Crap restaurants

When we were in Cornwall on holiday in August we made a last minute booking at The Driftwood restaurant. I went with low expectations and was highly delighted. So much so that when we got back and discovered that our friends had booked to go, I built it up to such heights in my enthusiasm that they were inevitably disappointed. If they keep a list of crap restaurants The Driftwood is at the top. (Apparently the food is too wanky.)

And yet it was these self same friends who had enthused to us about 36 On The Quay and you can read about that unfortunate experience here.

We all know that the best dining experiences are the ones where you go along with poor to reasonable expectations, only to discover that the food is divine. And there is nothing more guaranteed to disappoint than having your expectations raised and dashed.

Choosing a restaurant might be a personal thing, but there are some things, like not being offered tap water as an option, or having the discretionary 15% service charge already added to your bill, or having to flag down inattentive waiters to place an order, that deserve a universal crapness accreditation.

Well last Friday we went to Nobu London (admittedly about 14 years too late) because I love Japanese food. I could bore you for hours about the virtues of Tosa (King Street, W6) or Mai Food (Kenway Rd, SW5), or Roka (Charlotte Street, W1), or Tokiya (Battersea Rise, SW11) or the fabulous Japan Centre (Regent Street, SW1). I’d never heard a bad word said about Nobu, so what could there possibly be to dislike?

As soon as we walked through the door we could have been anywhere in the world. When I’m in London I want Londonish places (or at least Japanese), but this was as unique as a Starbucks. We were squeezed onto a table far too close to a party of American business men, and it felt as if nearly everyone there was dining on expenses. I presume this was probably the case given the eye-watering prices (the infamous black cod in miso will set you back £50 by the time they’ve automatically added on 15% service). It was certainly not the place where you expect to see the fattest man you’ve ever seen in your life. How is such girth possible on a raw fish diet? At Nobu it would surely cost him somewhere in the region of £24,000 to maintain his day’s calorie intake.

Nobu is greatly proud of its fusion approach – Peruvian Japanese – so we had high expectations of piranha sashimi and the like. But in reality it means that everything just has a tiny bit of chilli in it and they can put chocolate on their pudding menu.

There is an upside though. Since very little is actually cooked, they can turn your table in just over an hour, so you can beat a hasty retreat.

Enough.

Are any of us getting enough? As if I'm not already obsessed by the matter, earlier this month journalists reported that you are 12% more likely to die prematurely if you regularly get less than six hours sleep a night (or more than nine hours, though sadly this is unlikely to ever worry me). Sleep turns out to be surprisingly like sex: inevitably ruined by the onset of children and at its most addictive when you're not getting quite enough. Well, it's official. Your children not only prematurely age you, they might actually kill you.

As if you can't guess, the Boo doesn't sleep. K emerges each morning as if he's spent the night in the trenches (presumably why he's taken to sleeping in Beijing these days*) and I exist in a semi-permanent coma. My mother sagely points out to me that in his nearly five months the Boo has been to a rock concert, a hen weekend, an upmarket stag weekend, a 40th birthday party and a wedding. And has concluded that nighttime is for partying and that sleep is for wimps.

So far this year I've had somewhere between no sleep and five broken hours a night. In desperation I considered a night nanny before realising that I'm already too guilt-ridden a mother to employ one. It's the old parenting spectrum: at one end are the parent-led routines beloved of Gina Ford and nannies everywhere, and at the other end are the baby-led theories (much in the news of late) beloved of Penelope Leach, Oliver James and hippies everywhere.

The 'parent-led' lot have made a fortune by writing instruction manuals for the clueless, with much talk about 'good habits' and 'routines', and 'sleep training your baby' as if it were a dog. Of course, they are responsible for instilling the myth that as a parent you should be able to maintain cool control over a 7am-7pm sleeping baby and solve all your problems (hence The Baby Whisperer Solves all your Problems). Hell, the Boo is not a problem, he's a baby...and the last thing I need is to be made to feel like a poor excuse for a mother because having a baby has disrupted normal life.

On the other hand, the 'baby-led' camp believes in giving yourself over to the needs of your child as much as you can: breastfeed them until they wean themselves, let them sleep in your bed until they voluntarily get into their own, carry them everywhere until they walk, don't leave them to cry in case they grow up to be emotionally stunted. But the Boo is just a baby, and really it's neither fair nor sensible to eschew all the tricky parenting decisions of when and how and leave it up to him instead. And I'm highly suspicious of any parenting theory that proves its unassailable logic by pointing to the fact that this is what cave men, or Amazonian tribal folk, or our impoverished ancestors have always done. (Believe that, and I'll gladly relieve you of your hoover, washing machine, TV and car for a week or two. Then we'll see how you cope.) No thank you - I won't be made to feel like an inadequate mother because I frequently run out of the energy and patience to meet my baby's every demand.

Isn't it time we were honest and admitted that we all parent according to our own tolerance level? We all have a breaking point at which we have to say Enough, and start trying less hard. Mine was at about 12 weeks of serious sleep deprivation when I reached the point of realising the Boo had actually 'sleep trained' me. When you've had Enough, then treat yourself to a read of Tom Hodgkinson's The Idle Parent. It is every bit as comforting as a chocolate bar, with the rare benefit of making you feel much better about yourself.

The Real Contented Little Baby Book isn't published, but every baby has read it. Let's take a sneaky peak at an extract:

7pm - the tiring parent will put you in your cot. Do not make it too easy for them: it is very important that they do not grow complacent in their parenting skills. Wait to observe their first yawn and then begin your protest.

7.30 - appear to give in and get yourself 30 or 40 minutes kip to recharge your batteries for the next stage

8.15 - scream inconsolably. Typically the parent is just sitting down to eat, but you must train them to serve your needs first. They will probably blame wind or colic and start endlessly patting your back. No matter - they will almost certainly get you out of your cot in the attempt to find a cure.

9pm - provided you've kept up the grumbling they'll believe that you must be hungry. It is very important to take this feed quietly as then you'll probably be allowed to have it in front of the TV.

9.30 - poo explosively (complete change of clothing preferable). The parent must not be allowed to rest for long or you'll miss out on your evening's entertainment.

10pm - the parent will repeat the 7pm procedure and put you back in your cot. It is very important that you protest at this time in the evening, or they might start having sex and the last thing you want is a sibling to usurp your place in their attentions. Wail with all the strength you can muster.

10.30 - you will probably be taken from your room for fear of waking elder siblings or neighbours. We call this 'pick up put down'. The parent must be made to learn that only by picking you up will you be quiet. You may have to do this 128 times on the first night, about 57 time on the second and probably only 23 times on the third. Be reassured by the knowledge that most poor parenting behaviour can be reversed in about three days. The key is being consistent: start as you mean to go on, and don't be afraid to show them who is younger and has the most energy.

11.30 - by now the parent will be tiring, and should soon give up and take you into their bed. They will believe that if they give you a large bottle of milk at this point you'll sleep, so make sure you take it all, otherwise you'll lack the energy for your 2am feed...

...Aaarghh. And so to bed.


*Note to self to avoid any enterprise involving husband + air travel. The man is a proven travel jinx (see On Destiny and To the Hermitage by Ambulance). This time, he was involved in a motorway car crash on day of arrival, and then overslept and missed his plane back.

To the Hermitage by Ambulance (or, Russian Hospitality)

No, this is not the screen adaptation of a Malcolm Bradbury novel starring George Clooney, but a true and faithful account of how the Impster and I came to be travelling in St Petersburg last Thursday somewhat unconventionally.

With flashing lights and a masterful U-turn, our ambulance driver swings across four lanes of traffic to drop us at the bank of the River Neva so that we might make the next hydrofoil for our day's sightseeing at Peterhof. I offer him many spasiba's, and he kisses me warmly on both cheeks and pats the Impster’s head. Konstantine is my proof that Russians make powerful allies. If they're on your side, they can make things happen and will stop at nothing to help you overcome a predicament.

As a random pregnant tourist with a toddler, however, most Russians wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire (never mind give you a hand with your pushchair). Russian cities are not child-friendly affairs. To attempt them with an infant leaves one exposed to the view that as a mother, one is at best eccentric, and at worst unfit for purpose. Lifts, highchairs, pushchair ramps, baby-changing facilities, and (it slowly dawned on me) children under the age of eight are nowhere to be seen in St Petersburg. And as the week went on, I had a creeping suspicion that mothers might actually be banned from the city centre. For one thing, the women living here of child-bearing age are intimidatingly svelte (possibly as a result of the unpardonable cuisine creating a kind of national Cabbage Soup Diet.)

For another, they have clever ways of making sure children don’t interfere with their cultural tourism, as I discovered when I went to the Russian Museum and was told that only disabled people could use the lifts. To be honest, I’d had better days than last Wednesday, redeemed only by the prospect of seeing a fantastic collection of Kandinsky’s. So to discover that the House of Culture was denying me access, put me in a magnificent rage (‘f-ing Revolution’ etc etc). But the good Book advises to, ‘Leave off from wrath, and let go displeasure: fret not thyself, else shalt thou be moved to do evil’, and being in a pretty murderous temper, I head for the House of God. Unfortunately, St Isaac's Cathedral is closed on a Wednesday. (This is the city that simultaneously made one of its cathedrals the museum of atheism and religion for a time, which is possibly an indication that it shouldn’t be relied upon exactly for nurturing spiritual wellbeing.) In the end I did what any oppressed English mother would do, and contemplated a fag and a McDonald's. But on my way I stumbled across St Petersburg’s answer to The Dorchester, which went a considerable way to lifting my spirits (plus, the Impster still got her chicken nuggets, chips and a toy, because you can order absolutely anything there).

And now, somewhat in the manner of Ronnie Corbett, let me return to the matter of the ambulance. On Monday morning, dear K wakes up feeling, as Withnail would have it, 'unusual'. By Tuesday morning he is off-puttingly pukey and shaking uncontrollably, so I think it best to call a doctor (all the time privately convinced he shouldn’t have had ice in his drink the previous day). Two hours later he’s in surgery with a nearly-ruptured appendix, and I’m harbouring visions of a theatre equipped with vodka anaesthetic and a hacksaw. Turns out we’re in the poshest hospital in the city, and after a brief sojourn in intensive care, K ends up in a private room with en suite, river view, telly, fridge and no hyperactive toddler - so is marginally better off than me. And one can't but admire the Russian method of convalescence, his room being furthermore agreeably furnished with six wine glasses and six shot glasses (not a water glass in sight).

Here he resides at the current time, visa expired, regrettably unable to leave the country due to a faux pas on my part. All I did was to call BA to try to get him upgraded on the return flight. Admittedly I may have laid it on a bit thick, but how was I to know they would take it into their heads that he was unfit for travel?

It's been a curious week all in all. On Monday my brother had his gallbladder removed, on Tuesday K was relieved of his appendix, and on Wednesday I began to wonder how many other expendable organs we might be housing. Perhaps in California one could plausibly sell the idea of getting rid of a few, as a new surgical weight-loss method?

Anyway, being so posh, this hospital does a good line in English-speaking guardian angels. Dear Olga pities my lone-mother-in-St-Petersburg experience so much that she insists upon ambulance transportation to help the Impster and me get about (the charge for an ambulance is £250 an hour, so she can easily find one hanging about the place). A Russian on a mission will go to any lengths.

A few nights earlier, Madonna has come to St Petersburg to do a gig in Palace Square. We get accidentally caught up in the hordes of fans, and then caught in the torrential downpour which follows (Russian rain is really something else). Next day, as Dimitri is driving me to the hospital, he tells me how the authorities tried to break up the rain clouds by shooting things into the sky. Can you believe that? I know Madonna can be, well, prima-donnaish, but they actually tried to move the rain for her. My friends, that’s Russian hospitality for you.

Eat, Drink and Be Merry (unless you're pregnant)

It is generally agreed (in the way generalisations are) that second children tend to grow up to be rather competitive and with an air of having been treated unfairly all their lives. Whenever a cake is about to be served, you can bet that it’ll be the youngest (even if they’re 25) who has the fine-tuned ability to detect any inequality in the size of the slices to the nearest millimetre.

This week I discover that - quelle surprise – this turns out to be entirely due to bad parenting. According to various child psychologists, such is our concern over sibling rivalry and our desire to keep the first sproglet sweet, that we virtually forget we have the second one (especially since it all seems so much easier second time round). The result? A lifetime of in-your-ear ‘me, me, me’ whingeing.

Naturally, I decide to put pay to any namby-pambying of the Impster and focus on the bump for a moment, only to realise it’s already too late. For a start, no one (including fathers) gives a bugger about the second pregnancy. You’re already drained of your reserves from nurturing the first little poppet, so the second time you’re exhausted at the outset. Not to mention fatter. This time round, K was late turning up to the 12-week scan, so I was already lying on the couch slathered in jelly. Then the Impster distracted everyone from looking at the baby on the screen by spilling an Innocent smoothie down herself. Then, the photos mysteriously disappeared, only to turn up a few days later stuffed in a pair of K’s shoes (whoever heard of antenatal sibling rivalry? At least I’m presuming it was the Impster’s doing, otherwise I’ve got more of a problem on my hands than I’d anticipated).

And another thing that totally sucks. As if to make clear the essential undesirability of pregnant women, on holiday in Cornwall I spotted the above picture on a bottle of Grolsch. What can it possibly mean? ‘Pregnant women: piss off’? ‘Pregnant women: singing ist verboten’ (a unlikely event given our enforced teetotaldom in any case)? There is pretty much an endless list of reckless acts that pregnant women shouldn’t do, unless they wish to be held any more accountable than they already are. Such as eating peanuts. I mean, the whole nine months is just total suckitude.

Uh oh, have I just been having a rant? Tcha, I’m a second child - blame it on my parents.