To Moro, to Moro, always a day away

To Moro, the Spanish - North African restaurant in Exmouth Market with good pals P and M, the folks who let me crash on their sofa bed when I first moved up to London and was between flats.

It was a proper summer night, one of those rare London evenings where it doesn't actually cool down. We sat at an outside table, looking out at the beautiful people strolling down the pedestrianised walkway, lit by the rows of fairy lights that are strung across the market. Some worries and ructions in my personal life were washed away (momentarily at least) by laughs and copious amounts of rosé wine. I usually consider rosé an abomination, but I can swing with it in the summer.

The food was excellent. Moorish cuisine? I say it's more-ish! I don't often go for goat as I'm a vegetarian (but not at restaurants - which is a bit of a fudge, really). But the slow roasted kid was tender with this tingly spicy-sweet sauce. The saltiness of the mojama (which sounds to me like a Spanish curse word) was set off by the eye-poppingly fresh salsa.

We went to Cafe Kick afterwards, this retro 70s pub with old fashioned table football (or foosball as we say in America). I was beaten on the foosball pitch in succession by P, who said he spent most of his university days playing so that's not too bad; M, who is a girl and said, 'I've never beaten anyone before!'; and a one armed man. Let me repeat that. A one armed man, some other pub patron who rocked up and asked for a game. For those readers who are unaware, I have the use of all four limbs.