Plastic fantastic:

Ash and I went out for a night of pints and food, winding up at the Buffalo Grill round the corner on Raeburn Place and feeling marginally drunk after a rather paltry amount of booze in Hector's. They gave us a table at the window (so that every potential customer looking at the menu hung in it felt compelled to inspect us for signs of enjoyment or annoyance) and we ordered a couple of beers. The menu is pretty good, and the words "Roquefort Rib Eye" predictably imprinted themselves instantaneously on my consciousness.

With a remark of Jeff's in the back of my mind ("You and Dev should write restaurant reviews," he'd said offhandedly as we were walking up to the cinema the other night, and the idea stuck), I must admit that I was already grasping for Brysonesque anecdotes to throw nonchalantly into an entry about the weekend. Maybe I'd poke fun at the tiny starter or the fact that the radiator next to the table and the wonderful meaty kitchen aroma were sending me into a blissful old-before-my-time daze, or perhaps—hang on, is that a bone Ash just pulled out of her mouth?

Ah no. It was a piece of clear white plastic.

That pretty much holed the dining experience below the waterline (along with, alas, my positively droll 5-star review) although the head waiter/maître d' did an excellent job in dealing with it, somehow communicating directly into my mind not to worry about paying for that particular dish without letting on to the diners around us that anything at all was amiss. I guiltily shovelled the rest of my (tasty, entirely organic) steak into my mouth and despite a residual sense of vague surprise at the poulet au plastique, we polished off a slice of apple pie and the rest of our beers.

Bizarrely, I'd rather recommend the place: keep the containers out of the food and it'd be on the money for a night of indulging oneself in pleasures of the (bovine) flesh.

In other news, Coba Fynn are gearing up for a two-pronged attack on the Scottish music scene: a gig is booked at the Liquid Ship on the 5^th of April, and a recording is in the offing, driven by Doug and Davis' obsessive, shared love of intricate wiring diagrams and four-track recording. Of course I imply nothing by the term "shared love", and I posit that without their obsession we would still be flailing around wondering why every recording sounds like arse. Keep it Coba (is what all the cool kids are saying)!