I was sick of being 26. After a year of it, I was frankly
ready to leave the whole business behind. So I made a few calls, pulled some
rather influential strings, and got the necessary paperwork in place: I would
have a birthday. After browsing through the Age Catalogue I decided to heed the
expert advice and follow my 26 with a 27, only slightly used. The 27 is an
excellent package, they said, with a very reasonable rate of happy returns, and
becoming quite the vogue age for my peer group.

Harbercue features at The X Bells on most weekends, when
it’s not busy being toured around food festivals and other painfully cool
events. Booking is essential, which is a small indicator of how much of a buzz
this pop-up kitchen shares with its packed host-pub.
The menu is simple and confident. I ordered the mixed tray
of beef brisket and pulled pork, with a huge pile of 16-times-fried (I’m
guessing) chips. The brisket is good, and avoids the dryness you sometimes
find, but the star is the incredibly succulent, flavoursome pork. You can’t
stop eating it just because you’ve eaten enough of it. The meal isn’t over when
you’re full, says Louie CK. It’s over when you hate yourself.

She has a point. We ordered the entire sides menu between a
party of six, when none of us were unlikely to finish our mains. Perhaps this
largesse was due to the birthday atmosphere, or perhaps battered jalapenos are
too good (they are) to resist, on any occasion. My personal theory is that we
ordered so much food because of mildly impaired judgement; The X Bells were
offering two cocktails for ten pounds, and if there’s any way to get my mum
delightfully tipsy, it’s by convincing her that it’s a great deal.

27 is so far living up to it’s catalogue description with
aplomb. I shall stay this age until I’m 40.
Brilliant Ben. I was not tipsy, was I? x
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