Near the beginning of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the protagonist, Arthur Dent, has just been told his best friend is an alien and that both his house and his planet are about to be destroyed to make way for bypasses. ‘This must be a Thursday,’ he muses. ‘I never could get the hang of Thursdays.’ Like almost all of Douglas Adams’ masterpiece, the sentiment is spot-on. All he got wrong is the day. It’s not Thursdays that are the problem, it’s Tuesdays. On this particular Tuesday, in offices on opposite sides of Chester, fate was dealing my wife and me very different but equally unplayable hands. In my office, time sped by so fast you could barely see the second hand on the clock. Five o’clock and its deadlines drew nearer at an incredible rate and the metaphorical mountain of work in front of me showed no sign of metaphorically eroding. Little things kept going wrong and the most routine of tasks – such as choosing which mouse button to press, for example – were infused with so much drama that Channel 4 could have turned the day into an acclaimed three-part mini-series. I ate my lunch at 10.30am out of exhaustion. In Erica’s office, on the other hand, time was crawling along, dawdling and dragging its feet. They had IT problems, you see. IT problems fall into two categories: Those which look catastrophic but can be solved by turning your machine off and on again; and those which look innocuous but require an entire company to grind to a halt for hours on end. Erica’s problems fell into the latter category and she was left to mope around like Marvin the Paranoid Android, wishing she’d chosen to start her maternity leave a few weeks earlier so she could at least be watching Jeremy Kyle. She ate her lunch at 10.30am out of boredom. The last thing we wanted after such a day was to bother with washing pots, chopping veg and the like. We wanted to be waited on hand and foot, to be fed and cleaned up after and called ‘sir’ and ‘madam’. But we didn’t want anyone to challenge our tastebuds or our perception of food. We wanted quality but we wanted simplicity. We wanted Italian. So, as the laws of physics intervened and forced time to find some kind of happy medium, we made our way down Lower Bridge Street to the three-star Hotel Roma. First impressions were of an unspectacular but charming independent hotel. The Italian theme was obvious throughout – I noted in particular a print on the wall of Zinedine Zidane’s infamous headbutt in last year’s World Cup final. The same woman who greeted us at reception and showed us through to the bar then handed us our menus, which were printed in mock-newspaper style. She was a real jack of all trades – receptionist, maitre d’, waitress, probably sous chef and dishwasher as well. In a refreshing departure from the norm, the menu was exactly the same as the version available online. There are few things more infuriating than to be licking your lips all the way to a restaurant in anticipation of a particular dish, only to be cruelly denied when you get there. Surely places don’t change their menus that often – it can’t be too difficult to keep things up to date. So full marks to La Fontana in that respect. And the choice, for carnivores at least, was vast. Alongside a generous selection of starters, the main courses are split into meat dishes, pasta dishes, chicken dishes, pizzas and grilled dishes, with at least eight choices in each. In comparison, a vegetarian selection of four starters and six mains (one of which included anchovies) looked a bit mean but Erica seemed happy enough – it’s more than a lot of places offer. Eventually, we decided and were led through to the restaurant. Our first impressions vanished – behind its slightly ramshackle front end, La Fontana is a delightful place to spend an evening. The centrepiece of the restaurant area is, as its name suggests, a large fountain, complete with fish. We were impressed. For starters, I was originally torn between the lobster bisque and the antipasto misto, a selection of Italian meats served with asparagus. I went for the former because I didn’t want to stuff myself with meat – the bisque turned out to be creamy, herby and flavoursome. It came with a bread roll that was just moist enough to get away with being served without butter. Erica’s starter was a huge mound of asparagus, smothered in a delicious creamy garlic sauce and served alongside a slightly limp salad. The asparagus, as it often is, was a touch overcooked and chewy, especially away from the tips – but there was just enough sauce to carry the dish. At times, I wish I were pregnant. Sure, it’s nine whole months of growing discomfort and nausea culminating in the most painful experience of your life – but it gives you a seat on the bus and an excuse for anything. In this case, the waiter’s hurt expression when he saw Erica’s discarded asparagus turned to relief when she gestured at her bump. As soon as the main courses arrived, she knew she’d have more explaining to do. Her spaghetti all’Aglio was a mountain of pasta that could have fed an army. It looked like hard work from my side of the table – it appeared bland and lacking in variety – but Erica had no complaints. She was delighted with the complementary flavours of garlic, parsley and parmesan and made an impressive dent before calling it quits. Seafood is apparently La Fontana’s speciality but none of the dishes grabbed me. Instead, I feasted on a tender fillet steak, medium-rare, served in a pool of thick stilton and peppercorn sauce which was strong without being overpowering. It went down a treat, beautifully accompanied by an imaginative dish of vegetables. I was a particular fan of the sweet roasted carrots and the thin-sliced potatoes shrouded in melted cheese. Stuffed and satisfied as we were, we still craved more comfort food, this time of the sweet variety. After all, ‘desserts’ is the reverse of ‘stressed’. Comfort arrived in the form of an ice cream/fruit/chocolate sauce combination for me (recommended by our multi-tasking waitress) and some profiteroles for Erica. While my ice cream was no better than one expects from an Italian restaurant, the crystallised fruit was tasty and tangy and the warm chocolate sauce had a delicious brandy kick to it. Erica’s profiteroles were full of cream, drenched in creamy chocolate and covered with pouring cream. It’s a good job she likes cream. So in the end, we’d got what we wanted – we left the Hotel Roma with tummies full of good food and heads refreshingly empty of office stress. The bill came in at less than £50 – perfectly reasonable, considering I’d had steak. La Fontana isn’t going to set the world of haute cuisine alight but if you want uncomplicated, flavoursome food, served with a smile in attractive surroundings, you could do a lot worse. It may not be the Restaurant at the End of the Universe but it was a welcome treat at the end of a Tuesday. FACTFILE La Fontana, Hotel Roma, 51 Lower Bridge Street, Chester 01244 320841 Prices: Three courses for two non-drinkers came in at £47.80 Best thing: The friendly service and the veg accompanying the main course. Worst thing: Asparagus should NOT be chewy. It nearly always is, but it shouldn’t be. Would suit: Those who like to browse the menu before leaving the house. Wouldn’t suit: Anyone who struggles to choose – the menu is vast. | 
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