Few of us are not guilty of the desperate, heavy-limbed slump into a tourist rip-off joint on the central squares of any major capital. Especially after a full day’s schlepping. That convenient, if slightly sticky, plastified picture menu that saves you the embarassment of misordering. The tantalising “€10 set menu”. The waiter’s ninja arm-wrestle that yoinks you into the premises whether you were headed there or not (Brussels is particularly good at this). Most of all, the flaccid, browning salad and rubbery pizza that awaits, like a slice of Satan’s slipper reheated in the microwave of Mount Doom. If you’re missing that particular holiday experience, I suggest you head to Bacco straight away. Continue reading
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