This weekend was fairly uneventful - Saturday was a day of errands, with one of Elliot's friends visiting from Ibiza and a delicious dinner at
Ducksoup (typed "dicksoup" there at first, by accident... Freudian typo?!). I had rabbit rillette and cornichons, followed by cuttlefish risotto with squid ink. There's something deliciously weird about eating a plate of rice in a very black sauce.
I love how tiny and homemade Ducksoup feels (there are only a handful of tables; most people eat at the bar), but wish they would write their daily menus a bit more neatly. But whatever.
On Sunday, we headed to our friend Lucy's house in Esher for Sunday Roast. This is an actual, proper noun THING here, needing capital letters and everything. Of course, we have roasts in Canada, but it isn't as entrenched a tradition as it is here. Think of it as a full Thanksgiving dinner, every Sunday. We haven't cooked one yet, but we've gone out for plenty, at pubs with names like "Duke of Wellington", "Prince of Wales", "Rose and Crown", and so on.
Photo: my BlackBerry. This is a traditional pork roast, with a big chunk of crackling on top. YUM.
I was going to write about consignment stores in London, but seeing as how this post has ended up being all about food, I'll save that for tomorrow! I'm also on two deadlines today, so that's enough procrastinating for now.
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