Last night while out with friends I was reminded of a classic story of yours truly putting his foot into his mouth in a very big way.

I was out on the town in Soho with a fried from out of town. We were in some terribly overpriced ‘it’ bar, you know the kind. Loud music, bartenders that aren’t really rude and crass, but act that way just the same to create some sort of industrial vibe, and the ubiquitous Apple Martini for £8. Heaven forbid if you ask for a beer, or a shot of Jack. But I digress!

So my friend and I were talking up this nice group of folks also on the piss as it were. Of course, it doesn’t take long for our new friends to figure out we are not in fact British, but good ‘ol Yanks. Me, being the type, proudly proclaim that I am actually Texan. Now despite what most of the planet feel about Americans, hailing from Texas still can be considered a good thing. John Wayne, was not a Texan, but damn he could have been. BBQ, again not strictly a Texas thing, is generally assumed to be. Salsa, Doritos, Dr. Pepper, Chilli, and Cowboy boots, all hail from the great state of Texas.

One other thing we Texans are famous for, is blunt honesty. Texans have that sort of thing in Spades. So our erstwhile friends start smiling when I tell them I’m a Texan from Dallas (ed. well, near Dallas anyway). I’m used to that, while I’m waiting for the inevitable "Do you know JR Ewing", they ask if I’ve ever gone to the Lone Star Cafe in Kennsington. Did I? Boy did I ever!

I then proceed to tell them it was the worst restaurant in London. The food was terrible, the service was an embarrassment, and the decor was dated. But the food, the food was what pissed me off the most. My refried beans were crusty on the outside, and frozen on the inside. The meat was still uncooked, and when I asked them to re-cook it, they threw the whole plate into the microwave, ruining everything else. After sending the whole thing away, I then ordered nachos. Who can screw up nachos, I ask to the group. Well, this place can. The chips were stale, and instead of using real cheese they used that Rotel, pump cheese you usually find in petrol stations or movie theaters.

It was at this point that I finally noticed a wave of anger/embarrassment on our group. One of the men had by now stormed away, to the bathroom I thought.

Actually, it turned out he was the owner. I had just insulted his place in front of his wife, and friends. After explaining the situation, the group of Brits looked to me, as if awaiting some sort of apology. I said the following:

"Well, the place really does suck".