It's hard to eat well this far into the festival, especially when you order frogs' legs, snails, and steak tartare
It's hard to eat well this far into the festival, when you can glimpse the end, like a mirage. Those dried apricots you bought in good faith on day two will soon be hardening into the surface of the worktop, to eventually become an ultra-trendy kitchen feature for the landlord, who's currently sunning himself in Ibiza, pound signs lighting up his eyes. I tend to start the day well, then wind up necking chips on Princes Street, having lost my leggings and my way home.
It was my birthday last week and, by chance, my boyfriend and I ended up in a French restaurant near our place with a few other comics. To make it special, and not just another night in Edinburgh, I ordered the following (none of which I'd had before): frogs' legs, snails, and steak tartare. Am I alone in thinking steak tartare was something to do with tartar sauce, with the added "e" there as a flourish? I genuinely had no idea it was raw.
I got through the pond life OK, but when the steak came, I couldn't believe my eyes. Nor could my friends, who were full of respect. I didn't know what to do. Then began a battle between my stomach and my pride, a feeling that people who are both haters of spicy food and lovers of getting attention through eating spicy food will know well. I got through about half of it, but had to abandon ship when all that was swimming through my head was the thought of just buying some mince, chopping a bit of onion into it, then wolfing it down on a bench.
Eating all that different food in the space of an hour was like playing Russian roulette with my system. Or French roulette, which just sounds like a 1980s board game. What I'm saying is: when it comes to another country's food, avoid gambling ? and stick to dried apricots.
Just seen: Henry Paker ? Cabin Fever. Hilarious, absurd, idiosyncratic yet accessible. I don't know how he does it.