Ten: Plum and Spilt Milk, Kings Cross

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The venue: Plum and Spilt Milk, Great Northern Hotel, Pancras Road, Kings Cross, NC1 4TB

The Sunday dinner: Beef

The price: £32.50 for three courses. Don’t even go there.

Sundays come round quickly, don’t they? Especially when, like me, you live a busy, productive, fulfilling life. This week’s highlights include arguing with Thomson on Twitter, on the phone, and via email, to no avail, and trying to teach my mum, that it isn’t called ‘balsmatic’ vinegar, again to no avail. I took her for a spa day on Friday, because I’m a thoughtful and kind daughter, who is signed up to receive daily emails from Wowcher, Groupon, Living Social, and a host of other companies, including, for reasons unknown to me, Millets, the tent emporium. Anyway, here she is, relaxing in the pool.

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“HA HA HA. IT’S LIKE YOU’RE IN COCOON,” I shouted at her from the side, while taking photos of her, like a reverse paedophile.

She was concerned about revealing her bingo wings, so I have skilfully Photoshopped the image to protect her modesty. Not that you can tell. I also learned a dark secret from her past this weekend. Turns out that she has seen Ronnie Corbett live. It made me wonder if I really know the woman at all, despite once living inside her. 

Being back in Birmingham, which I was, meant I was able to catch up with my nieces. It was lovely to see them, until Kitty, three, ran into the kitchen, pointed at me, and shouted: “YOU LOOK LIKE AN OLD WOMAN” before leaving as quickly as she’d arrived. She returned, moments later, to announce:

“YOU ARE A DISGUSTING BIN LADY WHO GOES IN BINS.”

I wasn’t happy with her cheek, or with her tautology. Of course I go in bins if I’m a bin lady. Kitty told me I looked pretty back in October, so I don’t know why she’s now so vehemently repulsed by me. I made a mental note to get her something really shit for her 16th birthday. 

I also met up Tinface, for a quick drink this weekend. She’s an artist. Look. 

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We both had a lot on the following day, so just had four double vodkas each, a bottle of wine, and some whisky. 

She sent me a WhatsApp message on her way home. 

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And a couple more the following morning.

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Like Kitty before her, she’d turned on me. I made a mental note to get her something really shit for her 32nd birthday. 

Mr Jus arranged to meet me at today’s location, as he clearly couldn’t be arsed to come and greet me at Euston. Another revelation from my mother this weekend, on top of CorbettGate, was that she is under the misguided impression that Mr Jus is some kind of dashing gentleman, likely to open doors for me, carry suitcases and always be calm and measured. I took her hands in mine. “He’s just got a posh voice, mum,” I gently explained. “That’s all.” 

I actually couldn’t wait to see him, because despite how much of a cow I appear, I love him almost sinisterly.  I thought about him on the journey down, hoping he hadn’t lost any more hair since our last encounter, which was on Thursday. They grow old so fast at that age…

He chose today’s venue, hence the hefty price tag and stupid name. I wondered if it was maybe a quote from a Thomas Hardy novel or something, but a quick Google search has revealed it is just the owners being a bit wanky after all. It’s located within the Northern Hotel, though, which made me feel a bit more at home. I always like to use the Northern line if possible as it makes me think I’m staying true to my roots, even though it can often mean a 40 minute detour. 

When it’s his turn to pay, we always seem to end up at a cheaper place. I will always remember the time we were in Tokyo in 2014. I’d just bought us cocktails at the Hyatt bar, from Lost In Translation. His round entailed going to a supermarket and buying us a can of lager each to drink in the streets, while we marched round looking for fucking socks for him to buy. I’m still annoyed about this. I’ve made a mental note to get him something really shit for his 50th birthday.

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Plum and Spilt Milk is rather lovely inside, and the toilet roll is spot on, but that just made me worry that we wouldn’t get a bottle of wine for under £40. The electricity bill for running 568 light bulbs can’t be cheap, either.

We went for the three course option, which I won’t talk about because peripheral dishes don’t count. However, I will reveal that I had fish soup as a starter. It made me think of my time on the production line in a Grimsby fish factory. I used to cry when I got up at 5am and spent most of my wages on scratch cards, in the hope that I could escape the horror. The rest went on discounted fish fingers from the factory shop and Mad Dog 20/20.

I decided to have beef today. I wanted it well done, ideally. I need the Sunday dinner of my childhood. There wasn’t any blood on our plates in the 80s but, knowing that Mr. Jus would bridle at such a request, I asked for medium as a cover for my true desires. Like when I pretend I’m happy with Ribena, when I need Shiraz. He wasn’t happy with this, such is his controlling nature, and he decided to tell the waitress that I wanted my meat medium rare because “it’s disrespectful to the cow” to have it cooked more than that. I wasn’t sure if he talking about me or the meat. I made a mental note to stab him when we got home.

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Extra gravy was requested and duly granted. The beef was like a bit of steak, rather than slices from a joint. Mr Jus says it was 5%`fat, I thought it more like 33%. Let’s go somewhere in the middle and say 30%. It was served with three roast potatoes, cooked in goose fat. They didn’t disappoint, but they didn’t make my heart sing, either. Thinking of goose fat made me feel sad for Jemina Puddleduck, but Mr. Jus pointed out that she’s a duck not a goose.”She’s called Puddleduck. The clues are all there. It’s like that time you thought Kes was a peregrine falcon.”

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Listen. She looks like a fucking goose.

Additional vegetation came in the form of kale, regulation carrots, and white carrots. I don’t even know if white carrots are a thing. I was a bit shirty about the kale, for obvious reasons, and the gravy, although reasonably plentiful, did nothing to arouse me. I wanted to like it, because it wasn’t cheap, but I wasn’t over-enamoured. What made the meal for me today was the fact that we had two bottles of wine. I felt quite pissed, and still do, if I’m honest, so hope to conclude this post shortly.

Mr Jus has decided that he must include his own review within the blog, because he’s very controlling, as I previously mentioned, and an egomaniac.

“This was the best yet,” he concluded, incorrectly. “The main was on a par with The Rosendale, but the environment and service was so much better and I had a lovely time. I thought it was a very good Sunday lunch. The only downside for me that was you were trying to pick fault with things like the albino carrots, which don’t even exist.”

If they weren’t white carrots, then what were they? Do you know? I’d look it up, but I need to find a new purse on ShopStyle. It’s nice that he said he had a lovely time though. He’s been very attentive, loving and sweet lately, which I assume is because he’s really worried about how bald he’s becoming.

In conclusion, it was half decent, but too expensive. The wine was lovely, as was the company. I mean, he hasn’t noticed that I’ve had my hair done, so I don’t think the sun shines out of his arse or anything, but I do quite like him.

Thankfully, we went Dutch in the end – when we got home, I had a massive spliff and Mr Jus visited a prostitute. 

Final score: 18/33

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5 thoughts on “Ten: Plum and Spilt Milk, Kings Cross

  1. Very good. Best one yet. And you know why? Do you see why? Because you weren’t unpleasant and coarse. That’s why. You can be funny without being a hateful harpy. And doesn’t it feel good? Just say yes. Yes, it does.

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    1. Oh hi, Karl. I have spent some time pondering content and style. I’ve taken on board criticism about excessive swearing and paedophilia references, which I know aren’t the staple of pub and restaurant reviews. I wondered if I should change tack. But then I thought: ‘No. To thine own self be true.’ And that’s because I quote Shakespeare all the time. When I write here, it’s not about selling an aspirational lifestyle, sucking up to brands, or trying to please all of the people. It’s about being me. Who can be unpleasant and coarse. And, while it exposes me as an anxiety-riddled, self-obsessed, aggressive docker, at least it’s honest. Raw, even. Here – have a random ‘cunt’. Just because I can. I know it’s not becoming, but there it is. I am who I am. Let’s face it; women don’t want to be me, and men don’t want to be with me.

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      1. Yeah, yeah, to thine own self be true, of course. But you’re a good writer and (I think) should write to the best of your abilities. A large part of good writing is editing, chipping away at the stuff that comes naturally, killing your darlings (as they say). Do what you like, of course. But don’t mug yourself.

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