{"id":2157,"date":"2011-02-17T09:59:20","date_gmt":"2011-02-17T09:59:20","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.jamesramsden.com\/?p=2157"},"modified":"2011-02-17T09:59:20","modified_gmt":"2011-02-17T09:59:20","slug":"review-all-star-lanes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.jamesramsden.com\/2011\/02\/17\/review-all-star-lanes\/","title":{"rendered":"Review | All Star Lanes"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a>We’ve reached a point where it’s not quite enough to go out for dinner, eat a bowl of pasta, and go home again. Whether it’s a result of the recession or simply a more demanding public (my hunch is that it’s a bit of both), the average punter wants something more from a night out. Every new restaurant seems to be serving small plates in an increasingly derivative attempt to satisfy both novelty-seeking and penny-protecting sides of their clients, and of course we’ve seen the rise and rise of supper clubs as the paradigm of a different sort of dining.<\/p>\n Last week it was bowling. Because at All Star Lanes you don’t just go out for dinner. You go out for dinner and make a massive, massive tit of yourself. No sooner have you had a swig of beer than off come the claggy, aromatic work shoes and on slip those bowling shoes that you think make you look like John Travolta but really make you look more like John Goodman<\/a>.<\/p>\n And down we went into the bowling arena (is it an arena?). I limbered up. I clocked a girl on the next lane. Hello sunshine. Like a gunslinger I swaggered onto the pristine wooden floorboards, eyes narrowed at the pins at the other end. I pitied them. Little did they know of the demolition that was about to befall them. I launched the hefty orb towards its quarry. With a thud more terrible than a dropped baby and a trickle more pathetic than a nonagenarian’s midnight micturition, the ball dribbled about half way down the lane before conceding defeat and flopping, impotently, into the gutter.<\/p>\n Bowling, it seemed, wasn’t my game.<\/p>\n I won’t go into further pitiful detail about my endeavours to emulate Roy Munson<\/a>, because it didn’t really matter. *Sobs uncontrollably*. But, really, that’s not what it’s all about. It was a chance to have a few drinks and be a bit silly with some friends before eating dinner and, well, having some more drinks and being even more silly.<\/p>\n The food is good – American, natch, without being kitsch. We ate…well we ate too much. Starting with the sharing platter and some popcorn squid, the four of us were pretty much defeated. Fried squid is either good or bad. This was good. Crisp batter, soft flesh, and a decent enough aioli. Spare ribs were generous, sticky, and cooked to the point where the meat fell off the bone without leaving you with no chewing to do. I like to chew on my food. It’s what teeth are for. Chilli and nachos were spot on, quesadillas underseasoned and underspiced, dough balls a bit so-what.<\/p>\n And we should have left it there. We were stuffed.<\/p>\n Mercifully, what followed was all really very edible. I wrestled down the better part of a gargantuan macaroni cheese. No bells and whistles, just a cracking dish of baked pasta and cheese.<\/p>\n To, I assume, placate the laydees who don’t fancy chowing a whole cow in one evening, there is blackened salmon with beetroot and horseradish. There was little to criticise, but there was little to rave about. It didn’t feel like it had been cooked with the same enthusiasm with which the other dishes had been, and I’d venture that it wasn’t.<\/p>\n