I just got back from a superb Italian restaurant here in Worthing. Unfortunately it is located down a back street rather than on the main thoroughfare and so doesn't get the amount of custom that it deserves. The main roads that it lies off of also hold an Italian restaurant each which takes much of the passing trade, although I feel the food and service of these two to be inferior. It was just a quiet meal with me and my mum and I had perfectly cooked calamari for starter followed by British Rose veal in a white wine, mushroom and cream sauce with veg and sautéed potatoes. This was finished by home-made chocolate fondant and vanilla ice-cream garnished with more chocolate sauce and a strawberry. I am now full to bursting point and my mum is feeling very pished having drank my complimentary liqueur after dinner in addition to her own.
The difference between fiction and reality? Fiction has to make sense.