If you like board games then I’m preaching to the converted; there’s the perfect café for you that’s just opened in Gloucester Green. Stop reading now and go. I, however, am not sure whether there’s room for many new games in my life, or even if I have the time to play the ones for which I do know the rules. Don’t get me wrong, organised fun in the form of cardboard-mounted amusements can sometimes be just that – fun. I love the the odd Christmas Cluedo, or even occasionally pursuing a quest for world domination in that notorious home-wrecker – Risk. It’s just that rarely, I imagine, would one think ‘it’s such a shame there’s no café specifically open for the playing of board games’. My local coffee shop has Jenga, Connect Four and Yahtzee stuck up on a shelf in the corner, where they usually remain.

Concept-based issues aside, I’m sure the café appeals to a certain demographic, even if it is not my own. When I went to check it out Meeples was actually totally empty, but that’s probably not unrelated to the fact that it was 11 o’clock on a Monday morning. The interior is a cosy cross between a library and a restaurant. Look closer at the shelves and you will see just a cross-section of the 400 games they have on offer to play or buy (cheaper than the RRP). 99% of the titles on their website I haven’t even heard of. There’s a £3.50 cover charge to pay on arrival, before you even order any food (which doesn’t scream good value, especially when a sandwich will set you back £4). It’s not the place to go for a couple of hours to curl up in the quiet and read a book. That said, you are encouraged to ‘STAY AND PLAY AS MANY GAMES AS YOU LIKE, FOR AS LONG AS YOU LIKE!’; I suppose if you have an entire day free to devote to this then it starts to look more appealing, especially as it’s open until midnight. If you plan on playing Monopoly then you’ll probably need that long.

Having such a panoply of easily accessible and ready to use board games also means you don’t have to agonise over what to fill the last space in the car with when you come up for term; because, let’s face it, your 101 Encyclopedia of Games boxset is always going to lose out in any episode of ‘Do You Think We Can Fit Anything Else In?’. Their website claims it’s a good place to just turn up and find other game fans to play with. If you can’t agree on which game to choose or even what to order don’t panic. Within the café there are ‘Game Gurus’ who will ‘help find the right game for you’: who knew board games were so personality-specific? You can even roll Thirsty Meeples Menu Cubes – dice designed to choose your food and drink for you.

Thirsty Meeples claims to be Oxford’s first and only board game café and I wouldn’t bet against them being correct. What remains to be seen is if there is a proliferation of other establishments offering something else other than merely coffee and a cupcake in other cities. One thing’s for sure, it’s more interesting than the Coffee Giants drudgery you get on Cornmarket, where the most you can hope for is a free phone app while you wait half an hour for your drink.

If you’ve not ventured past the Cowley Road Tesco’s you won’t have come across Red Star. Even if you have, you might not have noticed the innocuous front. On my first visit I ordered “what they’re having over there”; as much a testament to the hugely varied and appealing menu as well as my inevitable panic when perusing it. It turned out to be a chilli beef ramen, and I couldn’t help but compare it to similar offerings around town. Wagamama immediately sprang to mind. I’ve always had it in for the place (much to the chagrin of devotees of the chain) ever since they put chicken into my takeaway ramen rather than the prawns for which I’d paid. Now I’ve found a far better and cheaper replacement, and haven’t looked back since. Many visits later there’s still plenty of the menu I’ve got left to try, even if their ‘Specials Board’ seemingly hasn’t changed for the last two years.

Miscellaneous plates and bowls that look like they’re from a charity shop came full to the brim. Rather than needing to fish through lukewarm broth, my ramen (like everything else) was stuffed with flavour and full of fresh vegetables and beef (I hope). It’s as close as you’ll get to the street food in South East Asia those who gap year-ed there won’t shut up about. There are plenty of safe opportunities to dip your toe (or chopsticks) into the waters of Asian cooking if you’re feeling a tad conservative. The downright reckless amongst you can try a “dish for the bold and the brave to battle with” – a super spicy noodle soup. Those successful get a Polaroid on the Wall of Fame, complete with the inevitable streaming eyes and sweaty brow. My veggie friend was spoilt for choice, with far more enticing options than in most Western restaurants which seem to rotate their menu around the same four or five uninspiring choices (feta and pea risotto anyone?).

You’d struggle to spend over a tenner here, even with a Tsingtao or Singha beer as the main courses hover around £5.50. Food comes when it’s ready, even if it leaves the rest of your party jealously looking on. I’d rather that than have it sitting under a hot plate slowly congealing and overcooking. I’ve tried to make several of the dishes myself, pad thai, tom yam soup and the like but the price of obscure ingredients in the supermarket (and a considerable lack of expertise) means it’s far quicker and tastier to go here; they even do takeaways. If you’re a Cowley dweller or a fan of Asian food, if you haven’t already, you should pay a visit to Red Star.

Our waiter was ostensibly French, and, as is their custom, welcomed us in his native tongue. From then on the proceedings had a distinctly francophone tinge, most of which was lost on me. Perhaps my dining partner, very much an English rose, but three months into a year abroad, had begun to emanate a distinctly continental vibe. I had panicked that I was dressed unsuitably for the occasion, as is my custom, as this seemed, to all intents and purposes, a ‘very nice restaurant’. I’d booked nearly a week in advance, and even then go the feeling we were very lucky to have got in at a semi-sensible time. This fear was quickly allayed. The atmosphere was laid back, warm and vibrant; the lay out was cleverly done so couples could be coupley (and not make everyone else feel ill) and those out with friends could get through a bottle of vino in relative space.

Aware of my incapacity to multi-task whilst eating out, for instance to both converse and read the menu at the same time, I thought I’d look at the menu online so I could be both engaging and able to make a well-informed decision at the restaurant. This menu proved not to be the one placed in front of me on the night, and so my plan was foiled. My company’s decision was basically made for her, the French being renowned for their unsympathetic attitude towards vegetarians. Her choices for the three courses ended up being cheese soufflé, cheese crépe and the cheese board. The dessert choices were not as limited, but I felt this was an excellent choice.

I opted for prawns and scallops to start, and roast duck on a spring onion and potato rosti to follow. I mused that the seafood might be few and their flavour lacking, but was happily wrong. The king prawns were fresh and cooked perfectly (unlike those that gave me food poisoning just a few days later, but ‘I fought the prawn, and the prawn won’ is another story for another time). The scallops, although almost certainly not hand-dived bay scallops (how dare they?), were tasty nonetheless. A mollusc fan might have been disappointed that they were served without the roe, but I was unperturbed. The main course was a mistake. This was not because there was anything wrong with the duck per se; indeed it was crispy on the outside and pink on the inside and a generous portion. I just don’t like rostis. This personal issue would never arisen had I not inevitably panicked in my decision-making, when confronted with so many appealing options. There was also a distinct lack of greenery on the table; the majority of it was part of the table decoration. Alas, we had neglected to order side dishes due to being deep in discussion about the intrinsic (or otherwise) value of art. Tant pis.

Given the quality of the food, and the choice for all but the herbivores, the prix fixe menu is great value at £22. Available every day (except Saturday) you can have most things off their regular menu. Inevitably, though, one forgets about the heftier price tag attached to good quality alcohol. Having emptied our pockets, finding only euros, cigarettes and ironic polaroids we were forced to do a runner. Perfect for a special occasion, sufficiently away from the main drag and one to go to with your parents to at every opportunity.

This festive season left my vagina as dry and unseasoned as Gran’s turkey breast. In lieu of titillating new chronicles, I hope the reader might be satisfied with a cock of Christmas past. Apologies for the antiquity of the anecdote, although on second thought it couldn’t be more appropriate. Were Freud living he’d be sending me boxes of mini-muffins each December; I personify his theories like no other I know. Sex-obsessed? Could rival Hugh Hefner’s libido, notta problem. Penis envy? My heart weeps for a meaty flute to call my own. Electra complex? Ah. Here’s the big ’un. The desire to partake in coitus with Pa. Don’t look so dismayed, reader. I stress now that dear old Dad was never on the scene, and my interest is not literal. Many a girl enjoys a more mature fella. My second ever sexual encounter, I was thrilled to report to my classmates, was with the Silver Fox. I was thrilled because he had been long-coveted; the experience in itself was, sadly, rather less satisfying.

He was certainly a well-practised pair of hands. Eight out of ten for technique. Stamina, on the other hand, was a different matter: several minutes in I was relishing yet another novel position afforded to us by the powers of middleaged sexual experience. Climax, however, was snatched away from us in a loud ‘Crack!’; panicking, I swung round to find my Silver Fox writhing in an uncomfortably geriatric injury. His back, he explained ashamedly through pained gasps, “was not what it used to be”. I looked forward to some friendly pillow-talk. A veteran of youth, Silver Fox would have stories to tell and wisdom to impart. Not so. Foolishly, I had not counted on the utter dearth of mutual interests that accompanies a generational gap. A turn around the cabbage
patch is not my idea of fun. As I feigned a polite interest in garden trowels, I mourned the demise of my glamorous fantasy. My beloved Granddad had an enthusiasm for growing his own greens. The comparison was unwelcome.