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I am a foodie. Have been for as long as I can remember. Cooking it, eating it and going to places that serve it. Reading books about it, digesting it, getting indigestion from it. Not getting my dream figure because of it.

Restaurant trips seem to serve as milestones in my life; I enjoy them so much that I even have three dear friends in the UK with whom I have formed a dining club. Members of The Meat Board (it works on many levels) share my opinion that food and memories are closely connected: birthdays, engagements, new jobs, new shoes (I jest, however I did once go out for a meal to celebrate the purchase of a new pair of ski boots) can all seem to be linked in some way to a restaurant visit.

The problem is that the the convivial excursions of The Meat Board do tend to take place in high-end establishments and recounting hilarious anecdotes from these meetings causes people to think me a food snob. I would like to state for the record that I am nothing of the sort, and qualify my claim thus…

Above left is a picture of the last (and certainly most extravagant) venue The Board patronised, pre-pandemic, as a group: Marcus Waering at The Berkley Hotel, London. Above right is Schawarma Vibes, our pre-golf sustenance stop-off on a Wednesday evening. The former is rated amongst the top restaurants in the United Kingdom, the latter is rated amongst the top schawarmas in Abu Dhabi. My traditional English sensibilities cause me to dislike talk of money; suffice to say the typical bill at the former comes to approximately 60 times the bill at the latter.

I am equally happy eating in both.

It has been said in previous installments that striking a good life balance is important. The plush velvet of the Michelin star is unbeatable, but so are the pretzels and beer partaken in a good pub with good company. It is, in short, all good.

Amongst all this gluttonous goodness, my favourite culinary venues of all are the hidden gems. The idiosyncratic, backstreet joints that you stumble upon throughout life: that scruffy yet homely bistro you find on holiday in Europe that was, on that day, in that context, absolutely perfect. As you can imagine, Abu Dhabi is not rife with such establishments. Mainly because everything is new. And pristine. Oldy-worldy just isn’t a thing in a country that has just celebrated its 49th birthday.

There is, as ever, an exception to the rule…

Thanks must go once again to my good friends Sarah and Matt for introducing me to Abu Dhabi’s one tatty French Bistro. It was a Thursday evening in February. Another week of teaching music on iPad, from a safe distance, at the front of the classroom (or from the desk in my apartment, who can remember the chain of events that was the Spring Term? For that matter, who wants to?) had put me in great need of an evening out. Taxis were ordered, Google Maps was checked so as to inform the driver of how to get there (see blog 3) and off we headed to the centre of Abu Dhabi. Hamdan Street was the destination, and the unimposing facade of Le Beujolais French Restaurant. The Maitre d’, who I am told has been in post for over 20 years, was delighted to see us. We were seated. Check tablecloths and kitsch (at best) decoration came as a welcome contrast to the shiny perfection that is the Abu Dhabi norm. I followed team orders given by those who have frequented this place for years: French onion soup followed by steak frites and rounded off with the world’s biggest bowl of chocolate mousse. All of this was thoroughly washed down with not a small amount of the house red.

(Ordering anything else, wine-wise, is frowned upon. Literally. For the service is as authentic as the food. Example: Matt informed me that they do a Béarnaise with the steak, but you have to ask for it. My turn to order arrived; I tentatively asked in hushed tones if I might have the unadvertised condiment with my steak. This seemingly reasonable request was met with a disapproving set of eyebrows and a general contempt the delivery of which can only be executed by a waiter in a French Bistro. My steak subsequently arrived, duly accompanied with Béarnaise. It was to die for).

The decor was iffy at best. I was scorned for ordering a sauce. The pudding could have served a modest family. It was, simply put, perfect. Like all good romances I loved it for (and despite) its imperfections. I could have spent the entire weekend drinking that house red; I will be returning soon to attempt to prove it…

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Half terms are not as plentiful here and we had a mere long weekend in February to recharge the pedagogical batteries. A very popular way to relax during time off is to have a Pool Day in a hotel. I had been recommended the Jumeirah Resort on Saadiyat Island near where I live so gave it a try. Often the deal you get is that a part of your entry fee can be claimed back as food vouchers, so I decided to treat myself to lunch at Mare Mare, the poolside Italian seafood restaurant, and was very glad I did. (Actually, I mistook it for the pool bar, serving modest lunches such as sandwiches with a crescent of crisps. The menu arrived and I quickly decided not to rectify my error). It was here that I discovered fregola, a Sardinian pasta that more resembles giant couscous. The Fregola Sarda ai Frutti di Mare was less a quick lunch at a pool day, more a dish that will linger in the memory for a long time to come.

Short as half term was, it led me from the culinary sublime to the ridiculous. Saturday night had been spent with a friend who is every bit as obsessed with musical theatre as I am and involved a piano and several bottles of rosé. The next day, just as I was creating a Dicky-shaped indent in the sofa in a haze of caffeine and Netflix, I was invited to join friends at the Sportsman’s Arms. This is a pub next to the rugby club. (No, I have not finally lost it and started to hallucinate England’s green and pleasant lands, these places are real). The post-wine/Sondheim malaise caused initial reluctance. But then a bombshell was dropped….

It was explained to me that this particular hostelry serves one of the best Sunday lunches in Abu Dhabi. The game had changed. This was surely to be just what the doctor ordered (or what I imagined he would order as a hangover cure). And so the scene was set and I can confirm that The Sportsman’s Arms, next to the Rugby Club, in Abu Dhabi, very much produced the goods…

The second half of term came and went in a Googly blur. Blurry eyed from Google, tired and worn-out, I needed a treat and a bit of ‘me time’. School was out and I needed not just refreshment but quality refreshment. It had been suggested to me that one of the best places to do this is at the St Regis Hotel, again just down the road from me. In there, the Manhatten Lounge yielded what very well may have been the best version I have ever tasted of my all-time favourite drink…

The Easter Holiday (Spring Break to we expats) had started Bloody well. A week later, mid-vacation, came the highlight, the pinnacle of this episode and one of my foodie best-bits so far. Brunch had not been had in a while and it was felt that one was due. I have been on a mission since my birthday installment. A simple mission; to find a better brunch than the Ritz Carlton (see birthday episode). Several reliable sources had instructed me to look no further than Nahaam: the Friday brunch at the Conrad, Etihad Towers. And so comes the end of our journey to all things gastronomic; from a wonderfully grotty French bistro via a sports pub and an oak-panelled gentleman’s bar to our final destination: a poolside brunch that was, simply put, exquisite.

Ritz Carlton: meet thy match. All the usual food stations were present (see previous brunch installments) but were all just a notch above anywhere else. In particular the seafood and the barbecue station; the beef short ribs made me wonder why I had bothered with any of the previous courses. Even better was the schedule we were presented upon arrival that detailed visits to our table by various trolleys offering brunch punctuations (brunctuations?) of delight: gins and tonic, risotto, espresso martinis and hydrogen ice cream were some of the visits I can recall. My recollection is somewhat sketchy which is in no small part due to the crowning glory of this brunch. The wine. The rosé served to me in immodest quantities on that balmy poolside afternoon was so good, in fact, that your diligent blogger became less than diligent and forgot to take any photos…

… the above comes to you courtesy of Google Images.

I write this just after returning to school for my final term of my first year of my Abuventure. After wondering whether to use more portmanteau in my blog I spent some time feeling happy that in the sea of change that has washed over me in the last year, food has remained a delicious anchor of consistency. I am still wallowing in the triumph of this brunchissimo, the latest gastronomic milestone on the Yellow Brunch Road, and planning how now to top this one. In the meantime, I am looking forward to golf tomorrow and my schawarma and fries.

Plush velvet sometimes, sometimes just pretzels and beer. I’m still here.