Gripped with greasy food lust last night, the family and I headed out for a seriously caloric dinner at Streets of London Pub. Drama ensued as we waited for our meal – our seven year old ripped a pair of butterfly wings off her back and stamped them on the floor in a furious fit of pique (to the amusement of pub patrons); my son haphazardly tossed darts at the dartboard, narrowly missing his sister, before we wrested them out of his hand. However, the food soon arrived, and it was gloriously and naughtily greasy: a raft-sized, tender battered fish (lazing atop squarish French fries) was the tastiest item, but we also relished the airy, astonishingly oily onion rings and the enormous, dripping Big Ben burger. Washed down with big gulps of a cold draught beer (and, for the kids, Sprite with a maraschino cherry), the pubbish repast was a cardiologist’s nightmare. But it sure made us happy.