Choppy Waters

It seemed that over the last year I caused something of a small sensation, at least amongst my friends, off the back of a post I wrote about the perils of using Tinder. Wow, I thought, I must be something of a minor Dickens, penning such incisive social commentary. Wow, had I yet to have some real life experience! 

2015 began promisingly, with, as the reader can imagine, a couple of Tinder dates. These led to little, except being ejected from the infamous Admiral Codrington pub for a little too much ‘heavy petting’. I think the words of the bartender were ‘that’s enough of the floor show’. A good tale, but I have yet to darken the doors of that particular establishment since. Was it a good omen for the year to come? That’s for you to decide. 

Following another number of pricey and rather disappointing dead-ends through the labyrinth that is the dating app, I decided that the best thing was to eschew all forms of online succor and try my luck in the scary, real world. I must say that it has been a damn sight more successful but also a little more frustrating when thing have not worked out. That’s where I find myself as I write this post. 

When I write this, I must try very hard not to come across as some scorned lover or a melodramatic fool, it’s an unattractive quality and, those who are familiar with me know that I am intense enough as it is. 

Writing is a great therapy and perhaps a great way of casting off one’s sorrow at the peril of another’s rancor. I hope not to the latter, it’s certainly not my intention to hurt anyone, as such everything remains in vague terms. 

I’ve always believed the best things happen when you’re not looking for them, a much harder thing to achieve than you would believe! But so it was that, riding on a high from great weather, great booze and a few hours bantering with a best mate I headed to a party in Central London. 

It was one of those nights in which everything clicked, especially my charm. I’m an acquired taste at the best of times and I met a few kindred spirits that night. Most notable there was one, an attractive girl, fun, sparkling conversation, great figure... I think we all know where this is going. Drink followed drink, followed drink followed drink, until we were all huddled around a kitchen table drinking slivovitz and raising toasts to imaginary luminaries, conceived on the spur of the moment...

...The next morning hit me like a ton of bricks, but I had woken up with someone rather attractive and with great chat (the most important thing, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise). Peeling myself, reluctantly, from bed, I helped/hindered in cleaning up the aftermath of the party and made my way to Finsbury Park to take advantage of a free ticket to Wireless - a hugely generous present from a very special friend. 

The seeds were sown and the dating started. I’m afraid I am a novice, but I invest, and I threw the kitchen sink at it, great restaurants, largesse came to the fore. I am sure that most men reading this will share a certain concern, in that dating is an expensive pastime in which there is often little reward... It makes me sound very bitter, don’t get me wrong I have no regrets but when you look at the bank balance, it’s a chastening experience. 

In the basest terms of this dating escapade, we had: a fish supper (a bloody good one too), drinks, many more drinks, sex, dinner, drinks, drinks, drinks, weepy friend turning up, night at home, drinks, drinks, drinks, drinks, drinks, drinks, both too drunk for sex, museum visit, drinks x 6, dinner, drinks x 8, argument, grumpy cab ride, sex, 1/2 week of texting... end! 

Wow, I have put it in the most base terms, and it feels a bit harsh, but it’s hard to describe a fling (although I felt it was a little more than that). It was one of those terrible situations when I feel I was more into it, more indulgent and as a consequence more vulnerable. 

I wanted this to develop into something more but, you know what, you cannot force someone to be interested in you and if they want to end it in the early stages, for whatever reason, then fair enough. I’m mature enough to understand, no-one wants to feel trapped. Better to find out now than later down the line. 

I think the worst moment is receiving a text to the effect, it’s terribly impersonal more than anything else. An anodyne statement that it’s over coupled with a half-hearted excuse, rooted in the virtues of personal freedom and my personal welfare. It always seems that I obtain this kind of statement on inappropriate platforms or at inappropriate times, which never helps; I remember one occasion I had a break-up call on a train whilst sat with my then managing director, stalled outside a Nottinghamshire power station!  

Such is life I suppose and it’s best not to look back in anger but focus on three weeks of great fun shared with someone entertaining. It had its moments, but overall I had a great time and it went to prove to myself how much I enjoyed dating. I look on, and look forward to the next romantic adventure with no hang-ups. 

Bloody Good Chap goes to France: If sex was a sandwich

It was time to leave Nantes, so stopping off at a bakery on the way to the station, I grabbed a baguette filled with saucisson and cornichon and a black coffee to stiffen my resolve. Although the night before had not been too heavy, I had enjoyed a few nicely chilled beers and a couple of glasses of eau de vie in the buzzing city centre at the popular Circle Rouge. Being a solo traveller I had attracted a bit of attention with my trusty book in hand, ‘Ad Men and Bad Men’ and of course played the role of affable tourist answering a stream of questions on my English credentials. 

Arriving at the station I had a little time to kill, so I opted for the first of many customary train beers. As the rather sub-par Kronenbourg original (non of this 1664 rubbish) slipped down, I kept hearing the the opening bars of Shanice’s 1991 chart topper ‘Smile’ to a point where it became quite irritating. Of course it wasn’t the R ‘n’ B classic but a weird jingle for the constant stream of announcements from the team at SNCF. It was a sound that was going to characterise the trip as I experienced the French railway system. 

The lush countryside of the Loire Valley unfolded before me as we wended our way to Angers and I munched away on that delicious sandwich, full of cold butter, cured meat and piquant pickle. Before I knew it, the ancient city of Angers revealed itself and it was time to enjoy the second destination on the trip.

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Any fans of medieval history will be familiar with Angers, the seat of the legendary Geoffrey of Anjou and a wealthy dukedom. It houses a number of treasures, including a set of UNESCO tapestries of the Apocalypse and a great collection in their museum of fine arts. Furthermore, the city is beautifully preserved full of fine architecture so there is plenty to see and do. Unfortunately, it was a Sunday so the town was somewhat sleepy, but that didn’t stand in my way too much.

I dumped my bags at the ever reliable Ibis Hotel, a French institution and hit the town, but not before I had a discouraging exchange with the hotel’s concierge, who told me that the only place to eat in the whole place was the rather uninspiring hotel restaurant. I’m sure the food would not have been that bad, but I was not hear to dine in the bar at a chain hotel. I knew I could do a bit better, even when taking pot luck. 

It was time to explore the town, take in the cathedral and, have a glass or two of the local tipple, Rose d’Anjou. A strange wine, this beverage is not that popular in the UK and is a little bit rough and ready, however, it goes down quite agreeably on a piping hot day when chilled, especially with a bowl of finely sliced saucisson in a well-appointed square in the shadow of an ancient tower. 

An hour in the Fine Arts Museum was rewarding, especially for the small but impressive room of 16th and 17th Century Flemish old master paintings and some sombre but beautifully crafted 12th and 13th Century iconography. It was well worth the 6€ ticket and I recommend popping in if you find yourself in Angers.

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I become a habitual snacker when I go on holiday, making the most of the change in cuisine and, pottering around the quiet Sunday afternoon streets, I found the most amazing of fast food emporiums: The rotisserie. It was an emporium of meaty wonder and a rare place of activity as the sultry sun beat down. 

I entered and the enticing smell and site of chickens ‘turning and turning in a widening gyre’ or rather spits greeted me. But that was not all, there were trays of Rillons (confit pork belly), sausages, Morteau, roasted lamb, bowls of sauteed potatoes, pots of homemade mayonnaise, chopped hard boiled eggs... 

This was real fast food! Rather than the disgusting array of draft soft drinks, there were half bottle of wine and plastic glasses, cans of beer or freshly squeezed juice. We desperately need this in London for the masses. I went for a Rillons sandwich with a can of lager, it was unctuous and delicious, sticky, slightly gelatinous, slightly greasy, utterly deliciously. If sex was a sandwich, this would be it! 

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Dinner soon came around and despite the Rillons sandwich, a little aperitif of Rose de Anjou and a bowl of olives whetted my appetite for a simple plate in an equally simple restaurant. Yes Basserie de Gare (opposite the station as you might guess) was basic, but not unpleasant. It was a fine evening so I took a table outside. Scanning the menu and looking at the rather pedestrian offering I saw something that had long been on my bucket list of things to try, Andouilette. 

For American readers this is not to be confused with the Cajun Andouille which is a spicy pork sausage, this one is actually made of pigs intestines rolled into a cylinder and bound in more intestines. It has quite a high, offaly smell and an acquired, chewy texture. It’s not for the faint-hearted and is certainly an alien taste to the Anglo-American palate. I ordered with some trepidation, and the waiter was rather surprised, ‘really?’ he said. This made me more determined, ‘of course!’ I replied, ‘d’accord’ returned, he went away shaking his head, probably thinking I was made. I ordered a glass of Sancerre (another Loire Valley wine) and awaited my fate...

I must say the dish that arrived did look very inviting, a rustic white sausage with appealing grill marks, a pile of fries and some simply dressed lettuce arrived. I tucked in, and I must say that I don’t know why I was so apprehensive. Tasting the andouilette dispelled any negative illusions that had been communicated to me by others who had tried this delicacy. Yes there was a slight barnyard-y element to this, as one would expect of anything associated with the digestive tract, but it was not unpleasant. I love chewy, gelatinous textures and I consumed my meal with gusto, almost as soon as it had arrived, it was gone! 

I did not go for a pudding, I didn’t need it, instead I went back into town for a digestif, in particular a glass of Cointreau, another local tipple (it’s produced on the outskirts of Angers). Luckily, bars are open on Sunday evenings and so I was not disappointed. It was a great way to round off the day, accompanied by a half-pint or three of beer. Another perfect ending to another delightful day...

Coming up: I head to Tours to discover why it’s one of France’s most famous destinations for charcuterie.