The Infamous B.O. Restaurant Review - Male Chicken Edition
Eating is essential, eating is what keeps us cyclists going. AT team B.O. a meal is treated as a celebration of life. It is less of an necessity but more of a sacred vow to honour your body. It's well, damn important if you know what BObbie means...
All right, so BObbie's views are not a correct representation of Team B.O., or a normal human being...
So on a chilly winter night, somewhere not so luxurious as the famed Sandton and deep in the West where some spike for a brand remains a premium choice, the Goat and the BObbie, two premium eaters of Team B.O., shaken off the muds off their furs and rocked into a house with a sign of a big cock and expected nothing but a shafting. I mean, this place just don't resemble anything of a choice restaurant, you know, none of those fancy lightings, parking attendants, manager at the entrance who refuses entries to guys who dressed like the Goat, patrons who show up in cars you see only on Top Gear and dresses comes off magazine shots. That and plastic surgery.
Instead, a middle aged man in apron started blabbering away in French, a language BObbie only associates with male chicken and the Goat swears fluently in.
Well, the menu is packed with traditional French dishes. Just like you expect Sweet & Sour Chicken at a Chinese take away (Yes, there isn't an actual Chinese dish that is Sweet & Sour anything. Chop Suey actually meant stir fried leftovers which some American red neck insists it must be real Chinese because it isn't on the menu back in the days of no internet. Yes, children, those days do truly exist), you will see snails, onion soup, ducks and soufflés. This is a French restaurant after all. You know, bake your snails in garlic butter and dip in your bread thingy.
BObbie, who don't get impressed at restaurants anymore (EveryBOdy nods in agreement... EveryBOdy actually don't like eating with BObbie. BObbie and Pa, BObbie picks on the food, Pa picks on the waitresses...) and Goat who want his tea hard, no milk, is ready to judge.
And if gluttony is a sin, bring them black pepper sauce over my filet mignon...
You just don't get this anymore. There are some fine restaurants in the so called metropolis city of Johannesburg, the managers or the owners will come offer some rudimentary greets and if you are lucky, you might get trained speech from waiters/waitresses who might offer you a service. But this is different. In some unique way, the two French restaurants the Goat and the BObbie loves, both has an owner who makes socialising with their guests not a necessity but a pleasure and done without some face on a book (yes, children, socialising means person to person and twitter ain't news...). You don't come cock about to be fed, you come, to experience life.
You usually eat out for convenience, you eat out to experience a sensory you can't fabricate at home. It may taste expensive and make you act like a Japanese tourist with the latest DSLR, but for all the passion displayed by some enthusiastic English chef on TV, you can't taste it. You don't sense it. Unless you went home to Nanny who lovingly made you a chicken mayonnaise sandwich with leftover roast chicken. Woolies will never capture that.
Here in some corners of the Westrand, a place the Sandtonites will probably never set a foot in, hide a restaurant with a chef who actually get upset when a patron ask for some tomato sauce to go with those golden crispy chips, who refuses to make milkshake. Thank lord.
(BOd note: (011) 027 8668, enjoy...)
All right, so BObbie's views are not a correct representation of Team B.O., or a normal human being...
So on a chilly winter night, somewhere not so luxurious as the famed Sandton and deep in the West where some spike for a brand remains a premium choice, the Goat and the BObbie, two premium eaters of Team B.O., shaken off the muds off their furs and rocked into a house with a sign of a big cock and expected nothing but a shafting. I mean, this place just don't resemble anything of a choice restaurant, you know, none of those fancy lightings, parking attendants, manager at the entrance who refuses entries to guys who dressed like the Goat, patrons who show up in cars you see only on Top Gear and dresses comes off magazine shots. That and plastic surgery.
Instead, a middle aged man in apron started blabbering away in French, a language BObbie only associates with male chicken and the Goat swears fluently in.
Well, the menu is packed with traditional French dishes. Just like you expect Sweet & Sour Chicken at a Chinese take away (Yes, there isn't an actual Chinese dish that is Sweet & Sour anything. Chop Suey actually meant stir fried leftovers which some American red neck insists it must be real Chinese because it isn't on the menu back in the days of no internet. Yes, children, those days do truly exist), you will see snails, onion soup, ducks and soufflés. This is a French restaurant after all. You know, bake your snails in garlic butter and dip in your bread thingy.
BObbie, who don't get impressed at restaurants anymore (EveryBOdy nods in agreement... EveryBOdy actually don't like eating with BObbie. BObbie and Pa, BObbie picks on the food, Pa picks on the waitresses...) and Goat who want his tea hard, no milk, is ready to judge.
And if gluttony is a sin, bring them black pepper sauce over my filet mignon...
Salmon grilled with sesame seed and a fusion orient dressing. The dressing is unbelievably matching to the salmon and the salmon literally melts in your mouth.
Snails baked in a pastry with onion and garlic creme sauce. The pastry is incredibly crisp and the sauce is, my lord, calories be damned, bring me that sauce!!!
Since we had a creamy sauce with snails, chef opted for a soupy, clean taste to go with them fresh mussels. I mean, you would never bother with them whatever crab food in a basket...
Rabbit stew with beans. "Oh, poor little bunnies" said the Goat, "scrunch, slurp, chewy..." munches the Goat...
Dem cherry tomato sauce with perfectly grilled kingklip. Those golden chippies?!!! Crispy on the outside and spongy in the inside, you don't understand how well the combination works. BObbie don't have time to chew...
A rack of rib steak. Chef's filet melts in your mouth with the black pepper sauce and the meat juice. But if you favour a chewy piece, go for this. Anyone who cooks a huge steak knows how hard it is to cook it to perfection... Goat sucked those bones dry...
BObbie asks and BObbie get them black pepper sauce. Yes, real sauce, just look at the sheen...
Peas and scallops? BObbie couldn't work out what the sauce is made out of, but mixing pea mesh, chewy scallops and that sauce, BObbie almost chewed his own tongue...
The film crew was too busy eating scraps instead of doing their jobs. Then again, BObbie & Goat move fast and eat faster! Filet Mignon with roasted veges disappearing...
That fish was once happily swimming in the sea, now it's swimming inside Goat's tummy, hard no milk...
Lani was late...
Very late...
Way too late... yes, Goat licked the plates...
Time for desserts... basically home made ice creams... that raspberry sauce and custard...
Double chocolat soufflé... it's chocolate cream exploding inside... Goat had chocolate sauce dribbling down his lips...
Creme bulee. Yeah, Goat has tried many versions, Goat tried them at some prestigious restaurants, Yeah, Goat finally ate creme bulee... with tears...
Pear and almond tart... BObbie no eat sweet staff swallowed it...
A sorbet is a sorbet, ai? Fools!!!
Since the bakery isn't ready, chef can only offer BObbie a sample of what a real croissant tastes like... BObbie hasn't touched another croissant since...
You just don't get this anymore. There are some fine restaurants in the so called metropolis city of Johannesburg, the managers or the owners will come offer some rudimentary greets and if you are lucky, you might get trained speech from waiters/waitresses who might offer you a service. But this is different. In some unique way, the two French restaurants the Goat and the BObbie loves, both has an owner who makes socialising with their guests not a necessity but a pleasure and done without some face on a book (yes, children, socialising means person to person and twitter ain't news...). You don't come cock about to be fed, you come, to experience life.
You usually eat out for convenience, you eat out to experience a sensory you can't fabricate at home. It may taste expensive and make you act like a Japanese tourist with the latest DSLR, but for all the passion displayed by some enthusiastic English chef on TV, you can't taste it. You don't sense it. Unless you went home to Nanny who lovingly made you a chicken mayonnaise sandwich with leftover roast chicken. Woolies will never capture that.
Here in some corners of the Westrand, a place the Sandtonites will probably never set a foot in, hide a restaurant with a chef who actually get upset when a patron ask for some tomato sauce to go with those golden crispy chips, who refuses to make milkshake. Thank lord.
(BOd note: (011) 027 8668, enjoy...)
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