Modern

Where:
Neighborhood
61-63 Hollywood Road
Central, Hong Kong

The entrance is actually behind Hollywood Road, so enter off Peel Street and look for Pak Tsz Lane Park

Phone:
+852 2617 0891

Price:
For two people, you need to order around 6 dishes which range from HKD130-HKD160 each. Excludes service charge. We got out at HKD650 each for food + sharing a bottle of prosecco (including 10% tip).

About:
David Lai, the chef behind On Lot 10 has opened Neighborhood (sic if you’re from British School of English, fuck yeahhh Murica if you’re not). I can’t claim to be a long term patron of On Lot 10 but I’ve had dinner there and shit was good. I would have given it an official fuck yeah on FYN if I hadn’t been such a lazy cunt and actually written it up. Neighborhood opened two months ago and I’d seen some photos of tripe gratin that Ms Siuwaaan and I wanted in our lives. Chef Lai has said that he’s going for that ‘homely’ feel but I’m not sure what’s homely about a sparse dark grey space with mirrors to make shit feel bigger (ho ho, you certainly fooled me you clever interior designer). Sure, the tableware and short tumblers are custom designed and personally selected by Chef Lai from goddamn fancy pants PARIS but it doesn’t matter if you’re still eating shit off a table clothless, laminated fake wood table rimmed with steel. I dunno if a custom designed knife from PARIS can distract me from dat cheap table.  Especially when they don’t change your cutlery between dishes and you have to put your used dirty cutlery back on that laminated table clothless table which kinda skeeved me out.

Neighborhood is a small space, it only sits 20ish people. So it was a bit fucking surprising that I had to wait 5 minutes for them to set up my table when I arrived. Like homies, you’ve only got about 10 tables and you’re not rammed, why aren’t you on top of this shit already? However, this was fairly indicative of the rest of the night as Neighborhood’s service was well-intentioned but ultimately brusque and clunky as fuck.  There is a total lack of anything soft in there too, so shit gets noisy which might explain why our waiters needed us to repeat everything we said at least three times.

I’m really fucking judgmental and the font choice and the egregious use of ” (like your water is either Antipodes water or it’s not, Y U say “Antipodes”?) of the Neighborhood menu really fucking upset me – so much so that I sent it to a friend who immediately responded with “Why are they using the X-files font? Woo woo woo woo WOO woo” and produced this:

xfiles

After establishing that there was no tripe available that night (wahhhhhhhhhhhh), we ordered a number of dishes – the ceviche, the wagyu tartare with truffle, rabbit ballotine, potato gnocchi with wild boar ragu and the daily fish in “bouillabaisse”.  The food gets a fuck yeah on presentation and it’s highly Instagrammable.  If that’s your jam, you can totally post that wagyu tartare with shaved truffles on Instagram and be guaranteed replies of “YUMMMMMMM” and “Where is that??”.  Dishes aren’t huge and you can comfortably share one dish between two people to get an adequate taste.  Shit was ok, I enjoyed it enough at the time but I didn’t find any dish hit me over the head and would be something I’d want to order again or tell someone that they HAD to have it.  The wild boar ragu and the ambiguously quotationed marked “bouillabaisse” was the closest to a solid fuck yeahhhh.  But neither dish was a slam dunk – cause while that wild boar sauce was fuck yeah times, the gnocchi wasn’t firm enough, so it just felt like eating little mashed potato balls in a gnocchi shape. For the “bouillabaisse”, use of quotation marks aside, a slice of fish is served on a piece of bread with the broth poured over it.  The broth was rich and while I prefer my bouillabaisse to hit me in the mouth with the taste of the goddamn ocean, my bigger issue was that it felt a bit empty on other ingredients – maybe I just wanted some shellfish to come chill with my decent portion of threadfin fish.

To finish we ordered the chocolate palette which has been getting mad props on the internet.  Even though I’m not the biggest chocolate fiend, this dessert was pretty fucking rad.  It’s a soft chocolate ganache that isn’t too fucking stodgy and there’s a slightly salty chocolate crust at the bottom to do that reliable though generally successful  salty / sweet contrast thing.   Fuck yeah on execution on this one – I imagine if you were super into chocolate you’d fucking lose your shit over this one.

At the end of the meal, Neighborhood send out some complimentary canelés, or as I call them CAT ANUS CAKES.  Look, I know I always say no fucking food photos on Fuck Yeah Noms, but imma gonna make an exception when shit looks like a fucking cat’s anus:

catanuscakes

FYN fun facts: A canelé originates from Bordeaux in France it should have a caramelised crunchy sugar crust with a vanilla and rum flavoured custard inside and they’re hard as fuck to make.  If you want to be a total unbearable food asshole, when you are served canelés you should ask your waiter “Excuse me, does your chef use the traditional copper moulds or the silicone ones?  Do you use beeswax to help with the release of the canelé?” and after you smile smugly at your dining companions, bathed in your ocean of superior food knowledge you can then firmly punch yourself in the groin for being such a fucking douchebag.  Per my internet research, I understand that Neighborhood use silicone moulds so save yourself a groin punching this time.

I have no issue with canelés but Neighborhood’s had this fucking feral aftertaste that was so fucking terrible that Ms Siuwaaan and I had to take multiple bites to try and identify what the fuck was going and and confirm that shit was as bad we thought it was (no, it didn’t get better and no, I couldn’t figure out what that weird ass aftertaste was).  This required double tasting was reminiscent of when I ate that coconut water macaron at Mejekawi in Bali, which still maintains the title of  The Worst Thing I’ve Ever Eaten in a Restaurant.  I get really upset by shit like this so as soon as I got home, I fired up Whatsapp and was bitching to numerous people including Ms Waterfalls and Caribous:

waterfallscatbum

SIDE NOTE – HOLY FUCK WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME – IT WAS A FREE AND TINY CAKE AND NOW I’VE SPENT SEVERAL PARAGRAPHS, MULTIPLE WHATSAPP CHATS AND HOURS OF MY LIFE RUMINATING ABOUT THEM.

Anyway TL:DR – So maybe it’s because I’m not a “dear and personal, long-term friend” of Chef David Lai which explains why I’m not jizzing in my pants about Neighborhood. Maybe I just can’t get over their terrible choice in typography. But yeah, shit was perfectly adequate, very Instagrammable, service was awkward and I got given a free though fucking awful cake that looked like a cat’s bum.  Overall underwhelming for the price point.

Verdict:
FUCK NO.  I just cannot with spending HKD600+ on dinner in Hong Kong to be underwhelmed.  I also can’t forgive that fucking vile cat’s anus canele thing.  I don’t give a fuck if it’s from Bordeaux and uses cane sugar, that shit was just NO FUCKING GOOD.

Where:
NUR Restaurant
3rd Floor, 1 Lyndhurst Terrace
Central, Hong Kong

Phone:
+(852) 2871 9993

Price:
HKD788 for the Light six course menu. HKD988 for the Feast nine course menu (excludes 10% service charge). After wine/champagne + selecting the Feast option, we were out at HKD1600 a person.

The deal:
In what must almost be a Hong Kong first, NUR Restaurant’s website actually contains information regarding the kitchen, chef and its food philosophy.  FUCK YEAH, informative websites.  Hey HK restaurants, UR DOIN’ IT WRONG if you’re actually paying coin to someone who is in charge of your social media content if your website consists of one sole graphic, a “COMING SOON” sign OR it doesn’t contain a single fucking hyperlink.  So let’s reward effort with reading NUR’s goddamn VISION page and then get yo ass back here to finish reading this FYN review.

So given its vision of “nourishing gastronomy” and all the wank off about tapping into the raw and unbridled energy and flavour in the unexpected, Ms Two Serves (yesssssssssssssss, she’s back in the Kong) and I were highly sceptical but rounded up enough homies to drop some serious coin.  I’ve wanted to try NUR for fucking ages (it opened in April 2014, run by the Prive group) and shit is not cheap with the Feast nine course menu costing HKD988 per person – which means it’s not a casual Friday night catch up place.  There’s a Light option which costs HKD788, but everyone at the table has to do the same menu which meant that in a sea of indecision, Captain Greedy Ass here commandeered the good ship into Feast territory.  Given the artistic photos and the mission statement on the website, I was highly concerned that I’d power through nine beautiful though “food for ants” style courses, before dollar cost averaging my responsibly sourced meal with McWings of extremely dubious provenance at McDonald’s on the way home. One of our homies coming asked me what style of food NUR was, I helpfully provided the description of “Nordic influenced. Beautiful food for ants with microherbs and sauce smears”.

If you want to sound like a total food wanker a little more informed when trying to convince your homies to come with you to try NUR here’s some talking points:

  • Executive Chef Nurdin has got some serious chops – he’s actually qualified as a nutritional therapist and working at Raymond Blanc’s two Michelin star restaurant Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons
  • Chef Nurdin staged at NOMA (ermagerd, #1 restaurant in the whole goddamn world) and interned at the Nordic Food Lab (a not for profit organisation in Copenhagen which explores the Nordic raw ingredients/material and was established by NOMA’s head chef, Rene Redzepi and gastronomic entrepreneur Claus Meyer).
  • Chef Nurdin clearly gives all the fucks about the ingredients that he uses, what it does to our bodies and NUR’s philosophy is that ingredients should be sourced locally and as responsibly as possible.  YES, they even grow their own herbs / produce on their rooftop garden and are working with organic vegetable producers in HK.

But amongst the minimalist, clean pale wood interior which is dominated by an open and immaculate kitchen, our fears and scepticism turned out to be fucking unfounded because we lapped that shit up.  As the food appears it’s undeniable, every plate is fucking beautiful and demonstrates fuck loads of technique.  The amuse bouche sets the tone for the whole meal with three canapes dotted around a white plate, consisting of a beetroot taco with a watercress emulsion and a carrot powder to sprinkle on top (be still my heart, ruby red, light green and orange powder – fuck yeah, colour combination), a posh as fuck carrot crudite (yeah, you might slice up a carrot and serve some hommus when you’re being a fancy fucker, NUR will present you with a slow-cooked, dehydrated carrot with a fennel and cumin infused cream) and a round of cucumber and pickled Nashi pear.

Each dish that follows is a goddamn artistic masterpiece.  If you’re coming with a friend who needs photographic evidence of everything they were ever served in a restaurant, a meal here is going to take you a long ass time to finish.  In another course, a slick waiter appears and is giving you the life story of their HK rooftop grown tomato and the four different types of basil as a sparse plate appears, dotted with a couple of tomatoes with some micro-herb flowers strewn around, nestled in some clear tomato water and the four kinds of basil oil drizzled around it and you are thinking “Uh oh, this may not be good” and as Ms Two Serves recapped to me via whatsapp the next day “BAM, that shit was delicious”.  You’re going to hear a lot about their rooftop garden where they grow a lot of their own herbs and vegetables – don’t worry about missing this though cause your waiter homies are going to constantly and frequently remind you of this.  Sometimes the waiters’ explanations feel a bit like this:

NUR’s menu changes depending on what is seasonal (duh, of course it does) but didn’t suffer from the curse of an up and down tasting menu, with each course being a fuck yeahhhhhh all killer no filler plate. My fuck yeah highlights were the LANGOUSTINE, EGG and the dessert course, BANANA.  Yes, each course is pretentiously given a one word name and then given a simple description.  For example, LANGOUSTINE is described as “langoustine, mango, peanut, yoghurt”.  The EGG course was interesting as fuck, using a poached Taiyouran egg served with a grain risotto using amaranth and quinoa.  Fun fact, did you know that a Taiyouran egg is from a chicken which is fed Stevia (a herb used as a sweetener) and results in the egg having 10 times the amount of Vitamin E vs a normal egg.  There’s also all sorts of really miniscule touches with the ingredients which actually add to how a dish tastes (versus using a flower just because it pretties up the plate).

My one issue with the whole NUR concept is that they make a massive deal about how they want to source things locally and tell you 100 times during the meal that they are growing herbs right there, on their ROOFTOP TERRACE (FYN note – the newest HK food trend is growing your own shit) there’s something that feels a little bit disingenuous when the remainder of their proteins are gunning their way to Emerald Oneworld status on frequent flier points.  Holy fucking carbon footprint food miles Batman – while the coriander flowers may have sashayed their sustainable way in from NUR’s rooftop terrace, there’s langoustine from New Zealand, crab from Alaska, salmon from Ireland, wagyu beef from Australia and eggs from Japan. Right this way Mr NUR Proteins, Cathay Pacific are thrilled to have you on board today.

I’m not going to labour things because you definitely want to go into NUR without knowing too much about what you’re eventually going to eat.  But TL:DR, sounds like it’ll be pretentious as fuck and food for ants.  However shit’s so goddamn beautiful you’ll weep all over your artistic as fuck plates.  Despite concerns and price point, it’s fucking amazing and innovative and you won’t have to stop by McDonald’s to prevent going to bed hungry but you also won’t have to hate-eat your way through a cream, truffles and butter laden tasting menu resulting in a torpid stupor.

Verdict:
A beautiful FUCK YEAH, but most definitely on pay day.

Where:
Zucca London
184 Bermondsey Street
London SE1 3TQ

Phone:
+44 (0)20 7378 6809 or fuck yeah, online booking (HK, Y U not as good at this as UK?!)

Price:
£123 (approx USD210) for two people (service charge is not included), excluding tip.  Three courses, but including a £45 bottle of spectacular as fuck Coppi Barberra bottle of red wine and a £10 glass of grappa.  Spoiler alert – you better fucking leave a goddamn tip here, motherfuckers.

The deal:
The UK Supercoach provided us with a list of UK recommendations and out of all of them, he declared that Zucca was the absolute must visit, fuck yeah stop.  Pro tips from the UK Supercoach also included do not order the carpaccio, the free bread will ensure that you forget the breadsticks at Grissini, get the zucca fritti, make sure to have at least one pasta (and if available, get the white truffle pasta) and the panna cotta. I may have received more than one reminder to get the panna cotta.  I fucking love people who have firm opinions about food (fuck, who would have guessed), everyone should take a vow not to be one of those bullshit friends who when you ask them for somewhere to go, they recommend some half-assed mediocre restaurant but when you really push them, they go “I mean, I guess it’s ok”.  Apathetic homies, Y U recommend just ok restaurant?!  Rules to fucking live by – make your words count for something, always!!

The service at Zucca was a top notch fuck yeah, with our waitress walking us through the menu, explaining all the Italian terms (without the vaguest hint of a condescension) and the backstory to some of the dishes. All the points in the goddamn universe for the menu which states boldly at the bottom “Using your mobile phone is unnecessary and anti-social” – ALL THE FUCK YEAHS EVER TO THIS SENTIMENT.  How fucking nice to be in a restaurant buzzing with people getting their nom on, talking to each other and there was only one guy who was on his goddamn mobile at the table.  No stupid fucking pauses for food photography , checking their blackberries or whatsapping with the fury of a thousand suns.  If you really want to see some pics, check out these beautiful as fuck pictures of Zucca over at The Hunt.  But really, carpe fuckin’ diem for once, you super connected assholes, you can exist outside of your mobile device I swear to god.

We followed the UK Supercoach playguide when it came to ordering.  At Zucca, they make all of their own bread, pasta and ice-cream.  The bread board contained a medley of different types of bread and came out with their own extra virgin olive oil, which is beautiful and green, grassy and complex which almost saw me ruin my appetite as I wanted to demand more bread to get more of dat oil into my life.  For entrees, we got the Zucca fritti and the vitello tonnato.  The Zucca fritti were fuck yeah, crispy as fuck, delicate batons of pumpkin tempura.  The vitello tonnato was a play on the Italian classic of the veal with the tuna flavoured mayonnaise – getting all vice versas chocolate styleez on it, serving barely seared tuna with a pork mayonnaise and  then thin slices of pork with a tuna mayonnaise. A serious fuck yeah, as we dragged fuck yeah bread through the remaining mayonnaise to ensure neither fish nor pig died in vain.

Mr Noms ruminated between getting the pork shoulder or the pork chop and I solved this dilemma by imploring him to consider ‘WWRS?‘ – What Would Roxette Say?

Appeared that the pork chop was calling to him and he tried to imply that I had pork chop envy.  But whoa, back that up homie, cause he was fucking wrong because my bucatini all’amatriciana was giving me life, with each tubular bucatini strand which had even more surface area than a solid linguini/spagetti, to carry dat rich as fuck tomato and pork cheek sauce into my life.

When the panna cotta with gooseberries arrived, I realised why the UK Supercoach had been so adamant that we order this.  Fuck yeah to panna cotta which quivvers to the touch but melted away once you ate this snowy white beauty.  I don’t want to get too Descriptive Food Wank 101 on yo ass but fuck meeeeee, this is probably one of the best panna cottas I’ve had in my entire life. Not being fucking dramatic either.

Sometimes it’s easy to get fatigued with boring as fuck, basic bitch Italian food – but then you have a meal like we did at Zucca, a serious boss bitch where there are NO lowlights and there is nothing more that you could fucking want. Mr Noms laid it down last night, taking price out of the equation saying “If it was free, where would you go back to – Dinner by Heston or here?”.  Which made me think about food and dining and all that bullshit – the tricks, the rankings, the stars, the hype, the photos, the techniques – but what does it all fucking count for?  Who really fucking cares – all I know is that I couldn’t get this magnificent, flaw-free, boss bitch out of my head all day, replaying the whole goddamn thing.

Verdict:
One of the best meals I’ve had so far this year. Fucking stunning.  FUCK YEAHHHHHHHHHH.

Where:
Serge et le phoque
Shop B2, G/F., Tower 1, The Zenith
3 Wan Chai Road
Wan Chai, Hong Kong

Phone:
+852 5465 2000 (I’ve tried to come here three times before and I’m usually fresh out of luck, so book well in advance otherwise fuck no, no nom scenario)

Price:
HKD650 for the 4 course dinner set. I don’t think that included service charge (bill is ambiguous).  I wasn’t drinking but if you were, I reckon you’d be looking at over HKD1000 a person).

The deal:
I’d wanted to fucking try Serge et le phoque for ages.  The serious Sir Lunch-A-Lots I know had been telling me how it’s a fun place with fuck yeah food and ambience.  Every single time I tried to book they were always motherfucking full or they offered me supremely bullshit times of 9:45pm.

Serge et le phoque offers a four course set dinner for HDK650 or a six course Chef’s choice dinner at HKD850.  This arty, dainty French shit is not cheap which is why it’s such a fucking shame that the service at Serge et le phoque was so fucking patchy.  The two French guys serving us who were so fucking charming and friendly.  A particular mention to Beardy with his luscious tonsorial locks and his cool as fuck thick framed glasses, topped up with a French accent in all of its saucy, posh as fuck glory.  “Bon soir! Merci beaucoup!” – it’s not fair, how can anyone else compete in the Charm Stakes.  But then there was Mademoiselle I Can’t be Le Phoque’d who let the whole team down with a dour fuck no face and an attitude to match.  It’s always a telling sign when you see your server leaving work through the huge fuck off beautiful glass windows and you comment to your table, “Look like she finally went “FUCK THIS SHIT” and went the fuck home”.  Some of the service issues at Serge et le phoque which I just can’t get past given how much fucking coin they’re charging:

  • When my friend arrived, Mademoiselle I Can’t be Le Phoque’d just told her that she could take one of two tables but just gestured at them dismissively in the distance, without actually walking her over.
  • Took fucking forever for them to take our orders to begin.  After the second course, you have to order dessert course and we had to wave them down again after we sat there for ages with our menus patiently closed.
  • Waiters’ complete inability to write down on their serving slip who was having what.  Like seriously, pick a #1 seat at each table, pick a clockwise/anti-clockwise direction and write the shit down methodically so you can bring the dishes to the right person.  This failure to write shit down meant that the waiters asked us (not even fucking exaggerating) three times for each course who was having what or the ambiguous “Who’s having the meat??” while brandishing a knife destined for someone eating…meat.  FFS, I DON’T KNOW SERGE.  SHE’S HAVING PORK.  I’M HAVING PIGEON.  YOU’VE ASKED ME THREE TIMES.  AREN’T BOTH MEAT MY SERGE HOMIE??.
  • When they served the bread with the second course, they took the bread out for ages before the second course and left it there with no side plates.  Is it weird that I expect butter, knives and side plates to come automatically with bread?  Have I missed some fucking point here?
  • When the cheese course arrived, another bowl of bread arrived.  WITH NO SIDE PLATES OR KNIVES UNTIL WE ASKED.  What the fuck was I meant to do? Just tear off hunks of bread and eat over the naked table?
  • My friend finished her glass of wine and no-one offered her another glass or cleared it away.  Fucking weird, cause at HKD90 a glass, surely there was opportunity to make mucho cashola.
  • In general, I felt like I spent the night waving people down asking for dumb ass shit like….plates.

This is a real fucking shame because while the food was seriously food for ants style dining the actual food was such a serious fuck yeah.  I’ve been dreaming about the beef tartare all day with dat sea urchin uni getting all sexy over the finely cubed raw beef with some beautiful as fuck chrysanthemum petals scattered casually over it.  My friend spared me one of her clams from her 1st course (she only had five…she sacrificed 20% for me!!) and I wanted to snatch the rest from her and shove them into my wanting maw, decimating every drop of that broth.  For second course, the pigeon was so fucking tasty and I could tell that it was fiddly as fuck with its handshelled mini peas and minimalistic sauce placement. But it’s serious food for ants territory – all of the motherfucking pigeon meat in total would not have been bigger than two of my thumbs.  Once we actually received bread and plates, the cheese course was a fuck yeah – I gotta confess, fearful for how little food was appearing, I made it a point to eat more bread than I normally would at this point of a meal.  The last course finally produced a fuck yeah dessert for me (FINALLY) with a dark chocolate tart with sansho pepper (the firey, slightly numbing seedpod of the Japanese prickly ash tree), the sansho pepper gettin’ its mother fucking firey taste sensation jam on vs the dark, bitter sweet chocolate tart.

I read a review of Serge et le phoque over at Sassy and it breathlessly exclaims (xoxo) that “the quality of the food, attention to detail, hospitality of Pelletier and entertainment provided by Wan Chai Market will make Serge et Le Phoque anyone’s regular hangout” – clearly those Sassy bitches have got more coin to burn than me cause at those serious as fuck bank breaking prices if Serge et Le Phoque was my regular hangout, I’d be rolling in the Wheel of Goddamn Bankruptcy Fromage.

Verdict:
Who’s having the meat?? But seriously, loved the tiny, fucking gorgeous food but at those prices, every thing’s gotta work together and a French accent ain’t going to excuse all those service fuck ups.  So.  Fuck yeah if someone else is paying. If not, a polite fuck no.  Merci.

Where:
Shelter Lounge
Shop A, G/F.&1/F., Universal Building
5-13 New Street, Sheung Wan
Hong Kong

Phone:
+852 2517 6211 (fuck yeahhhhh, took bookings and didn’t have to book a million years in advance)

Price:
We got out at HKD550 a person.  No corkage, so fuck yeah bring your own booze!

The deal:
On Thursday / Friday, I was doing a panicked call around trying to find a restaurant that a) still took bookings and b) wasn’t fully booked out.  I called Serge et le Phoque who kindly offered me a table at 10pm (!!), but fearing that I’d eat my own arms off by that point I declined.  Mama San offered to make me a booking for the next week – but seeing as I couldn’t even figure out where I was eating in less than 24 hours, committing to next week was 100% not on the FYN agenda.

After trying more than five restaurants, I managed to get a booking at Shelter Lounge at around Friday lunch for Friday dinner – it’s a fucking HK miracle!  Although the girl on the phone sounded pretty pissed off about having to take a booking in the first place.  This place is highly instagrammable if that’s your thing – the long wood tables, large as fuck white plates, the very prettily arranged foods with sauce casually smeared around like it ain’t no thing.  You know that that means though, big fuck off white plates + pretty food = small almost food for ant portions.  We had to go a round two with the ordering, because shit is not big here.  Shelter Lounge were strong on respecting their proteins and all the reliable stars of the animal kingdom began their beauty parade.  The glazed beef short rib was one of my fuck yeah highlights – with it working out even better for me when most people gave up on the bone and I got to go hands on and immaculately clean it up (some people are good at art, on the other hand some are good at eating…FYI, I can’t draw for shit). The coffee butter lamb rack must have come from a barely legal lamb as it was really fucking tiny, but they padded it out with some artistic as fuck mesclun greens, pine nuts, rosy sweet ass figs and then added some goats cheese for that salty, fuck yeah contrast against the sweet figs.  I couldn’t taste the coffee but there was enough shit going on that I wasn’t crying for its absence.  It’s always a stereotype at this stage but the sticky pork belly was a reliable performer – I can’t even find an interesting new way to describe pork belly so why don’t you just fill it in for yourself – blah blah sticky blah blah fatty as fuck blah blah juicy fucker blah blah pork belly.

The Shelter Lounge don’t have a liquor licence, so that adds some fuck yeah points as you don’t get stung on the wine. So while we had to double up on some of the dishes to ensure we didn’t starve (greedy fucks were in attendance – so if you had more dainty girls maybe one round would be enough), considering the quality of the food, fancy shiz presentation and the no corkage scenario, it’s not a bargain basement nom but on the sum of its parts, Shelter Lounge checks out on the dollar/noms value scale.

Verdict:
Fuck yeah – especially if you go with light eating girls who don’t devour everything in sight (ie. not me).

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