Wednesday, 8 June 2011

Yara, Altrincham

Yara, in Altrincham, is a hustley-bustley sort of place.  It's bursting at all hours.  It's so full, people pop out of the front door when it's opened.  Try to get up and you'll realise you're stuck in a dreadfully tiny area.  Everybody is happy too.  Why is everybody so happy?  This is Altrincham.  People in Altrincham have more sex than any other group of people in the world.  Go to Altrincham for a day trip and you can quite easily score yourself a shag.  Yet, beyond the large quantities of sexual behaviour, there is another, more disturbing reason why Altrincham folk have smiles etched permanently across their faces.  They're all zombies.  Anyhow.  This isn't a review about Altrincham and its people, it's about Yara.
Yara serves disgusting food.  Need I say anymore?  Would it not be a little unfair to make that statement and walk away without clarification?  Well, yes but life is unfair.  It shouldn't be but it is.  However, justice must be served.  Yara, for the most part, serves large quantities of brown, dry, leathery meat.  That's disgusting.  At least, it looks disgusting.  Everywhere you turn you can see a mountain of meat.  And above the meat, zombie facials beaming down at today's ration.  Forget the people!  Dig into the meat and you'll discover a reservoir of oil.  Bush shouldn't have invaded Iraq; he should have invaded Altrincham.  It would have been less expensive and fewer people would have complained.  The meat smells rotten too.  For some reason it smells of sulphur.  A farty smell.  Why does it smell of farts?  Is the meat rotten?  It could very easily be rotten.  Is that why it is so overcooked?  To kill the bacteria?  Ewwww.  I ordered a lamb and spinach dish.  I received spinach floating in fat.  "Where is the lamb," I asked.  "The lamb is represented by the oil, sir."  To be brutally honest, that conversation didn't take place.  However, there was no meat on my plate and the oil tasted, distinctly, of lambs.  Goose pimples! all over my body.  Time to leave.
Leaving is an issue.  The lack of space is ridiculous.  Move but an inch and you'll brush the arm of a zombie.  Their heads will turn; their smiles will grow; their eyes will wander over your body; their plates are empty; could they be hungry?  Still?  Could they be moving towards your arm?  Run!  Run now!  Too late!  Teeth!  Teeth in your arm; crunching your bones; tearing your flesh; "Mmmmmm, it tastes of lamb fat!"; more smiles; more teeth; more crunching; more tearing; and then, emptiness.

No comments:

Post a Comment