Mr Italiano

He wasn’t much to look at, but he had that je ne sais quoi that any average looking man should possess in order to be somebody. He smiled playfully and wore a blazer with a scarf wrapped around his neck in a manner that should exclusively be reserved for an air hostess. He had an extremely sleazy feel to him and in some respect he reminded of a pussy-deprived Arab man with his hungry stares.  

Despite his demeanour, there was something about him that felt like home. Something about him reminded me of Iranian people. He was warm. His grin was full of himself and he didn’t seem to care much about how he came across: there was something genuine about his sleaze. He was who he was and at least he knew who he was. I had a little bit of time for people like that. It did help that he wanted to eat at the Marcus: I was a food-digger. 

 

 

He was talking and I was looking thoughtful. I tried to block him out as it was all about the food for me now. The Marcus by Marcus Wareing. It wasn’t what I was expecting: there was pork belly on the menu. I was confused as it wasn’t Kurobuta. Eating pork belly was like having champagne on a beer budget and it’s the last thing I would expect in a two Michelin star restaurant. Don’t get me wrong, the four layers of fat-meat-fat-meat intertwined is gloriously divine and everyone, apart from Allah, would agree. 

 

 

He talked, I thought and drank a lot. He caught my eye and he told me to stop looking at other men. I was confused, as I was looking at other women. I ignored his comment and made conversation about food, Naples and life. He seemed a little agitated and I sat on it. I decided not to comment on his agitation as sooner or later it will either heal or flare up. 

 

 

Out of curiosity I went for pork belly. What was even more quizzical about the dish was Wareing’s choice of spice: Ras el hanout. He used a Tagine spice that would be recognised in a hotel overflowing with Arabs. I was sure Wareing was trying to highlight something. It felt like the anatomical parts that Micheal Angelo had hidden on the ceilings on the Sistine chapel. As I looked around at the likes of the nouveau riche tasteless Arabs that frequented here, I knew that he was almost certainly directing this at them. The undertone behind the menu was so passive aggressive: I loved it!

 

 

While I was contemplating the food, he was looking at me like he was putting together a Rubix Cube. As he sat there sipping his wine, he must have felt like he had the winning combination as he mustered up the last bit of machismo he could scrape from his pathetic barrel and invited me over. He definitely must have been drunk! It was going to take way more than Marcus Wareing for him to even get close to these silky red knickers! 

 
 

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