In the Maltese capital Valletta we followed a scribbled pencil map that my Dad had drawn, which would apparantly lead us to a “rather fine” eatery. On closer inspection, the almost indecipherable street names he’d given were in fact ‘rather narrow lane’ and ‘just off here to the left’. We persisted and wandered through the steep streets between pale stone buildings with the sun pounding down on our heads, looking for this place that hopefully still existed. When I finally thought to cross-reference with the guide book I realised that the restaurant was none other than Rubino, arguably the best restaurant in Malta.
And it was good… Continue reading
I got over-excited about my brew, thought of many different names for it, was going to create hand-made labels for it. Then cracked it open with friends on the roof. It was fizzy at least and a light yellow colour – I like to think it looked like champagne. But not sweet enough. It was tart and made our tongues cringe a little. The taste was reminiscent of another cider made last summer called Angry Driver – nothing to do with drink driving – think heated arguments in the car while the cider ferments away in the boot until its incredibly potent and sour as a lemon. Anyway, I decided not to bother with the labels. It did however, attract the name Cold Nudist (derived from spying an actual cold nudist from my friend Jess’ window last Christmas…)