The venue: Persepolis, 28-30 Peckham High Street, SE15 5DT
The website (new feature): http://foratasteofpersia.co.uk/the-cafe/
The Sunday dinner: Persian platter (sans gravy)
The price: £17.50 per patron for three courses
In last week’s post, I very subtly alluded to being sex-starved, by proclaiming so thrice, possibly in capital letters. Mr Jus appeared slightly concerned and asked if it was really the case. I told him I was ‘quite hungry’. Thankfully, readers, I’m now only slightly peckish, but still considering visiting the Ashley Madison all-you-can-eat buffet. Why? Because one post-coital experience was marred when I was asked by Mr Jus:
“Is it ok if I plan my bike ride now that I’ve done my chores?”
A chore, as you probably know, is defined as ‘a job, or piece of work, that is often boring and unpleasant but needs to be done regularly’ or a ‘tedious but necessary task’. I’ve written to The Oxford English Dictionary asking if it’s possible to include a photo of my beloved adjacent to the entry for ‘arsehole’.
Before we review my Sunday dinner, here’s a précis of the week that was…
Monday: The start of the week saw Mr Jus deliver a monologue about how he knows my birthday is approaching, how he hasn’t got me anything, that he doesn’t know what to get me, how he’s been racking his brains, and how good at gifts he usually is. Let’s stop there for a second and consider this Christmas 2015 offering:
That’s right. It’s a weird, 3D, to scale, model of himself. I’ve positioned it next to my wine, so you can see how big it is. Narcissism gone mad, basically. I received it for Christmas in 2015, when he was cycling in Argentina. Now then. It’s holding a Merry Christmas sign, so is too seasonal for year-round display, and, despite my very tight front bottom, isn’t really of dildo diameter or length. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with it.
Mr Jus told me he’d got it so he could still be near me, even though he was far away. I’m not buying that shit – he basically wanted to see what he looked like as an ornament, the self-obsessed fool. It takes one to know one. He bought his mum one too, which I had to send and pay the postage for, what with him dicking about in South America, which only added to my sheer wonder and delight.
Anyway, I told him I knew his speech was just a cover, and that he was just trying to put me off the scent of the brilliant surprises he must have planned. It was my way of making him even more stressed about his lack of thought, care and attention. I’m good like that, and don’t even see being a bitch as a chore. It’s more of a vocation. A calling.
Tuesday: Mr Jus had a Smart Meter fitted a few weeks back and is now obsessed with power usage. He came racing into the living room to tell me the machine was going haywire as I used the hairdryer. “IT’S WORSE THAN THE KETTLE,” he shouted, completely aghast. I only have 33 strands in total, so it takes no time at all. Plus I pay half the bills – I’m not a leech – but still felt really guilty. I handed him 30p from my purse, because of his whining, and told him to go out and get himself something pretty.
Wednesday: World-renowned energy-conservationist and fucking hypocrite, Mr Jus, left his computer on all day following a morning turbo session. For those who aren’t members of the cycling community, a turbo session involves sitting on a bike in the house and completing a named challenge. How I laughed when I saw the name of the ride he’d undertaken, while simultaneously taking £5 out of the pocket of his jeans towards the electricity bill.
Thursday: Smear test day – one of the highlights of my social calendar. It’s a pleasure to be touched so intimately and not have the person complain immediately afterwards. I thought about asking the nurse if we could maybe spoon for a few minutes following the procedure, but imagined she was probably busy, so didn’t bother mentioning it. She told me she was going to take a look at my cervix.
“Excellent,” she remarked. That’s right. I’ve got an excellent cervix. Another plaudit for my Ashley Madison and LinkedIn profiles.
Friday: Chore City. Yeah, baby. No. Not ‘yeah, baby’ at all. I have no interest in Austin Powers and it wasn’t a day of unbridled passion, because I started work at 6am, finished at 6.15pm, then did ALL THE FUCKING HOUSEWORK, before sitting down to enjoy my daily 9pm conference call. Mind you, Mr Jus’ train was slightly delayed after he’d had a few pints, so the day was hard for him too. I’m getting a cleaner, basically.
Saturday: Had half a pint of mead on the walk into Brixton. As you do. Saw a woman trip over a rogue carrot in the street. Felt happy. She didn’t fall or hurt herself or anything – I’m not a monster – it just cheered me up to see a person stumble on a root vegetable. I don’t know why. To prove I’m not a complete shit, I’ve marked up where they are on Rye Lane in Peckham, just so you know where to avoid.
Sunday: It’s dinner time and we’ve just been to Persepolis. Do you want to know the top three, and only, things I know about Persia?
- The ‘Prince of Persia’ computer game series
Thanks. I’m quite the historian. Putting my general ignorance and thickness to one side, we thought we’d try something different this week after seventeen Meat Sundays. After all, meat is murder. Or delicious, I forget. Sorry, vegetarian and vegan friends. Please don’t hate me for liking meat. I worry that you do. I know people are more likely to slip on sausages than carrots*, and I do feel bad sometimes, because I love animals (drenched in gravy). I AM SORRY AGAIN.
*OR ARE THEY?
I know it’s not a traditional Sunday dinner, but when you’re an esteemed food critic, you can turn your pen and palate to anything. The place doubles up as an Iranian supermarket, which can be said for most things in life, when you think about it. It’s quirky, eclectic, and it’s BYO with no corkage charge. Happy days.
Let’s have a look at what we rammed down our greedy throats.
In summary, a melange of tastes, textures and temperatures – a great combination of aromatic herbs and gentle Middle Eastern spices. It was fresh; it was fruity; it was Iranian booty. Our puddings – a Turkish Delight Sundae and Hot Paklava Meltdown were filthily tremendous.
They played ‘That’s What I Call Music 3’ at a guess. It featured Dexy’s Gino and Kim Wilde’s Kids In America, so we enjoyed a little seated dance while munching on falafel. The only thing that spoiled the experience was the American guy, sat close by, who was chatting to a stranger. He said things like: ‘I’m not Christian, I’m not Muslim. I go back further than that. I’m more Native American Indian.’ He was about as Native American Indian as my Uncle Fred, the Grimsby angling fanatic. He also talked about how America had a “small problem with satanists”. He distracted us, basically.
Here’s my cute and sweet Mr Jus, in yet another stripy top, giving the Disney Club thumbs up in front of a centuries-old Persian rug, followed by his quote of the week:
“Persepolis is The Oxymoron, transposed to Persia. I mean that as a compliment though. The food is great – it’s the perfect post-ride fodder.
“I’m very pleased the clocks have changed, that the sun is shining, and that you’re by my side, because even though I may lose my job soon, I know that everything is going to be ok. I just wish that man would shut up soon. We’ve just ordered dessert and I very much hope I can finish it.”
We managed to. And what’s this about his job? I thought we only had one sort of loss to worry about…