The Quest has a New Challenger

There is an official challenger to the meatball crown worn by the Cafe Candia. Saturday night was the Shoutsters birthday, so after a few beers in town we headed to Guiseppe's for some chow, and this time they rustled us up some meatballs. They were a good size, lovely texture, and with a powerful spicy kick. I had mine with penne pasta, and I have to say, they were beautiful. I have had them here before, but I don't if they have a new chef, but they were a little nicer than the last time I visited, down to the extra spice I reckon. But are they better than the Candia? If truth be told, I can't split them. I may ha e to call in a secondary opinion from fellow meatball fancier Sprocket. I am leaning slightly towards the greasy spoon on Legrams Lane, but that could be misplaced loyalty, as I usually go at least once a week. But the Quest has defiantly heated up. The afore mentioned Sprocket has informed me that Wetherspoons have added a meatball marinara ciabatta sandwich, which I will be sampling tomorrow when I meet up with the Mercenary before seeing the new Batman flick. Lefty has also pointed out that his old man runs an Italian restaurant in Guisely, so a plan is being put together for a mini bender to check it out. As for the rest of Saturday night? After a few beers at Lloyds and somewhere up the "West End" of Bradford, me and Lefty took off to the Casino at around 12:30, thinking the rest would catch up in half an hour or so. We got a free ten pound bet each, which we blew on the roulette straight away. Lefty seemed to be on a mission, so I went for a beer, and started watching the highlights from the cricket. Went to find the Leftster, but he was no where to be seen, instead I found Meatball. Spoke to him for a minute, went for a piss and another beer and lost him as well. I hung around for a bit, tried to call Crespo didn't answer, so rang a cab, which I nearly missed as some pissed up knobhead kept trying to get in the back and take his pants off. After being told to "Fuck off", it was homeward bound, where today I blew up the lawn mower.

P.S.
Is it just me, or is Bradford city centre full nof Heifers on a Saturday night? Not all of them were chubby, but a high percentage were. And I think we discovered the chaviest bar in England. It had no name, the toilet was backed up, the clientele ranged from 14 year old alco-poppers to a geezer who must have been at least 65 with an ancient deer stalker on his heed, throwing shapes to the most God awful happy hardcore shite ever to assault one's ears. And a bird so fat, that she had to stop and sit down to catch her breath after walking literally five metres. Needles to say we only stayed for one.