In a curiously-named Italian restaurant called La Barca, I ate to my little heart’s content while the bill was rung up on Dad’s client’s tab. Gotta love these business dinners I get to tag along to.

(Can’t blame me for shamelessly milking my chances before the return to student-type pasta meals)

My starter of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs with buttered toast was a bit of a letdown. Not that it was bad, but when you keep thinking Ahh I could make this myself and have it taste the same, I suppose that renders it a hit-and-miss.

Ah, but the steak, the steak! I had the scotch fillet – medium rare – in a shrooms-and-red wine sauce. Glorious meat juices danced on my tongue the moment my incisors got to work on each perfectly-seared sliver of meat.
Pink = très bien!

Fully stuffed with three-quarters of the fillet but unable to resist the call of a triple-whammy of gelato, I decided to err on the side of heartburn. (I don’t have a sweet tooth so I always refuse cake, but I do seem to have a separate gut for ice-cream or gelato)

And it all ended well when this little pig rolled her way back to her father’s hotel room and hogged the telly watching trashy Brit reality shows to round off a very indulgent night.

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