Sock Free Hideaway

BEATS OF LOVE

104. The Refuge  

SO I finally took the missus to this much loved behemoth after falling for the charms of the Midland and more local restaurants since quitting the tabs. 

I felt bemused when Roberto ordered a meal in the Woodstock way back in the mid-nineties on a Saturday afternoon. I thought everyone was still out partying. To say I'm late to the party is an understatement, but I've become a bit of a foodie myself. Meaning I can be both critical of the missus' cooking or full of praise coz being experimented on is unpredictable. She likes to 'try things out,' so dining out is nearly always safer despite the missus getting better all the time.  

It was that madly busy time when tea-time drinkers were finishing off and evening revellers started out when we arrived. Abigail, who I didn't register with her tidied up hair and glasses, was hammering out classics like Rufus & Chaka Khan's Ain't Nobody (Hallucinogenic Version)  and I was beginning to worry about ambience in the dining room, which was just round the corner. We had a table booked. 

The bar staff were mega-friendly and informed me of the city's current rentals.  I was priced out in the late nineties and am now more than happy to commute by tram after hearing these mad charges. By the time our table was ready, the music's tempo had slowed significantly. There is an art to bar DJing that I didn't comprehend which also explained why the speakers were in the centre of the main space. 

Everything is on a massive scale. The ridiculously high atrium ceiling, the vast, expansive walkways and the huge pillars. Then the menu presents us with these disarmingly small shared dishes. Locally sourced highlights of which were the Pollen Bakery's sourdough bread that blended brilliantly with the Padrón peppers. Having never been to Spain, I was instead reminded of the rustic, intimate charms of Tuscany. Our choices diverged with the main, but came together when we both shared  broccoli, ssamjang, and kimchi. Like everything Nigerian, the Kimchi is cooked longer when the missus prepares it, so I was pleasantly surprised by its more flavoursome Korean taste. She only conceded it smelt nicer. 

Everything  we ate was a taste sensation and, unlike a tapas or sushi restaurant, these exciting hits were global. It was only fitting that we ended the night in Diggle, tucking in to  Grandpa Greene’s raspberry flavoured ice cream. Abigail was still in her own musical world as we left.  

Next time we might book the equally impressive Kimpton Clocktower hotel too, but we won't be needing the music concierge. Nobody should. Have they not watched Shoreditch Twat? 

But there will definitely be a next time.