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From: Castrato Category: Consumer Date: 12 April 2007 Time: 07:26 AM Review: Its not far from the station, but a calm pervades this place which speaks of money, children seen and not heard on the rare bank holiday their parents grace them with their presence. The houses are fat with it, spilling their guts, four by fours, and shiny new minis, on to the gravel spaces in front. Inside short haired women sit dull, same, white, munching. I order truffled egg which arrives like a deep fried testicle on top of a hill of something that hasn't lingered long in my memory. It was good, and I have balls on the mind, thinking of the veal and sweet meats to come. Later in the week I learn that castration anxiety should not be satisfied with sweet meats, a common mistake, mine, and I have not consumed some precious maleness in this meal, merely a placebo. I don't like the veal or the sweet meats, but there is plenty of wine, and chatter, so it doesn't matter. Wondering how long we have out stayed the waiters' welcome as they sit down to their staff meal hours later, dispelling the food's mystic, while we swap desserts. Too full, nothing could satisfy and delight now, but the rhubarb and yoghurt I didn't order works as some kind of refreshment. Tired and drunk on the tube, with its grime grinding wheels.