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Friday, 6 January 2017

Fork Handles

I am spending an increasing amount of time these days talking at cross purposes with people.Simple everyday conversations are becoming daily more protracted and complicated beyond belief.
I think I'm displaying the symptoms of early onset dementia.
The truth is unless you enjoy talking to people or more importantly eavesdropping their conversations you wouldn't last five minutes in this job never mind the length of time I have.
Lately, we've attracted a couple of regulars who I'd put in the category of high maintenance punters.Don't get me wrong, they're dead canny but not the sort who come in the 'smile-order and pay up happy' category.These two practically want to know your whole life story including what you ate for breakfast yesterday and the colour and style of your knickers if you were willing to share the information
And they've been coming in far too often.
There's a fine balance between being a well loved regular or an annoyingly needy sort that's right up in your grill every time you open the flaming door. It worries me when people start coming in too often cos the chances are they're going to sicken themselves, then they're frightened to come back in case you ask them where they've been.Its a no win situation.I've seen it happen many times,couple come in every day then all of a sudden nothing, then you happen to see them in the supermarket and they avoid you like the plague because they're embarrassed they haven't been,
Anyway this particular couple came in for dinner for the third time in as many days and i'd spent as much time chatting as I could without neglecting the rest of the diners.I could see they'd finished their meal as I collected a rather large drinks order from the bar when I noticed him making a bee line for me.
He was beaming at me joyously and waving.
I was wondering what he could want now and hoping he would make it snappy so I could get the drinks delivered to the rather pleasingly thirsty table of six who had already demolished 15 gin and tonics, 2 bottles of red, a bottle of rose and now delightfully overriding us by ordering a bottle of Sancerre despite being recommended the rather cheaper Picpoul to go with the fish.
He just caught me as I was about to pick up the tray.
'Do you serve Grouse?'
Oh great,he was fancying an after dinner digestive,drinks sales doing pretty darn well this evening.
'Oh yes we do-we also have Bells and a nice selection of single malts if you'd like to have a look'
He looked a bit confused but continued to smile and nod.
 I wasn't sure he'd understood my rather strong Geordie.
He repeated himself.
I repeated myself.
He continued to stare at me then amazingly began to flap his arms repeating at intervals 'grouse'.
He was putting me in mind of Big Bird and I could feel myself starting to giggle as the penny dropped.The people on table 5 had noticed what was going on and I could see them winking at me over the poor bloke's shoulder.
As I told chef later It was an easy mistake to make.
How was I supposed to know he was enquiring as to the availability of a particularly popular and expensive game bird and not a run of the mill Scotch?
Got any Grouse?

Once we'd straightened out the confusion and I'd explained that there'd been none available from the local shoot but we expected some over of the next couple of weeks he seemed content but I subsequently fielded daily calls from him asking for updates on the grouse status..You just know a situation like this is going to end in tears as anticipation and high expectations are a sure fire route to disappointment and devastation Tripadvisor assassination.

In other news,I'm still persevering with The Snail,he's actually quite a canny lad once he cranks up his conversation, the first line of which is always 'errrrrrrrrr' and he does actually say the right things to the customers.
Albeit at a very slow speed.
It's really important to able to crank up a gear when the going gets tough but over the years I've come across numerous people who don't have this ability.Chef calls them plodders. Plodding along at an average speed is one thing but when your average speed is just above stationary tempers inevitably  fray when things hot up...Ive tried trotting along behind him so he can hear I'm there in the hope that it makes him have some sense of urgency but mostly it's only resulted in me adding to my already grand bruise collection.
Anyway, I decided to give him a little confidence boost and let him do the bar as it was a midweek night, with the precursor that he must speed up and get the drinks out quickly,ideally before the ice in them melted.He was managing ok,I could see him taking a card payment over the bar out of the corner of my eye as I filled up a couple of water glasses when I heard the following:
'errrrrrrrrrr...I'm afraid you're card's not working'
I glanced over the bar,the bloke looked stony faced,I didn't recognise him, definitely not a regular.
Obviously from time to time cards are declined,usually the customer looks a bit shifty then produces another one-job sorted.
The Snail looked down at the PDQ machine as if willing the receipt to miraculously appear.
The bloke stared at the Snail then said in unfaltering but Fawlty like tone:
'It's not working because its fallen out of the machine.'
Reader, the card was lying on the floor at the Snails rather large size tens...
Things hotted up at this point so I thought Id better get him off the bar where I could keep an eye on him.
There was quite a bit of food going out so he was helping as best he could.
On my third visit to the kitchen to collect the table of six's main courses I was informed rather curtly that chef had narrowly averted disaster having prevented The Snail from delivering an unbruleed creme brûlée masquerading as a pot of aioli to a punter at the bar to go with his chips.
There's always a leader on large tables,someone that thinks they know far more than anyone else and isn't afraid to say so.A particular gentlemen on the six was pontificating to the rest of the party about how our Rib of beef sales over the years(on display) were a metaphor for the state of the economy and how the the stock market mini crash during 2014 was mirrored exactly by the lower sales during that particular year.
I had to force myself not to tell him sales were down because we'd taken it off the menu for a couple of months because beef prices were too high and Chef was getting tetchy about his GP.
As Chef said later over a well earned brew:
 'people don't half talk a crock of shite'
In other news we've employed a new Kitchen porter.Regular readers will know that our kitchen porters over the years have proved a rich source of material for this blog and reader believe me this one is no different.He's worked in kitchens for most of his life yet cannot identify many common herbs.For someone who's been in the business for so long he is also gloriously inept at washing dishes.
But reader, what he lacks in dishwashing skill he more than makes up for in pure comedy value.
He is basically just a very funny bloke .
What he doesn't know in music trivia is nobody's business and listening in as the kitchen do to our local radio station over lunch service and there being a particular programme where you can text in and guess the year of the tunes that day, our KP's unrivalled and all encompassing knowledge of all things pop was getting us quite a few mentions which we were enjoying no end.
However ,after a few days it was getting a bit boring hearing 'the kitchen staff at the Inn' so things kind of escalated in a rather amusing way.
Pop Master started texting in correct answers from rather questionable sounding businesses which I kid you not had me crying.
Amongst others imagine getting this read out over the air:
'Hoof 'n horn blacksmiths' with the announcers comment 'it must be hot down there today'
'Beaver Liquors Artisanal spirit suppliers'
I kid you not.
Chef says its only a question of time before he gets arrested..

Wednesday, 17 August 2016


You would not believe some of the stuff that I have to deal with via email on a daily basis.
It was a bloody frangipane tart..
Also any suggestions as to how to break it to her that it was elderflower not elderberry ice cream??

 WE had a wonderful Meal while vacationing in the area 
unfortunately we had not discovered you when we rented the Apple tree cottage two years ago.. eve so we had ventured down some of the narrow lane  in that area.

we enjoyed every moment and every bite. unfortunately we left the day after and could not come back to taste more.
there were four of us...
 one originally from Wallsend,one from Munich, Germany and two from St Louis MO.USA ..but now all living in  the USA.
we wanted to taste everything as your menu is so wonderful and imaginative .. to be topped off with the most wonderful tastes... 
When it came to the dessert  it was even more so enticing to try everything,but there was limited room in our  tummy's. 
So we opted for the gooseberry/almond "tart" with gooseberries on the side and Elderberry ice cream... all of our favorite tastes incorporated in one.

Unfortunately Gooseberries are a rare find where all of us live- but two of us can find it once a year for ca 2 weeks at the farmers market in New York city...
ELderberry. in drinks, jams and other ways to be had are impossible to find in the USA.
but one of  my most favorite tastes of my childhood.

( I grew up in Munich and it was a staple in the summer, with blossoms used to make "lemonade" or dipped in pancake batter as dessert of on a friday as a meatless dish.
or the black berries later ,mixed with apple pieces,, in jars to be used over the winter month,as a compote over rice pudding.. etc( we had no ice cream in the  winter month then....)
great memories  to indulge when found, now even rare in the UK....

BUT what a delight to  see all these component in one glorious  dessert...we shared  one
as this was all we had room for.....we should have taken some with us ,including all the other fabulous have  for breakfast. ? last meal in the UK.
but we didnt..
what we all still do , is talk about the unbelievable tastes we had and also missed, even so we ALL had selected different items on your menu...
aside from the menu we loved the space, and very much appreciated the great service of your staff.

is  there any way to ask for the recipe of the Gooseberry /almond tart .
unfortunately the Elderberry ice cream has to wait until one day we return to your Inn for more adventures for our  taste buds.

if  you would share the recipe we would all be in 7th heaven...
if we are lucky: please send recipe to my e-mail: we can re-live the experience and also share it with our  friend here in NYC and in  St louis Mo. USA

thank you

Thursday, 7 July 2016

Run Forrest, run!

We're sick of talking about the results of the referendum and the potential craziness and long term implications this could unleash on the pub trade.I was actually caught on the hop with the result having chatted to everyone that came into the pub the day before and having only come across ONE Brexiteer.I'm not sure what that says if anything about the types of people we have frequenting here but it had the effect of lulling me into a false sense of security, but thankfully we did make to to the polling station finally at 9.50 to cast our vote.THANK GOD for that otherwise I would have been blaming people like us who didn't bother for next mornings calamitous result.
Lunchtime on result day was pleasingly busy which took my mind off things for a while.I briefly wondered if people were out to drown their sorrows or just having a last minute splurge whilst the going was still good.
The thought that people might actually be out celebrating never even entered my head.
I was further distracted by a new starter who happened to be working that lunchtime and who is proving mmmm..  a bit challenging to say the least.If there's one key quality you need in hospitality its speed and the ability to be able to crank up a gear when things hot up.This particular individual is bit SLOW....In fact if he was any slower he'd be starting work last week.The usually tolerant  (!) kitchen chaps are becoming increasingly impatient ,with Chef pointing out politely ('he needs a boot up the arse') that if he didn't get a move on the food would be cold by the time he got it out to the table.It's difficult enough to find staff these days(God knows what's gong to happen to the hospitality industry once the drawbridge to good 'ole England is drawn up) so I'm perservering and doing my best to chivvy him on whilst picking up the bulk of the workload when he's in. Friday lunchtime I'd been up and down the kitchen steps like a whore's knickers before spurred on in no small part by the unpleasant and fairly painful chafing on my left inside knickerline(I'm wondering if this is related to joggers nipple-more on that later,or maybe even a distant cuz of the notorious Chefs Ass), I finally cracked and told him he needed a rocket up his backside.
a swift boot up the backside

I blame the parents.
I've watched him wipe down a table and its obvious he has never handled a cleaning cloth before.Or a cloth of any description.He wipes in straight lines with the cloth held in his fingertips,handy on the ass wiping front but no good on a table to be honest...I've demonstrated an efficient wiping action several times but he still hasn't mastered it.Worse than the previous employee who'd reached the grand old age of 21, never having changed a lightbulb before.He asked me to show him.
Which elicited the question:
'What do you do if the light goes out on your bedside table?'
'Mum changes it for me'
How depressing.
If we're to believe the results of the referendum the more senior generation are also to blame for the result.Whilst scrawling their wobbly crosses on the voting card and muttering 'Britain doesn't feel like Britain any more' they've taken us straight back to 1974.
Though this may say more about the turn out in the older generation and the lack of in the younger.
Who knows.
Anyway,I was disappointed in the senior generation for the second time that day when an elderly chap who was intent on waylaying me in small talk when I was desperately trying to get on, became enamoured with the look of his particularly attractive looking pudding and invited me to 'sit on his knee and share it with him'.
I kid you not.
This was a thought beyond horrific and to which I had no response other than a rictus grin to rival his own.
I have no idea who this woman is, but she bears an uncanny resemblance to my own expression.

I have standards y'know.
To add insult to injury it transpired they were celebrating 'Independence Day'.
Thankfully, I was diverted by the sight of The Snail in my peripheral vision loading several water glasses onto a tray in slow motion,by the time Table 5 finally had their water delivered they'd have  thirsts akin to a dying man crawling out of the desert.
I steered well clear of the table after that,having decided that they would benefit far more from The Snail's attention than my own.
Though its fair to say I did glean slight comfort from my regular visits to the coffee machine,sited conveniently directly next to their table and the especially vigorous dispelling of the coffee solids in the knock out drawer, having the effect of them flinching like they'd been shot by a sniper and fumbling to adjust the hearing aids.The fact that they'd reached the advanced age they had without being shot by an actual sniper was indeed a mystery and quite an astonishing achievement.
Just then the next booking arrived,a table of two celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary.I knew this because they'd pointed it out when making the booking.Which is always a bit awks as you're not sure what they expect you to do.A quick song and dance,some flowers perhaps? Or just a congratulatory handshake?Anyway the woman was not looking like the last 30 years had been filled with joy so I erred on the side of caution and didn't mention it.
She had a face like a poker.
Are you like me and wondering how someone can have a face like a poker?I actually googled this (thats how sad I am) and  discovered it's actually a reference to someone that's playing poker and not displaying any emotion therefore presumably being a decent player,not in fact someone with a face that resembles a thin iron rod designed to prod a fire.So there you go,you learn something new every day.
You can thank me later.
You'd be surprised how many people turn up for meals looking like they've spent the last 30 years in purgatory.Me? I can't understand why anyone being taken out for a meal wouldn't be happy.
Obviously relative to the choice of dining venue,present company excluded of course, but date night at the local Toby Carvery certainly wouldn't blow my skirt up.
Anyway,after showing them to the table and pointing out the menus there was still no sign of her cracking a smile.
'They've  had a row in the car..' said Sunday Girl,through gritted teeth,without making eye contact.
''s the dress,it looks like something that was picked up off the road after the Meadowwell Riots,and he's told her so..'
We're skilled ventriloquists..
Two minutes later she was up and heading over towards me.
'Do you have a printed menu? I can't read that one'
Still no smile nor even any indication of any facial expression.
Might be Botox,I thought briefly..
This seems to be a constant issue,no not the botox, the menu..why is it such an effort to stand in front of a board for a couple of minutes and read it?Lately we've even had people leave because they can't have a printed sheet of paper in front of them.
Rather than going through the old routine about buying small amounts and therefore the menu changing daily etc I'm now just telling people its more environmentally friendly not to print off sheets of paper.
Which seems to shut most of them up.
Someone told me the other day it wasn't politically correct to call it a blackboard anymore.I wondered what I should call it.
Chef says its a chalkboard.Which it is.But its also black otherwise you wouldn't be able to see the chalk.
Which is also a bone of contention with the recent criticism over the legibility of *someone's* handwriting and the ensuing problems this causes.A few weeks ago we had some lovely langoustines on the menu and having purchased a fair old quantity and with the price tag being fairly robust,and wanting to ensure we shifted the whole lot before the blighters went off and chefs weekly GP flew straight out of the window,we decided to cover all bases and gave a couple of options over the serving style.Keeping in mind the budget we even included an option of how many one could purchase.
That's called being accessible..
Over complicating the choice for the diner is always a dangerous course of action which inevitably results in chaos.Anyway this day a couple were loitering in front of the board for ages making the place look untidy when the woman eventually called me over.
'What does all this mean? what are the numbers???
I could see she was looking at the specials board with the prawns described  in every conceivable variation and quantity known to man.
'Ah that's how many and the price for each quantity,they're really fresh all the way from Skye yesterday'
I beamed encouragingly, pleased at the thought of offloading a few more.
She frowned and continued staring at the board.
'But what has COD got to do with it???'
I glanced up at the board with a glazed expression wondering what the fuck she was looking at,feeling a bit inadequate that maybe I hadn't read the board that particular morning and that someone else had faked my handwriting with an alteration that I didn't know about and looking like a right dick in front of the customer when suddenly realisation dawned.
'Oh no that's not COD its can have them hot or cold...'

Next day the menu read:-


I digress.
Lately I've been suggesting people take a quick photo of the board on their mobile phone then they can sit at leisure at the table and peruse the menu.
Talking of phones I was eavesdropping a particularly amusing conversation today,an elderly lady was telling her family that she'd lost all the contacts off her mobile,the daughter was reassuringly telling her not to worry that she might be able to retrieve them when the mother replied 'no I've thrown it in the bin now.'
You should have seen their faces..
But Mum how will you get in touch with all your friends ??
Oh its ok,I've got their addresses I'm going to write to them all and ask for their numbers.
Yes,the older generation do sometimes struggle to get to grips with the modern world...
Anyway I suggested Poker face took a picture of the blackboard and was surprised by her response.
Two minutes later she was out of her seat again and TAKING A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE BOARD with a device which looked remarkably like a mobile phone...
Jesus Christ.
I approached the table to take the order with a little trepidation but the husband of thirty years was a jovial sort of bloke,friendly even and proceeded to order for both of them whilst she sat with an expressionless face fixed straight ahead.I always find that scenario really weird,when people speak for other people on the table as thought they can't speak for themselves which she clearly could as witnessed earlier..It transpired Poker face was having a celebratory steak.I enquired politely how she'd like it cooked,making a point of looking straight at her but the husband again answered for her.
When I returned with the steak knife,and having narrowly avoided *accidentally* stabbing her in the back as it slipped down the chair,the husband made further conversation:
'The last time I came here I had hare'
I took this as an indication of having enjoyed his previous visit and having returned to enjoy more of the same,maybe a suggestion of slight disappointment that this particular delicacy wasn't available that day.
'Oh I'm really sorry we do occasionally have hare on the menu but its not something that we have very often'
He looked a bit confused,but I continued babbling on about jugged hare, then the game season and all the other lovely delights we have on the menu come autumn.Reader,I was convinced I had him eating out of my hand.
Finally the wife raised her hand.
'He means the last time we came here he had HAIR ON HIS was thirty years ago..'
At this precise moment I had a mental vision of myself bent over head in hands,Basil Fawlty style.
I could just see Sunday Girl in my line of vision practically pissing her pants before bounding down the kitchen steps to spread the word,whilst Poker Face didn't just crack a smile she was practically in hysterics.
You see we do aim to please..

In other news I've taken up running,a term I confess I use in the loosest possible sense, since at my current pace Im referring to it as chugging which is a slightly slower speed than jogging but not as slow as a brisk walk, a bit in the the 'slow and steady wins the day' genre.
Having paid a visit to the Northern runners favourite shop and having done a couple of test runs up and down the legendary corridor out back,I've kitted myself out with a particularly bouncy pair of running shoes designed to delay the inevitable double hip and knee replacements for a couple of years,which is of some comfort to Chef my Day Carer.
To be honest,I haven't run since my school days though it has to be said with some success  having triumphed at the weekly cross country on numerous occasions.To be exact I was assured a win every other week since armed with considerable local knowledge myself and a friend would sprint off at the start then once out of sight take a short cut through the local Dene,enjoy a leisurely morning stroll through the trees before emerging ahead of the pack and sprinting through to the finish,having barely worked up a sweat.
Why did I not win every week I hear you ask?
Well Reader,give me credit..I have at least some semblance of fair play and good sportsmanship..
We took turns each at the winning position.
The whole episode did however end rather badly with the sorry debacle at the County Cross Country championships when the pair of us were unfortunately stricken with an unexplained and highly debilitating bug and unable to compete.
Which was a huge disappointment to all concerned.
It's fair to say I'm becoming a bit obsessive with regard to this new found activity,which actually has more to do with the fear of being picked up by the GNR sweeper bus (read that link,I'm having nightmares about being certified a pedestrian)than a desire to break any records.
'You need to concentrate on endurance Mum,not speed'
Good advice I thought whilst fleetingly wondering if I could pick up some tips from The Snail in this this respect.
In truth,I also need to shift a few pounds,having googled tips on achieving ones running goals the main being 'get lean'.But I'm currently carrying at least three extra bags (ok four) of sugar around on my back which has to slow you down a bit.
But the more I think about it the more chocolate I seem to consume.
It doesn't help that Sunday Girl who doesn't just work Sundays but actually works most days now keeps telling me I deserve it..
Every day..
Chef keeps eyeing me suspiciously,with the following conversation played out daily.
Then finally following this week's particularly stressful turn of events:
'You're not going to do a Forrest Gump on me are you?'
Now there's a thought.
My role model

Monday, 28 March 2016


I'd kind of decided to bury the blogging hatchet partly because it seemed I was going over the same old ground all the time and secondly because certain regular players in this farce had suffered a dreadful personal tragedy which made me feel uncharacteristically guilty that I'd plastered their reputations all over the interweb for the entertainment and delectation of mortal strangers unbeknownst to themselves.
The unexpected upshot of this unfortunate turn of events was a disconcerting mellowing of the players in question to the point where I (oh fool that I am) even considered deleting the incriminating posts.The general consensus was that fate had dealt them such a blow that their petty complaints had been mightily knocked into the outer reaches of the atmosphere of insignificance.As witnessed by the penultimate visit when one of the pair of them found a foreign object in their cheese sarnie which looked like a flaming shard of beef bone from the stock pot.Under normal circumstances this would have been an incident equal to the profundity and enormity of Paradise Lost.With our new found mutual love and affection I naturally knocked the price of the sarnie from the bill and was grovelling profusely almost to the point of embarrassment,but no, she insisted on paying 'really its no problem at all' whilst beaming an almost heavenly countenance of serenity.
How the fuck a piece of beef bone can get into a cheese(sliced not grated-they haven't changed THAT much)is anyones guess.Foreign objects in food isn't what I'd call a regular occurrence,but in a busy kitchen(or even a quiet one-lets not be prejudice) on the odd occasion something CAN and will slip through the net.And as luck will have it,its ALWAYS in the meals of the people for whom its going to be a major and deal breaking catastrophe.Over the years Ive seen all sorts of things turn up on peoples plates,from food wrap to once, (cough) a slug: 'its ok madam its organic..' -a gratis bottle of pinot sorted that one out,(to be honest there's not that much that a gratis bottle of cheap plonk won't sort out),to the dreaded HAIR.
A hair in the food is the behemoth of foreign objects in peoples dinners.
Especially if its a CURLY one.
God help you if that ever happens.
The only way around this problem is to employ hirsutely challenged chefs which up until very lately was a directive which coincidentally we'd managed for the most part to achieve. 'oh no madam,that can't be from our kitchen.. our chefs are all bald'..
Do not,I repeat DO NOT underestimate the value of a bald chef.He is invaluable for bringing out front for display purposes to apologise for the rogue hair in your dinner in his fully polished glory.Its a sure fire way to take the wind out of the sails of even the most antagonistic of complainers.
I would even go so far as to suggest that if you don't have a bald chef you might be well advised to recruit one, or at least encourage an existing one to shave their head,just for emergencies.
I digress,this bit of bone was VICIOUS looking and big enough that I could still detect a bit of none marrow in the centre, and could have done untold damage had it lodged into the tonsils of the unfortunate recipient so I was breathing a HUGE sigh of relief that she hadn't kicked up a massive stink.
The ensuing kitchen investigation failed to establish how such an item could have made its way into the sarnie and ultimately resulted in the conclusion that 'it must have come out of the bread'.How a beef bone would be in a loaf of bread is also a mystery but in the absence of further evidence it's always a good call to deflect any blame.There is of course also the issue of foreign objects being planted in meals by the diners themselves which believe it or not does actually happen on the odd occasion.Though in this instance it being of no benefit to the consumer (she refused the freebie) it was deemed not to be the case.

Due to the above we were all becoming comfortably complacent about Saturday mornings and no longer anticipated the entrance of these two individuals with dread,in short the sight of them no longer sucked the very life force from us.
In fact we were beginning to think we quite liked them..

However,I now pronounce this golden age of mutual love and affection as OFFICIALLY over..last Saturday they were back on form and firing full throttle on all cylinders..

They'd had a short break 'a la mer du sud' which had obviously revived their spirits no end.Seated as usual on the small bar tables(round not square-duly noted on the order in case chef fell at the first hurdle and served the stuff on a square plate) and had brought along a couple of photo albums of their holibobs to show the other VERY nice Saturday morning regulars.
I must say I was strangely drawn to the photo albums(does anyone else still do these?)and wondering how they fared in a foreign land where everything is ..foreign...
Anyway,they ordered a crab bisque and a veggie sarnie which was a bit of a surprise and not their usual type of choice which I put down to their recent exotic foray.But hey, at least they'd upgraded from the usual sliced not grated cheese.
When the food arrived and with space on the table being at a premium due in no small part to the very hefty photo albums on display it was a bit tricky disembarking the various assorted plates carrying both soups and bread etc.I flinched as I walked away having managed with great difficulty to squeeze everything on to the table as I overheard them laughing sarcastically and make some not very funny quip about the tables being far too small for the type of food we were serving.
A bit later I noticed one of them get up and pile three logs on the fire.
This really gets my goat.
I have a well known one log rule.
There is nothing as attractive as an open fire especially to someone who doesn't have one of their own at home.They especially like to poke it and feed it relentlessly whilst I watch my hard earned cash blazing ferociously up the chimney.
These people are usually the sorts that order a lime and soda and sit with it for an hour.
To add insult too injury he then started off on one of his most favourite rants about how our fire 'doesn't throw off any heat' and how his fire at home is far superior due in no small part to the fact that he throws fucking trees on it every five minutes no doubt.
Which brings me to the  thing that gets me the most.. the ones who throw three logs on the fire then immediately exit the front door.
Presently I heard my name called.
'Biff,come and have a look at this'
I must have been wrong.. things were ok...they were wanting to engage with me over their holiday snaps.I headed over feigning interest.
The album was open at a page showing them seated at an alfresco table by the sea.The usual straw parasol overhead.I would go so far as to say they looked happy on the photo.
I smiled.
'Look at that bowl Biff,thats what you call a bowl of soup' *sarcastic laughter*
The 'bowl' of soup was a huge tureen more akin to a cauldron with a ladle in it.The pot was big enough to feed a family of five Billy Bunters who'd been dieting for a week.Next to the cauldron was a lone bowl..with Mr sat next to it beaming at the camera, a swarthy looking waiter only just in the frame, also beaming.
'That was for one Biff..ONE!!,thats what you call a bowl of soup..'
I squinted at the photo and wondered if the oversized bowl was merely an optical illusion,much like the massive jazz hands photos you often end up with when you take them on a mobile phone.
'Was it bouillabaisse ?' I asked with half interest.
This was met with an awkward silence and some rapid side to side eye movement..
Followed by:
'It was a fish soup'
I smirked.
It appeared that in addition to little grasp of the French language they also had very limited culinary knowledge..
There was no way that bloody pot was meant for one,no wonder the bloody waiter was grinning from ear to ear.
As I walked away,I admit, feeling ever so slightly smug about whole exchange, and comforted in the knowledge that  the landlord/customer balance of one upmanship was again weighted most definitely in the favour of the former.
Just as I was almost out of earshot I overheard the very nice Saturday morning regulars enquire how the Crab bisque was.
'Oh it was was nothing special..'
Nothing special crab bisque


PS.I have enough material to keep me going for the foreseeable future ...


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