During my dazzling career as doyenne of front of house or waitress, as we called it back then some of my gigs lasted longer than others. I got sacked a lot: sometimes for knowing more than the chef, sometimes for having accidental green hair and, in the case of Glasgow's Ubiquitous Chip, for allowing some charming customers to fill me full of tequila.
It made me cross how unfair! so I welcome the chance to go back. Maybe, just maybe, the idea of revenge served as cold as crisp picpoul has crossed my mind. If so, any mean hopes are dashed: the Chip has aged as well as Madonna, and, if my wander round the former undertakers' stables is anything to go by, is responsible for as many offspring. Bars upon brasseries upon bars have mushroomed around the central courtyard restaurant, a glorious, jungly, plant-filled space that looks as if you've stumbled into an enthusiastically licensed offshoot of the Botanic Gardens.
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