Rona's repasts

Look, before I start talking about the food, I just want to say: This is not, in any way a facsimile of an AA Gill restaurant review in the London Sunday Times. Oh yes, I know a lot of - if I may say so - ignorant people, have accused me of cribbing my good friend Adrian Gill's style. But nothing could be further from the truth. And no - I don't need to pad the piece out with 15 paragraphs of inconsequential ephemera on everything from my shopping trip to Dubai, to what our cat threw up this morning. I do it because it's interesting - or not.

As I said to The Scribbler the other day: "Sweetie, how many words is this particular restaurant review supposed to total?" He, very kindly, replied something to the effect of: "Jien naf! Just pad it out with your usual inane prattle and you should be OK."

Ah, sweet. But I feel I have to say to all of you who think my restaurant reviews are 97 per cent waffle and three per cent substance - you are obviously not reading them properly. I am a restaurant professional. A professional, do you hear?

I know all about the sneaky little tricks that chefs and restaurateurs get up to in the confines of their kitchens, to try to con you so, so ignorant punters into believing that you're getting your money's worth.

It's at times like this that I feel I'm fortunate to be able to lean on The Scibbler to confess my admittedly irrational insecurities to his sympathetic ear. He is my listening post, my rock! My Paul Burrell. He merely smiles his smile of confidence and tells me: "I don't believe you're a boring old slapper, who is trying to out Gill... Gill. And even if you are, I love you anyway."

And as he slips his warm, clammy hand between my... courses, he reassures me with a typical leer and says: "Whatever the rest of Malta thinks, you are still the finest restaurant reviewer in the length and breadth of San Ġwann." So there!"

Where was I? Oh yes...

When eventually I was (ahem), I felt unappreciated in my last position with the so-called eminent English language Sunday tabloid, Malta Issa, I turned on my accusers and withered them with one stare. Then, when I got off my knees I summoned all my latent dignity, totally refused to compromise and told them: "Look here, you don't know what you're doing. I am an institution. My restaurant reviews are awaited with baited (sic) breath - and no small amount of trepidation - by every restaurant owner on Malta, Gozo and Filfla. Let me tell you; I am loved and admired from Paradise Bay to Ċirkewwa!" I am... aren't I? Yes, of course I am.

Oh I must just tell you this one short, but wonderful, anecdote. There I was - accompanied inevitably by The Scribbler - with a quiet espresso, seated at one of the tables outside Café Gino's on the Strand in Sliema, when suddenly this funny little chap in a yellow waistcoat started sawing away at the railings around the tables. Well I mean, what does one say? Anyway, he finished sawing, then, much to my astonishment, he turned to me and said: "Aren't you that lady who writes so brilliantly and so appositely about haute cuisine in the Sunday paper?"

Well, you could have knocked me down with The Scibbler's Blackberry. I mean, what a strange place to meet a fan. So anyway, after posing for photos with this same little man and the rest of his gang of workers, I gave him a signed photo of myself and left. How wonderful, eh?

Now then: There is much that I could write about The Meating Place, but true to form, I won't. Suffice to say that if you were thinking of booking a table there this weekend, don't bother; by the time this review comes out they'll have gone out of business.