THE windows are steamed up, the specs so swiftly and so similarly affected that it is possible - condensed wisdom - to understand how firemen win the silver axe.

In the middle of the floor in the serving area there's one of those free standing signs warning that the surface is slippery. Another, urging "Beware of sign", would be yet more beneficial.

Though some of the waiters have understandably limited English they have all learned the three little words which are the way to a North-East lad's heart: "Just help yourself."

There's a new Chinese buffet in Darlington, the very antithesis of Oliver.

Swanky restaurant critics don't go to Chinese buffets, places of mass consumption favoured (it's argued) by the needy and the greedy. This one does.

Formerly the Central Park, the Soho is in Northgate, home to so many eating places that it's probably possible to dine out every night for a month and not cross the same threshold twice. Since it opened two or three weeks ago it's been the talk of the town, opinion broadly (though by no means universally) enthusiastic.

Darlington once had a place called the Talk of the Town. It expired quietly.

We arrived on the stroke of nine, after what may safely be termed an unusually long day. There being no draught beer, we ordered a Budweiser, which beautiful people drink from the bottle. The waiter brought a glass.

Internally it didn't seem much different from Central Park, save for two "Twisted Sunshine" signs which hung from the ceiling - heaven knows what all that was about - and the buffet servery between two dining areas.

Usual rules apply: £5 before 5pm, £6 for the following 90 minutes, £8 thereafter, though the Soho had an interesting amendment - half price for those under 4ft tall. Snow White and friends were last seen heading down Northgate.

Shirts hanging out, fists clenched as if ready for action, male customers approach the food aggressively, like fairground sluggers going in against Bruiser Brown and with a purse for those going back for more.

The women are more demure: they don't have their shirts hanging out. Whatever else the contest, it is not a fight to the finesse.

The crockery is plastic, which is probably a contradiction in terms, the tong handles get hot in the way that the regulator on a steam engine used to do.

Engine drivers had cotton wads; the Soho offers the sort of napkin with which a young spuggie might perform its ablutions.

We both began with soup, she with tom yum (or Thumb, or some such) which was rather nice, we with chicken and sweetcorn which tasted exactly the same as every other bowl of chicken and sweetcorn soup since the last days of the Chinese emperors.

The vast array of main courses include English dishes like sausage and chips, labelled lest anything be lost in the translation, and lots of Chinese options, augmented after 5pm.

Much of it was good, perhaps surprisingly good - the chicken in black bean, the Szechuan prawns, the pork in Cantonese sauce, the mushrooms, even the broccoli.

One or two items, notably spring rolls and similar confections, were horrid and the apple fritter was cold and cloying.

We had another beer, paid, and were homeward, well stuffed, at 9.40pm.

More? Old Chinese proverb say: he who want more had best go search for himself.

AMONG last week's more unexpected recommendations was one, by telephone, from Mel Carter in Iran. "They've started doing really good Thai meals at the Grey Horse on Haughton Green, Darlington," he said. More Thai greenery shortly.

DURHAM seems always to have somewhere new. Were Osborne's Irish Caf's eyes smiling when last we strolled about, or Varsity, Reef, Caffe (sic) Nero or even the Internet and Lan Gaming Caf at yon end of Framwelgate Bridge?

Eating Owt readers may possibly know what lan gaming is, but you wouldn't bet on it.

On one of the last sorties through the city, we reported that the bus station had gained a bar called Lacuna Lodge, "lacuna" defined in Chambers Dictionary as a gap, hiatus or "intercellular space."

The promotional slogan "Just say lacuna for that missing element" would therefore be quite neat if anyone, even in the university city, know what on earth they were on about.

The column looked in last week, and quickly realised that we'd not missed anything at all.

Beers are cold and fizzy, atmosphere noisy, food restricted to hot and cold sandwiches. We asked for the advertised bacon and egg; the girl said they couldn't do eggs.

"Why not?"

"Dunno," she said, as if asked as if asked to explain the biology of intercellular lacunae in 20 seconds (in Russian).

We paid £1.50 for a bacon sandwich, a wretched rasher in a penny bun. The music machine blared, the girl across the table talked to herself, which was probably quite sensible.

If this were the missing link, we'd be better outside in the cold, waiting for the 723.

IT'S National Chip Week. We know because Michael Patterson at the Daleside Arms in Croxdale sent dates from a 2003 trade calendar which also include National Lunchbreak Day (April 4), National Hot Dog Day (August 8) and National Sea Food Week (October 3-7).

The world nettle eating championships, on which we reported in passing Dorset last summer, are on June 21.

There have also been several press releases from an edible oil company in an attempt to promote themselves and National Chip Week but it looks, alas, like they've had them.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew why Adam and Eve started wearing clothes.

Because figs aint what they used to be.

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