No sooner were the local council elections over and the Nationalists were away licking their wounds, as well they should, lest they turn septic and be the death of them, then Joe Muscat came out in his true colours.

I'm not talking about the colours of a social democrat, which he is: the time for worrying about Labour turning the country into the cesspit of democracy that it was when they were in power for any appreciable length of time (other than Sant's blip, I mean) has gone. Well, it has probably gone, anyway, for all the frissons of dread that shot up our spines when we heard about the fun and games of that thug in Zejtun during the voting - let's say that this was just a spasm in an otherwise healthy body politic.

No, the colours I'm thinking Joe Muscat has now well and truly nailed to his mast are the colours of a consummate politician of true 21st century vintage, at least when he is an exponent of the left. He is clearly a fervent adherent of the faith espoused by those masters of the dark arts, Peter Mendelson and Tony Blair - say what you need to say to get the votes you need to get and worry about what it will sound like later, when the chicken comes home to roost.

Aided and abetted by his ever-smiling sidekick, Jason Micallef, he has spun the utility rates story to the point of dizziness.

Incidentally, wouldn't you be ever-smiling if you were Jason Micallef? Your lord and protector finally does a Bob Dylan to the tune of Knockin' on Heaven's Door, leaving you well and truly poised for a swinging in the wind number and - despite his promises of an earthquake of Californian proportions - his successor keeps you hanging on, running the party and representing it to the voting public, ignoring your role in its defeat last year.

Smile? My lower jaw would drop off.

Well, getting back to the story, there we had them: Joseph Muscat and Jason Micallef banging on and on and on and on about how the utility rates were crucifying the miserable working man, leaving him destitute and about to sell a kidney and put a couple of his nearest and dearest onto the streets to earn a few crusts to pay for poor Johnny's medical care, now that the nasty Nationalists have decided to make us pay for it.

Medical care, I mean, which was a lie so barefaced that no one, not even Labour's best spinners, could keep it going.

No sooner had the result been declared that, inexperienced and incompetent politicians (in that order - Joseph first, Jason second) that they are, instead of keeping Labour's undertaking that utility rates would be lowered when they come into power trundling on, Joseph had to spit it out: there are no guarantees on utility rates going down, after all.

Now, I'd be amongst the first to tell you that any half-sensible punter should treat a politician's promise in the same way he'd treat the assurances of an Iranian President about election results, but it was pretty obvious, when the votes were counted, that quite a few punters believed them.

What price political consistency now, ay?

While mentioning the price, it was a high one we paid last Friday when we went for a boys' night to La Vecchia Dogana. It's a superbly decorated place, and certainly the place to be seen at the moment, if the plethora of beautiful young (and not so young) things strutting their delectable stuff all around is anything to go by.

That leggy view and the décor, frankly, are the only reasons to go there: the service is glacial, the food mundane and the price/satisfaction quotient about on a par with every other joint of this type along the waterfronts of Valletta and Vittoriosa. What is it about the harbour area that gives rise to so many eateries, which are long on pretentiousness but really, really short on value for money?

You want to avoid Mick Jagger's plight and get some? Satisfaction, I mean?

Go to C7 in Xlendi, Otters in Marsalforn or Oleander in Xaghra, just to take three places on a line across Gozo, or to Peppino's in St Julians, Ambrosia in Valletta and La Famiglia in Marsascala, just to swing through a different curve.

I'll close by recommending a restaurant I've never been to, which has been open for just a few months and is many, many miles away: Malta, in Brooklyn, NY. Its owners have absolutely no connection with Malta and were inspired to the name because the fare is Mediterranean and someone told them where we are.

I met the owners, purely through a series of coincidences, while they were over here to get some idea of what Malta is all about and I couldn't resist telling you about it.

imbocca@gmail.com, www.timesofmalta.com/blogs