The restaurant last night was truly amazing.
I have, as I think I told you, been there once before, but the second time around was almost better.
We sat on tall sofa benches around a steel table which had chefs working on the other side of it. They were making all sorts of ordinary food look like works of art.
It was not really ordinary food, it was salmon and sushi and prawns and other interesting things, but by the time they had finished with it it was beautifully coloured and artfully decorated with carefully placed trickles of contrasting sauce. It was not just shoved on a place with some lettuce to make it look good for you, indeed, I was quite sure that at least one dish was served on a stinging nettle leaf. You can eat these perfectly well, and we used to when we were poor. They are good for you and do not sting when they have been steamed.
I was impressed by the chefs. They were not at all like most chefs I have known, in that not a single one of them was bellowing rude words at the kitchen porter, and nobody was whipping anybody else with wet tea towels. They were cheerful and laughing and friendly, and one of them was singing.
Number Two Daughter told them that she was taking us out for our joint birthday dinner, which was true even though it is a bit early, because it is not our birthdays for another few weeks, but one of the chefs wrote Happy Birthday in runny chocolate on a plate, and added some truffles and flowers, which looked so beautiful we didn’t want to eat it, although of course we did.
All the food was magnificent, actually, none of it was in the least ordinary. We had sushi and something made out of potato with some sauce that was so nice we all scraped the plate with our spoons, and then Mrs. Number Two Daughter and I had lamb and Mark had beef, and Number Two Daughter had pork, and all of it was superbly cooked and looked amazing.
Z brought us home in a taxi, and we had the usual taxi driver argument where he did not want us to pay and we left the cash and a tip, and we rolled into the house so full and contented that the Number Two Daughters took the dogs for a quick empty, and we just went straight to bed, where we slept for eleven hours, so full and contented were we all. Then this morning the Number Two Daughters went off to belt around the Lake District on mountain bikes, and we went to get some shopping before the Bank Holiday.
This is quite important because it is entirely possible that by the end of the Bank Holiday there will be nothing left in any of the shops anywhere, especially if we are busy. The weather forecast is for rain, which will be sad for the people on holiday, but very good if you are a farmer or somebody with a garden, or even just a person with a dust-covered taxi that could do with a rinse off. Mine is still suffering from the incontinent birds nesting in the builders’ yard gutter, and some rain would come in very handily indeed.
We refilled the fridge, and then I spent the afternoon cooking, ready for the weekend. I cooked chicken and sausages and burgers, and made an enormous pan of tomato soup. Mark had driven my taxi to the shops, and spent the rest of the afternoon taking it to bits to find out what the irritating rattling might be.
Of course then we came out to work.
It is quiet.
The Bank Holiday starts tomorrow.
I am not looking forward to it.
