And you thought I’d died. I was here all along. Well, not here here. But you know. Here. As well you know, I have few opportunities to dine out these days as I spend every waking moment training Vengeance to be a Ninja. If it’s Ninja to approximate a Cleveland Steamer on Daddy’s chest, then she’s basically a black belt. However, I was flung to a far corner of this globe recently, Dakar Senegal, and here is what I have to report back: I didn’t really see much.
Many people going to a foreign country alone for the first time are perhaps overcautious. Not me of course. I’m pretty brave. Kind of like a mashup of Indiana Jones and Crocodile Dundee with a dash of Rupert Everett’s diction. Indiana DundeeE. But that’s not what my passport says so I got held up at border control for 2 hours as the immigration officers did their best to decipher my Bruxellois French. How provincial!
It was also pretty brave of me to never leave the hotel and only ever eat in their dining room. In fact, I wanted to be brave enough to stay in my room but they didn’t do room service so I couldn’t be quite that brave because there was no minibar with Milka kitkats.
The single meal of note was the fish, accompanied by a tall, cool Flag beer. Landlocked Dakar is on a peninsula so I have to assume it was locally caught. I have no idea what it was. Perhaps the keener anglers among you can let me know what that fish is, but it was tasty enough. But a whole fish with eyes and everything is terrifying to behold. That’s why fish fingers are so popular. Tellingly, the bread was also marvellous and French. Like in Viet Nam. William A Conqueror invaded us long before those places so how is it that our bread is so average?