Fika

A night out with Drage is one of my favourite ways to spend an evening. He’s the perfect male, just effeminate enough to not only cite but tell the difference between good jeans and lesbian jeans, yet you wouldn’t catch him standing in front of a mirror, feet turned slightly inwards pulling at the corners of his t-shirt stating “I’m getting fat”. Drage is far from fat but wouldn’t care a whole deal if he were. He ordered the gnocchi. Fika is such a perfect little restaurant (aside from the near dealbreaking fact that I can see part of the kitchen due to the lack of a concealing door). It’s small and cosy prompting Drage to point out that “it’s all very relaxed, I don’t feel tense at all” as he purposely strokes the astro turf cut-out of a stag drinking a cup of tea stuck on the wall. The food is Swedish – some of it fairly typical: meatballs, reindeer salami, that kind of thing – and delicious. They do great hamburgers and a vegetable and bean grilled umm….mush thing, I don’t know quite how to describe it. It was great though, it’s all real comfort food. I thought, or was scared even, that everything would be pickled: pickled this, pickled that but actually pickled was barely even on the menu. Although it wouldn’t be Swedish without pickled herring. It’s a bit like a little Swedish cabin with wood planks on the walls and a simple yet chic theme involving astro turf. It’s like a comfortable film, in fact it’s the “Small Time Crooks’ of restaurants. It’s definitely a favourite. They never did close the bloody kitchen door though.