NIGHT OF THE FISH

“Grilled scallops with curried cauliflower puree, Bury black pudding croquettes, golden raisin & granny smith apple dressing…”

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, when the menu popped into my email inbox, to go to the local gastropub’s latest “Taster Evening” where you get six courses served up for twenty five quid.

They’re not “full size” courses, of course, but they don’t skimp on them, either, and it’s a really good way of getting to try things off the menu that you otherwise wouldn’t normally try out when you fall back on your usual “safe” menu choices. After all, if you’re “going out”, the last thing you want to happen is that you pick something disappointing to eat and then have to pay through the nose for it, especially when you’ve just watched someone else eat and enjoy the thing that you really wanted all along.

“Whitby crab & parsley risotto, salt & vinegar cockles…”

When the evening itself came along I was, unfortunately, absolutely shattered from the working week and, because I had happened to wake up at 4.00 AM (again), this meant that by the time it got around to being the moment that we had to leave to get there for the 7.15 start, I would already have been awake for about fifteen hours, and up and about for more than fourteen.

Given that I’d also reduced my food intake in anticipation of “leaving room” for a “big meal” in the evening, and that the entire day had been long, hot, muggy and very, very sticky, I was already feeling more than a tad woozy as the hour of departure approached, especially as that particular combination of weather issues had also induced a weariness and fatigue that meant that just lying down and having a bit of a nap seemed to be the perfect option for a Friday evening’s entertainments…

“Grilled fillet of Cornish mackerel dill potato salad, cos lettuce, cherry tomatoes, garlic croutons, French beans & honey & and whole grain mustard dressing…”

I’m never very good at this going out mularkey anyway. The nervousness that builds up in anticipation tends to manifest itself in a stomach-churning fear that does little for the appetite, and when the beloved also voiced the suggestion that she didn’t really want to go either, well, it rather looked as if all of our plans were once again going to unravel at the last moment and our wobbly reputation for actually turning up for things was about to get yet another dent.

Perhaps if we hadn’t already paid the deposit, we might very well have given it up as a bad job right there, leapt into the casual trousers and spent the evening ignoring the Olympics. But, having already parted with cold hard cash, we stirred ourselves into action, put on our best “smart casuals” and headed for the door.

“Grilled fillet of salmon, new potatoes, asparagus, peas, broccoli & hollandaise sauce…”

Then, just as we were on the very brink of leaving, the telephone rang… You know, the proper one, the one attached to the wall. At this point, for dramatic, narrative and mildly comic reasons I was going to write “We ignored it and went out anyway…” but that’s not what happened.

I tried to ignore it, I really did, but the wisdom of the beloved prevailed and I sauntered up to it and pressed those very special numbers that tell you which number it was that called. It had been my mother, which is seldom a good thing when it comes unexpectedly out of the blue like that. I dialled the other special numbers that access the messages but she hadn’t left one so I was able to assume that she had mis-dialled, that there wasn’t an emergency currently unfolding, and then we went out anyway.

“Lemon posset with crushed raspberries…”

Despite running late, and my diversion to the supermarket to see if they had a copy of my “missing” subscription magazine, we still ended up getting there early and taking our seats for one of those rare evenings when we are face-to-face and don’t have to share each other with the rest of the world and its distractions, which was, of course, lovely, and reminded us of those precious times when we’re on holiday and the rest of the world can’t butt in on the essential “us-ness” of simply being us.

It’s peculiar, really, that, in writing down my thoughts to share them with (potentially at least) the rest of the world, sometimes I can forget to share those thoughts with those closest to me, and they can get the feeling that, despite reassurances to the contrary, the “best” of me is being directed elsewhere... (You can tell that the beloved doesn’t read this stuff, can’t you…?).

So that which I see as “therapy” and “getting stuff off my chest” and “not wanting to bother anyone with my nonsense” can actually be perceived as something completely different and potentially divisive. You see the advantages that sitting down and actually talking to someone has over rattling out drivvle and nonsense over a keyboard during the wee small hours when the house still slumbers…?

“Warm chocolate tart, macerated strawberries & vanilla mascarpone…”

Oh, the food was superb, by the way, and we had a great evening too, arriving home under a clear night when the stars shone as clear as crystal. Marvellous...!