCITED.

They check into a hotel and are EXCITED.

By the time they are on the tube to the bloody restaurant, it’s a bit like reading a school child’s report of a particularly special visit to the zoo, it’s all so EXCITING.

And by the time they get to talking about the actual food, its like a teenage shag; so overcome with EXCITEMENT that they end up sort of politely muttering ‘well that was quite nice, I suppose’.

On Saturday night, Mr P and I went to Roganic.

I should have been EXCITED by it all.

But the excitement had been somewhat nipped in the bud by the events that preceded the visit.

Basically, we got up in the middle of the freaking night to drive to BelfastInternationalAirportThatIsn’tActuallyNearBelfast the airport, found our hotel, yadda yadda yadda, you get the picture.

Then I went to check my emails to check the time of our dinner booking.

Couldn’t find a confirmation email.

Started to feel a bit sick.

I had chosen this amazing restaurant, sister to L’Enclume in the Lake District because it did exciting things with local produce.

L’Enclume has two ruddy Michelin stars.

They had a tasting menu at a price that did not require me to consider remortgaging their house.

They DEFINITELY had a space for me.

Why couldn’t I find the email?

Mr P tried phoning.

And phoning.

And phoning some more.

Not once did they answer.

I tried to hide the fact I wanted to cry.

Mr P put on the kettle.

And phoned again.

Upon someone actually answering the phone (they don’t answer during lunch, which I suppose is fair enough, given they are serving hungry people food and all), they confirmed that they did actually have a booking in my name.

I nearly started crying again.

They then casually dropped in the bombshell that they were only serving the 10 course tasting menu that night.

Don’t get me wrong, I would have LOVED to be eating the 10 course menu that night.

It would have made me happier than a teenage shag.

My bank manager?

Not so much.

Mr P calmly pointed out that not once in the booking process had this been mentioned, nor was it on their website, nor was it the type of thing you casually throw in at the end of a phone conversation.

They said they would ring us back.

I had started crying properly at this point.

We would have to cancel!

We would just have to go to Pizza Express!

The world had ended!

Instead, we got a call back to tell us that the whole thing had been a misunderstanding, and that we would be able to get our six courses and yes sir and no sir and three bags full sir.

Thank goodness for that.

So, instead of just calming the heck down and having a gin and tonic, I came over all neurotic and unworthy and convinced they would hate us because we had booked the cheap seats and that I was a sham of a human being and maybe we should just go for pizza.

Mr P told me to wise up and put on my frock.

He is a good egg that Mr P.

Then, when thanks to a tube delay, it became apparent we were going to be VERY late, I came over all neurotic and unworthy and convinced they would hate us because we had booked the cheap seats and that I was a sham of a human being and maybe we should just go for pizza.

Mr P told me to wise up.

Then he told be to run bloody quickly through the streets of Marylebone.

He is a good egg that Mr P.

When we finally arrived at that restaurant of joy and wonder?

A veritable sea of smiling faces, a genuinely lovely staff team ready to take our coats and proffer me calming booze and be generally lovely.

So lovely that the calming booze they recommended was 35 quid.

As in, affordable. Not up selling us something ridiculous we wouldn’t have appreciated.

As in, us telling them we wanted a dry, fruity white, and them bringing us a Cheverny that actually matched that description.

Lovely.

They then brought us lots and lots of lovely food.

They talked us through each dish. I had read a few reviews before I went and thought that they would be telling me OTT information about the colour of the gun that shot the pheasant or something.

They didn’t. They told us what the food was.

When we looked confused or asked questions, they told us more.

Like this…

Excuse the fluffy hair.

But after that, they then just took a step to the side and let us enjoy quite a spectacular dinner.

I won’t deconstruct the food, I am not a restaurant critic, and 17 million bloggers have already done just that about the Roganic menu.

But the food is interesting, and exciting, and a million miles away from what you cook at home yourself.

Which is rule number one of going to a restaurant.

At Roganic, every mouthful offers something new to try, and rather than coming over all teenage shag and muttering about it being ‘nice’, you end up talking about the food with your dining companion.

You compare crispy bits, and which bits you like and just how the hell one might make a foam from a cucumber.

Mr P and I got so excited talking about the food, that the table next door joined in.

And Mr P isn’t a ‘foodie’.

He doesn’t care much for pretentious.

Come to think of it, neither do I.

Which is why Roganic was perfect. Amazing, exciting food that got us both really excited about eating it.

And the service that I thought would be looking down their noses at us?

A genuinely lovely crew headed up by Jon Cannon, who answered our questions and made us feel like friends by the end of the night (I was so raging we had been awake since 4am, otherwise I would have totally taken them up on their offer of Meat Liquor beers after. Next time, guys.)

They even showed us around the tiny kitchen.

Amuse Bouche: Squid ink paper, cucumber foam, linseed and edible flowers

Whipped butter with some kind of amazing local salt I have forgotten about.

I have told you guys how much I love butter before, this was a dream come true.

Edible serving vessels for the butter Some Very Good bread. That they topped up all night.

They had no choice. I used to mop up every last dribble of delicious goodness.

Millet pudding with grains, burnt pear and Devon blue.

Also worth mentioning is the piece of bone marrow on top, it gave the dish a blast of savoury more-ish-ness.

Smoked langoustine, cured char, purple sprouting and chokeberry vinaigrette.

King Richard (a type of leek, OBVIOUSLY) baked in clay and rosemary, autumn truffle and shallot jam.

My favourite course.

Dab baked in fennel salt, sea beet, parsley root and sweet cicely.

(And, Bill Bailey style TINNNNNNNNY LEEEEEETLE PRAAAAAWNS)

Yorkshire pheasant, pumpkin, muesli and blackshorn plantain.

Bilberries, dried caramel, natural yoghurt and iced lemon thyme.

Warm Douglas Fir & Pine Milkshake, Douglas Fir flapjack.

The waiter (who, Northern Irish peeps, was from Cushen-bloody-dall) declined a bedtime story.

For with our coffee, Victoria sponge with elderflower cream.

Roganic?

Giving us all a reason to get very, very excited about food.

Sort it out, Belfast

So then, Sunday morning in bed with Mr P.

Not in THAT way you filthy lot, in the 2011 way.

Both glued to our smartphones.

Maybe the filthy way would be better.

Mr P was no doubt checking some forum for how best to attach a roll-cage to a rust bucket or how to hack a tellyphone that doesn’t even exist yet or looking for a sexy Russian wife or something. I wasn’t really paying much attention.

I wasn’t really paying much attention because the whole of my twitter feed was simmering over with this review.

If you can’t be arsed reading it all, the basic jist is the Jay Rayner comes to Belfast, picks an average restaurant (Made In Belfast, which I liked a year and a half ago but which has given me no reason to rush back), and gives it a notgreat review.

And so the whole of Northern Ireland was getting a bit grumpy on Sunday morning.

Just because some food critic, fairly used to eating at the better end of the spectrum, doesn’t like a restaurant where a pie is the size of your head and the height of excitement is a fish finger sandwich.

Wise up, Northern Ireland.

There are many, many restaurants in this wee country I love. Most of them are in Belfast, I admit, but I did go to Bangor that one time, and I have much reason to want to go to Armagh.

There are restaurants I have enjoyed with groups of friends, there have been restaurants I have enjoyed with Mr P as a pre-cursor to a Sunday morning in bed that didn’t revolve around our smartphones. There are cheap restaurants I love to visit when I can’t be arsed cooking, there are restaurants where I will happily part with quite a lot of my hard-earned cash because I know they will deliver.

There are many restaurants that have actively disappointed me. Chips half-cooked and swimming in oil, promised spices on menus that do not seem to make it onto the plate, snooty service, terrible wine lists, the list goes on.

But in my humble opinion the biggest problem we seem to face in this wee country are the restaurants that fall somewhere in the middle. Restauarnts that serve nice enough food, but are stuck in a timewarp (Beatrice Kennedy’s, La Boca, Speranzas), restaurants that leave far too empty a whole in your wallet for the food you have eaten (Del Toro in Lisburn, Wagamama), and restaurants that are so constrained by our conservative taste buds that they don’t even try to offer anything interesting (most places).

So conservative are these taste buds that we seem to ignore the real deal, such as Little Wing Pizza, or Hakka noodles, in favour of bloody high street chains, like Nando’s, and Pizza Express.

Don’t get me wrong, I have eaten in these places. God, on occasion, I have enjoyed these restaurants. But they are so woefully average that by spending our pounds there, we are turning our backs on real creative cooking, and some of the chefs out there who are desperate to introduce our taste buds to something new.

Or, ya know, if we don’t want something new, a really good take on something we know and love.

So instead of bitching about Mr Rayner, I instead urge you to spend your pounds in a restaurant with a good, local, enthusiastic team who are churning out top-notch food in restaurants all over the place.

If we do that, we will hopefully make the restaurant scene in Northern Ireland a little less insipid, a little less ‘relentless’, a little more something to be proud of.

Mr Rayner claims to deserve better.

Instead of moaning about it, let us support restaurants that will undoubtedly deliver better that what the poor man had to endure this time round.