So the thing to do when you haven’t updated in weeks and weeks and have had many adventures and stresses (but mostly adventures, and good ones, too), is to skip straight to an anecdote featuring whipped cream, because that is most recent.

My friend S and I had dinner tonight at a place just off Tower Bridge, a place that used to have a sports bar vibe but has since been refurbished with a modern, generally uninspired decor. Whatever the decor, the joint has unexpectedly good, cheap-for-London food. The menu is mostly pubby, but the specials run toward the gourmet. Tonight we had roasted guinea fowl with green beans. It was delish. And we should have stopped there. But you know, dessert.

We ordered the profiteroles in chocolate sauce, and they were fine. They were probably leftovers from the weekend, but whatever — I was really more interested in the meringue nest with mixed berry frozen yogurt and fresh strawberries.

It arrived as a mound of whipped cream with three glazed (not fresh) strawberries on top, and I remember thinking, “If you’re going to go to the trouble of making a meringue nest, seems like you might want to show it off.” At the time I was willing to believe someone was being modest.

I plunged my fork into the blob of whipped cream, and encountered…more whipped cream. I had just begun to harumph and aggressively dig around for meringue, frozen yogurt, Jimmy Hoffa, anything other than whipped cream when S announced that she’d found the meringue on her side. She turned the plate around:

“See? Right there.”

“Right where?”

“That line there.”

“You made that line with your fork.”

And after further poking around we both had to concede that 1) we’d been served a plate of barely vanilla flavored whipped cream for dessert, and 2) even more troubling, we ate it. Most of it, anyway.

We were laughing pretty hard, high on transfats and sugar as we were, when the server came along and asked us how it was. I couldn’t resist mentioning — good naturedly, I promise — points 1 and 2 above. She looked worried and went back the kitchen. S and I laughed some more.

And that would have been enough, but then the server came back. The guy in the kitchen, instead of folding when I called his bluff, raised the bullshit ante. Apparently he told the server that “the yogurt was mixed in.”

Frozen yogurt?” I said.

“He said that’s a mistake. It’s not frozen. It’s mixed in.”

“And the meringue?”

“Mixed in.”

“The meringue nest is mixed in.”

“That’s what he said.”

I could tell she didn’t believe it, either.

I was tempted to go back to the kitchen and get all Gordon Ramsey on his ass, less for serving me a plate of whipped cream than for telling such insulting lies. “JUST HAVE THE SERVERS SAY YOU’RE OUT!” I would have hollered. “YOUR CREAMY BLOB IS NOT FOOLING ANYONE!”

But then, I’d just eaten nearly half a plate of whipped cream. I wasn’t exactly standing on the moral high ground.

So yes, if you’re in London, go to the Tower Bridge Bar and Grill for dinner. Avoid dessert unless you’re looking to satifsy a very specific craving.

Catch up on non-whipped cream related adventures coming soon.

4 thoughts on “Whipped

  1. Lindsley

    Uncle Mike, it was all laughing, no squid. Unless of course the squid was mixed in, too.

    Well, Elsa, you could dare me to get close to a spam spam spam spam egg bacon Viagra and spam butty…that would be spammier.

    I would love to participate in your online sandwich party, but I’m not getting anywhere near a chip butty (link included to traumatize the blissfully butty ignorant). Perhaps I’ll pick up an M&S Tuna and Sweetcorn Sandwich, and then take photos of me picking out the corn, because seriously: tuna and corn? What the hell, England?


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