Doing what I do best - eating. Then talking about it which I'm not so good at. Maeve's Kitchen, Clapton.

Another Easter Bank Holiday weekend, another weekend that I realise I am closer to my death and without a screaming baby in my arms and a partner by my side.  I don't know whether this is a good or bad thing, or indeed why long weekends in particular make me nostalgic for the halycon days when I was coupled up because I'd be off picnic-ing somewhere or off on a jaunt to a castle and covertly baby making.  

Rewind.  The reality was spent in a fug of Thai weed haze, too lazy to get up to make food, arguments about who would and finally when you mustered up the courage to go the shop you realise you came back with only sugar laden items.  So it was a relief to do something differently and rather than break the tradition of paying for everything as I did with directionless ex, I decided instead of treating him, to treat a girlfriend to her birthday dinner.

I was headed to my friends housewarming in the area and wanted somewhere local to eat.  Almost 2 years ago B.S. (not bull shit, Before Shane's) when I had lived in Clapton there was nowhere decent to eat really, yah, everyone raved about CHATSWORTH ROAD but that was only an a Sunday.  I know everyone else in Clapton being a designer slash artist slash illustrator slash architect slash media rat slash mini DJ slash insert art based vocation here wants to only eat on a Sunday because that's how they maintain their impressive thigh and toe gaps (despite insisting on wearing all black which makes you look 10lb lighter anyway) but I actually wanted to eat after a long day serving Essex's finest in A&E.

Back then I had slim pickings - which I found strange given the tendency for Clapton to house families and thigh gaps side by side.  There's the fish and chip shop and the Clapton Hart, and as I was leaving the area the SoDo place had popped up in all its MDF glory.  Palm 2 hosting a load of grains that take a shit load of time to cook so I don't care how much people bang on about it I wasn't going to go there after spending 12 hours running at work.

So the initial sadness of the Pacific Social not being able to accommodate us was lifted by the surprising choice of Candela and Maeve's to choose from on Murder Mile.  And of course the Star of Hackney Downs and the Windsor Castle and that piss smelling but rather nice pub the Plough have all sprung from the murder mile and a mile radius.   I won't include Shane's on the list for its insistence on thigh gap maintenance portions of food, and not that vile place vendredi which was tasteless on every front, I had to salt my food to assault my senses in a pleasurable way and my half Italian friend was generally not impressed with anything they had to offer.

I had already eaten at Candela on a cold January night, which had an extremely hot Manager and an even sexier Napolean hatted cactus on my table, but I feel it unfair to review  as I was absolutely sozzled and had already had to blink 300 times to avoid kissing a guy who wore pleather sleeves attached to his top before I ended up there for dinner (my friend having convinced me to eat sausages for dinner from his  freezer gave into my drunken pleas to eat on seeing the cactus I think we were happier in the end).  So that left only Maeve's Kitchen.

Maeve's Kitchen was on TimeOuts hidden gems but I'd seen it post prandially a few weeks when walking but then became dubious because TimeOut is  written for middle class snots and never seems to reflect the experience that I have.

I took birthday gal with me and we were immediately bathed in a transfer filter glow.  Everything took on a digitoxic hue, as I imagine one would be if they were in fact, er, digitoxic.  So far so good though.  Digitoxicity hues convey, homeliness and warmth.   Digitoxicity from the Digitalis plant however is something you never want to have it sounds a lot like a trip on ayahuasca but without the life affirming effects at the end, and possible death thrown in the mix.   On a separate note, what is this nonsense of people using ayahuasca as a party drug?  Its not pretty in the Peruvian forest, it sure as hell isn't pretty and definitely fetid and shitty in a Peckham warehouse.

It wasn't busy, it was Good Friday - "The day after Maundy Thursday" said my Cardiology Consultant in a cut glass accent (who the hell says Maundy Thursday anymore?  He does.) and we were asked by a pleasant French waitress if we had a booking which, we did, which, was good as it slowly started to fill up towards 10pm.  

I hadn't put my hearing aids in, gal friend hadn't put her glasses on so together when the French Waitress said you can see all the menu (on the world's smallest blackboard might I add) behind you - both of us rudely responded with "What?" and looked pretty fucking retarded.  So nil point for disability equality there..never mind gal dem walked up to the blackboard and I just attempted to lip read the waitress as  I think she said "I can offer you a really good Merlot, a french one"  Ah, well it wasn't that good, it was way too acidic, although ok, I think for the price we could have got a better non screw top red.  

A few minutes later an indentikit waitress (if only for her septal nose ring ting) came to take our food orders which thankfully was easy given the abbreviated menu.  I was thankful for that and thankful for the piece of thick card that I found on the table to wedge under the wobbly leg because as I did so I looked up and smiled at 2 gentleman sitting on a table in the corner near the stairs and they smiled back. Clearly Maeve's attracts decent diners with decorum too.  Wonderful start! 

I ordered the terrine - salmon and asparagus - which given the external temperature in April I felt was far too cold but still packed a punch in my mouth.  Mainly because it was too coarsely cut, there's a fine line for a terrine that makes it palatable, then again I am not a terrine connoisseur, and I finished it all which ShiteTip my other friend who may make an appearance in here sometime soon will tell you I never do.  We had to ask for bread which was so so but that's ok. I just remembered ShiteTip won't make an appearance now that he's on a 5:2 flex and aiming to lose a gut that was never there.  The perils of being a Hoxtonite.

In my mind the fact that the starter was reasonable was good because you always get lead astray with brilliant starters, like being grabbed and taken down a dark alley for the best sexy time you've ever had  but then its a 15 second route to climax and the mains are often limp dicks. However,

Thank you Maeve, because YOU were the other way round.  

Your mains were hearty, uplifting soul warming heaven sent goodness in a bowl.  I chose the chook braised in tomato and mushroom sauce on crispy polenta.  I was a bit scared because polenta when done badly is effin awful.  This had a lovely bite to it and was perfect to drown in a rich yet healthy seeming brothy sauce and actually warmed my cockles.  The chook in the broth was seasoned beautifully and thank fuck it wasn't bloody dry.  Nothing irritates Rita more than a dry bloody chicken.  Its always gotta be finger lickin.

The other bird had Pulpo a la Galega which I didn't try sadly as she was full of cold and I didn't want her germs so this is what she had to say: 

I thought is was great - like farmer style cooking and I love when a restaurant only has a few bits - then you know the food is really fresh.  I though the menu on offer was varied - and love when its not too fancy and over the top.  

Maybe the portions were a little small or maybe I am just greedy.  I left and was full so cannot complain.  The wine was not the best french wine for the price but that didn't stop me glugging it all ! 

Staff super friendly and not in your face.  

(especially not when RitaisBitter said I love your Welsh accent and septal nose ring waitress no1 very sweetly said "But I am French"  to which Rita replied "Sorry I am deaf" - it really is a good way to get out of a lot of things).

Decoration - not poncey which I like - just like a small town french bistro.

We both had creme caramel for desert cooked to perfection and addled with just the right amount of caramel sauce and they didn't hurry us as we put the world  to rights, about body dysmorphia and then Terminator.  They produced a bill for £58, a bit dear I felt but it was alreet.  

Above all thanks be to Jesus for getting crucified as without you I would not be eating at Maeve's at 10pm on a Friday in normal circumstances.  So there you have it.  That's Maeve's.  I quite liked it, definitely won't be a hidden gem for much longer.  Take your glasses, take your hearing aid and I promise you'll be nicely full and satisfied, be prepared for normal sized people with normal sized personalities dining and working in this homely kitchen which for me will be half the reason I come back.

New Year, New Stress

Welcome 2012! I was so happy to see the back of 2011, although nothing spectacularly bad happened.

In fact I made it through that busy obstetrics job, in a "My Big Fat Gypsy" stronghold, so you can imagine, we were fairly busy. Got irate at midwives who bamboozled the medical team and took our on-call room to use as a store room for their fucking stationery because apparently Doctors are also on a shift system (really?) and shouldn't sleep, well, kind of you to notice that we not only cover 4 floors but A&E and EAU as well as crash-sections and potential gynae theatre emergencies. Unlike midwives we did not sit down with the same patient throughout labour (although I am aware this is a trying time) and have someone to hold our bleeps for us whilst we went for a piss or scheduled break if we got one at all. I actually need to find out if my successors managed to get the room back.

The job made me love children but scared that I wasn't popping them out before 30 and I also witnessed 2 still births which were humbling and traumatic in equal respects. Watching and listening to a woman crying throughout labour, and not a cry of pain but a cry I can't describe that comes from deep within, was enough to make me want to never consider doing the job.

Then came the exciting time of applying for speciality posts, something I'd been working towards since the 4th year of medical school, only to be told last week that my application had been withdrawn for "lack of appropriate competencies" i.e. that I did not hold a Medical Degree. In fact I hold two degrees, and the computer didn't recognise my input and because computer has said no I now have no interview and potentially have to wait until next year to reapply for the job that I want. Luckily I had a plan B given the level of mounting debt but because I was giving my all to plan A, plan B is not looking good. I have a test for plan B tomorrow but instead I am blogging.

I also wanted to blog about meat liquor. And You're only young twice - a very interesting exhibition by Jonathan Yeo, but I will do that soon because I do have to study. Peace. Lets hope 2012 improves.

Its been a year, almost..

Almost one year on. I have actually managed to complete my first year as a Doctor without anything too awful happening. Learnt an INCREDIBLE amount along the way. Surprisingly the biggest increase in knowledge didn't occur in the realms of my academic intelligence but in the emotional quotient. I wouldn't say that I could work as a diplomat, that has never been my forte but I sure have learnt some of the tricks of the trade which has served to be far more useful than my medical knowledge at times and watching other people's failure to be diplomatic has taught me an immense amount about the pettiness of the (adult) work place.

I guess I knew it would happen because everyone said it would but am far more confident at prescribing, sticking needles into random pools of fluid in internal cavities (although that ascitic tap last night was a little slapdash even by Peruvian standards. It did not help that the patient, encaphalopathic as he was kept saying "ow so painful, so painful thank you you are so kind what are you doing" like a broken record) and generally I guess, being a Doctor! Hell I even dealt with a guy having a seizure losing cardiac output whilst I was in no mans land in CT limbo and no one came to help! When I think back to the pants full of poo/flapping in the wind point I was at last year I have come far!

I am bored again. going for a run in the rain. post soon...probably when I shit my pants being the SHOh-no on a very busy obs and gynae firm in the home counties. Learn quick die faster or something like that.

I also am at that stage where i fail to understand why certain specialities can't do basic things we learn at this stage, so why an Obs and Gynae team (surgical team) that had a patient with shortness of breath and pleural effusions can't tap it themselves and needs a medical team to come over and advise/do..why gain all that knowledge to not do anything in future? Or do we just get better at passing the buck? Again I presume all will be revealed as I head further into the deep dark depths of this wobbly NHS land.

Interestingly we didn't realise just how much the NHS would be shaken up post coalition and what it would mean, never have Doctors been so worried about the stability of their jobs but even they are fearing the cuts. Its scary times ahead but at the same time we may end up being part of another large revolution just like when the NHS started.

Looks that don't work in Surbubia. no 3

I've only just started this up after my third time trialling my own choice of clothes in Middlesex. The reason I am doing this is because I need a refrain from the drain that is work and I need to be politically apathetic to avoid GMC investigation etc. which I am fine with as the real world is just too depressing.

Look no 1 that didn't work was the jungle dress which will go up later. Look no 2 was the transparent culottes. But the 3rd look that really didn't get off to a good start this morning going to a car boot sale was the one to the left. As my kind friend who shall remain nameless said

"I'm sure it worked in your head but on the street you just look like a petty whore". Thanks babe.

Where have I been?

So I decided that blogging in the run up to finals was a massive mistake, and I stopped. Needless to say sugar intake increased 100-fold..but guess what I lost a stone and a half.

That was because I trundled off to the cold climes of Cusco and then came back to London via the sweat fest that was Colombia. WOOOO!

Whats new? Directionless boyfriend is now ex. Deeply saddened by this development as despite the lack of his direction the only thing I was sure about was him (you don't admit your weaknesses' when complaining about others now do you? anyway from the outside it looks like it doesn't matter..I'm a Doctor nah nah nah - in my mother's eyes this equates to having made it therefore what other direction do I need).

This temporarily besides increasing the sugar consumption caused me to have a sense of humour failure, general breakdown and act like a crazy bitch. Rita is bitter. Oh well, all is good in the proverbial hood now but I have seriously pondered how do people normally do it?

This was my first, nay my only long relationship and it is completely inhumane, I realised to expect people to break up and stop contacting a person they have been in daily/hourly contact with for often in cases, years. Of course the case is different when it is a mutual decision, or when two people just realise they grow apart but there was no real reason for us breaking up or nothing that could be sorted out so how do you stop thinking about calling that person whenever something funny/sad/downright weird happens? Its a test of nerves...

Also a test of nerves is the fact that I was on the wards today and in the middle of reviewing a sweet old lady who was a few days post-op for a bypass. She was fine and suddenly next door the Nurse shouted for the registrar "quick!" and within two seconds he'd flown thruogh the curtain and attempted resusciation. all the action around me was so quick and I was left blowing in the winds of the people rushing about next to me. Why was I blowing? Why the f**k wasn't I helpimg?? Given that I'm starting my job in under a month it really freaked me out that I was unable to collect my thoguhts and start acting in a positive way in that situation. I hear from the hospital vine that this stuff comes with practice and the first month is a very steep learning curve. I also keep thinking about all those retards who barely turned up but managed to get through 5 eyars of medical school, surely I'll fare better than them? Only time will tell but all I can tell you is my pants are full of shit.

Our medical elective in Peru was quite unremarkable. They had a strange stipulation only divulged when we arrived after a week, that we had to be there for a minimum of 30 days before we coudl do any hands on work. This made for a pretty boring practical elective but let me tell you how fun it is trying to take patient histories in Spanish when you have spoken about 3 words only. ever. The good thing about htis is that you learn pretty fuckign quickly and lluckily most medical terminiology has its roots in Latin plus the usual grammatical rules of accenting and adding an o on the end of english words emant it wasn't as hard as I thought it woud be (delicate -> delicaaado and so on). One thing that was organsied well was that we had a few days of introductory medical spanish. Thankfully our teacher changed after one day and I say thankfully as we later realised the first taecher had been teaching us the most inappropriate way to call over a waiter, the way reserved for those who deem themselves a part of the higher echelons and thier waiters their minions.

Aside from the unremarkability of the practical side, obviously there were a lot of little differences which when I consider, sorry, REFLECT upon are actually pretty major. in terms of hygiene, there is a questionable approach. Hands are barely washed and when they are they are wiped on the sheets of whichever patient's bed is nearest to the sink. If that's not available they'll wipe it on whatev's. Thats often the white coat of a junior doc. Hmmm.

I take issue with the fact that this hospital is one that is maintained by a contribution from the average peruvian's pay packet and should have a better basic standard of hygiene. It is not that they don't have gloves and can't afford them, they're just whimsical about their use and its totally variable. Some complain about the nurses chasing us around with their pump spray but I would much rather this than what I saw when the resources are available and there is a slapdash attitude to hygiene.

Forget any concept of privacy as well for there are no curtains separating the beds on the all female or male wards. Covers are whipped off for all to see and I will remain scarred by the 55 year old lady who showed her prolapsed vagina to the entire surgical team in full view of the The entire entire ward and the eager intern who was (after donning gloves thank god) poking and prodding it. although the patients didn't seem to mind the transparency, I wonder if they did but they don't say and if this is in part to do with the way that as in India, Doctors are revered, I quote from an orthopaedic surgeon bearing more than a passing resemblance to the Fonz "Somos dioses" (we are gods). I half expected him to clap his hands and produce an ECG from his backside.

Anyway more to come later, I'm off to have coffee and tell my friend my Colombian tales.
Ciao!

Day 4 in the house of chocolate. Been too busy to blog, catching up on working, busy trying to hold fat people's heads and oxygenate them. I am ashamed to admit, as I am only used to mannequins until now, I never realised how difficult it is to stabilise someone's head in place with one hand, whilst holding an oxygen mask and trying to bag them at the same time.

So first things first, since I last blogged, a bag of maltesers, a minty aero, can of full fat coke and sticky toffee pudding with brandy cream (I'll justify this later). So all in all not a bad 3 days for me when we consider my normal sugar intake, but it didn't stop me tasting my morning mid-stream urine to see if it tasted sugary, hence if I had developed diabetes yet.

This is getting ridiculous, and slightly disgusting so I am joining a gym later on today. The time spent going to the gym/showering/gymming will leave me with less time to contemplate which Hummingbird cake I'm going to go for next.

However what also needs to stop is my love of fine food. This may not be too difficult though after an outing to Gordon Ramsay's gastropub "The Narrow" http://www.gordonramsay.com/thenarrow/ last night. Very disappointed. With the food. Had an offer on the lovely toptable, 3 courses for £22. The venue was nice, on the Limehouse end of the Thames, view was lovely, if a little too quiet for my liking as it always is downstream from the Southbank end. We (the boy, a girlfriend and myself) got there for 7.45 on a Thursday evening and it was empty-ish and got a lovely reception from the door staff as we were taken to our seats.

The waiter although nice, was not fully understanding our requests and couldn't recommend a decent beer for the boy, lumping for a Peroni recommendation when there was actually quite a large beer selection (though I didn't get to see what was actually on tap at the bar). I made a trip to the toilet, having consumed a litre bottle of water to try and scare a constipated stool out of my body before leaving (sorry too much detail but my bowels are the bane of my life, so just deal with it, its my blog I'll cry if I want to).

The toilets were clean, though I have to confess a pet hate for restaurants/bars whatever that don't have paper towels to dry your hands as this was - I hate using hand driers, especially unhygenic ones that aren't automatically activated - defeating the purpose of washing your hands.

So after taking a wizz returned to find gladly the crowd had picked up slightly which added to the ambience. So we settled down to choose from our set menus because of the offer, of 4 starters/4 mains. The boy and girlfriend plumped for rabbit terrine with quince jelly, whilst I opted for garlic mushrooms on toast. All in all for me a pleasing bite, the mushrooms were the bouncy and the right side of juicy but the terrine was in my opinion quite flavourless and looked sad, the quince jelly was definitely needed in addition. other offers for starters were pumpkin soup and salmon fishcakes.

To mains we go, where I had Hake, mussels and clams in Suffolk cider with chive mash and the other two had game pie and mash which didn't all come at the same time, boy was waiting for a while before his came. I'm seeing some kind of conspiracy here, but glad to say it worked it in my favour as my dish once again trumped theirs. They liked the consistency of the pastry, flaky without being too oily but weren't sold on the flavour. I on the other hand decided to demonstrate my delight for my fishy brothy which arrived in the cutest little crock pot by doing what my friend does and sing to my food. It began as tastefully tangy, but about four spoons in the cidery-vinegar-lemon taste became a bit too much and there was nothing to take of the edge, even with a huge dollop of what felt like instant mash with a few dried herbs thrown in for good measure. I personally like mash with skin on but I guess I can't expect that at restaurants.

We had a delightful time contemplating whether we could be as demanding as the customers that had been on a recent show of F word where they had local restaurants competing about food, but decided we didn't have the cojones to do this. However our collective cojones were forced to grow when after our desserts (me and the boy sticky toffee pud, nice with a bitter bite and friend having Treacle tart with blood orange syrup and vanilla ice cream - she was disappointed, the tart was too dry and the syrup ice cream mixture was not sufficient to hydrate the dessert) we waited 25 mins for a green tea and americano. We had to ask two separate waiters twice for the items but to their credit, the manager didn't charge us for these and also took off the service charge and apologised, explaining that they were short staffed and didn't expect so much custom.

It was Thursday night and we were left a little disappointed. The portions were a good size and the service though at times slow was made up for by the lovely manager. Flavoursome it was not but cos its Gordon, I want to give it another try perhaps not with the top table offer and see if there's any difference.

Will post again, perhaps something medical related, until then adios...

the imminent threat of type 2 diabetes, London GP receptionists.

In a vain bid to lose weight and avoid almost unavoidable risk of contracting diabetes I begin this blog in hope that exposing my self to the harsh virtual world I can get some perspective on my addictive personality and beat the choc attack. Of course I possess a myriad of other problems which I won't divulge now that may well affect my clarity and lack of judgement when it comes to sugar. But I thought rather than make this a boring health/weight based blog I'll just blog about what I do best, being bitter. Rita is bitter. About everything.  Almost.

So already this morning before 12.00 I consumed a belgian chocolate cornflake square and a slice of Sainsbury's hot fudge cake. I justified the cornflake square by replying "yes" when the starbucks barista asked if that caramel macchiato was to be skinny. Skinny my arse. Anyhow it gave me a glimmer of hope that I could consume my drug of choice without guilt.

But of course, life as Rita doesn't allow justification for chocolate through a simple interaction with skilled baristas deskilled in the art of personability. No, Rita had already this morning had an altercation. London is full of shitty shitty people. I was feeling particularly uneasy and ill this morning and decided to go to the Doctors having not visited them or even registered as I hadn't needed to and besides about to qualify as one myself I feel licensed to deal with my own problems. So after NOT abusing the service and NOT taking advantage of it even though I have in the space of 3 months had serious back pain, sprained my ankle, required physio etc etc I decided to perform the "simple" task of calling the GP to find out how to register.

I received in reply a bark that said "Grufffff wooof come anytime between 9.30-12.30, register, maybe we make appointment same day grrrufff wooof.click brr".

I trundle along the paths laden with black ice, performing some kind of precarious invalid ice dance having just argued with boyfriend about his direction in life behind me. not waiting to catch me if I fall but just keeping out of my way. Get to surgery and stride to reception eagerly hoping the NHS is not going to fail me. How wrong could I be. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE WITHOUT YOUR NHS NUMBER OR PROOF OF ADDRESS? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITHOUT THIS" says Barky McNasty.

I explained that it would have been nice to have been told on the phone the items to bring, to which Barky bark's "ARE YOU TELLING ME I DO NOT KNOW WHAT TO SAY ON THE PHONE I SAY IT EVERY MORNING", I in return say that it is quite possible that people make mistakes not everyone's perfect.

I trundle back, falling twice for good measure and return where Barky reads my rent contract (I'm a student. at halls. I don't get fucking bills) "OHHH E1 that's not our catchment".

Short of punching this motherfucker in the face I calmly point out that she's reading the wrong part. And finally after 2 hours DTN (that's door to needle time) I am registered. A process that should have taken 20mins given that there were no queues when I arrived at 9am.  If Barky McNasty could do the right thing.

Why are such evil people the gatekeeper's to the GP? I don't want to tar everyone with the same brush but how often have you had to divulge your personal affairs to the receptionist under duress in order to get an appointment the same day - "I have been bleeding out of my bumhole for 72 hours and I don't know why".   In clear earshot of all in the waiting room.  London GP reception areas definitely don't cater for privacy.

Sure I understand that they can't possibly fit everyone in but there have been countless times when I have said I prefer to tell the GP about this but they insist that its on a need to know basis, and they need to know...

Just as graduate medical students are "handpicked for their personalities" (Read obnoxious, type A, ball busting bitches (with exceptions)) is this how GP receptionist's are picked? To date there has only been one practice where I have found that the receptionists adopt a people friendly approach to, well, people. This may be because they're in the midst of one of the most notorious estates in East London and the likelihood of tipping these people over the edge is high, or it could be because the Practice Manager had a customer focused approach to training the front desk?

Whatever it is I just wish that more receptionists had people skills. I don't think its a lot to ask but I just wonder if its an unwritten rule that GPs must employ Barky McNasties? Is it a phenomenon local to London and other inner city areas? What are the receptionists like in leafy suburbs? I am interested in your thoughts.