Wheres my farking Chorizo??

Lately, its come to my attention that the line between a good and badly run establishment can be very fine indeed.
You see,Pubchef indisputably produces really tasty grub,yet his own business hadn't taken off.This puzzled me somewhat.
Over the course of the last few weeks I've had an inkling of a uncomfortable feeling that I might not be able to take a step back as was my initial intention,once the new business is up and running.Established.
We've introduced a simple menu of pubby type dishes at the New Pub,tasty but not overcomplicated.Decent ingredients,cooked with no undue fuss or unnecessary adornment.
Northumberland sausages with Chorizo and bean stew have been a good seller.Rustic and filling.Good for the farmers.
Last week I noticed that the new batch of stew which Pub chef had just cooked looked a little different.Slightly lighter in colour,a pale orange rather then the deep spicy red achieved when the chorizo releases it spicy oils..I commented. Pub-chef  was indifferent.
Later that night, following a reasonably busy service the final order of the night was checked on.As the sausages were dished up I noticed a different aroma emanating from the steaming bowl,it smelt slightly sweaty,fatty even,not the expected spicy whiff.
I investigated.
Self:Is that streaky bacon in the stew??
Pub Chef:Yes,yes it is.
Self:Why??
Pubchef:Because there was no Chorizo left.

Now if there's one ingredient fundamental to a Chorizo and bean stew (other than the beans of course) its the farking chorizo.
What is the point in putting Chorizo and Bean stew on your menu and then dishing up an imposter,a bacon and bean stew which bears no resemblance to the advertised dish??
Now in actual fact the bacon and bean stew was very tasty,there was nothing wrong with it as far as a bacon and bean stew went,but as a Chorizo and bean stew it undoubtedly fell short of expectations.
Self:Why didn't you tell me it was a bacon and bean stew and I could have written it on the menu as such.Now we've misled all the diners who've been searching belligerently and in vain through their food for promised Chorizo nirvana.
No response.
Pubchef is selectively deaf.

Later in the week pub-chef knocked up a gratin potato type dish with an additional ingredient: good old Cheddar cheese.It looked and tasted very good.
Later Ems came to check the spelling of Dauphinoise.
Self:Why do you want to know that?
Ems:To put it on the menu.
Self:Eh?We dont have any Dauphinoise potatoes.
At this point Pubchef chipped in:

Yes we do I've made some

Self:No you haven't, that's not Dauphinoise potatoes.
PubChef:Yes it is, in a round about way..
Self:No its not,put on the bloody menu what it is, there's no Dauphinoise potatoes without Gruyère and cream.Cheddar and milk does not a Dauphinoise make...

Surely its obvious that raising customer expectations in this way is asking for trouble?Anyone ordering a Dauphinoise is interested in the creamy fatty Gruyeresque decadence and is surely going to be disappointed when the dish falls short in the required ingredients?

You see the difference between a good and bad place can be very simple indeed.

Its attention to detail.

Last Thursday Pub chef went off on holiday,a cruise around the Med,no doubt looking forward to a break from my constant bossing him around vigilance and helpful suggestions.
We've had a really busy week at both pubs.
Part time Chef who lives in the village is working full time whilst Pub Chef is away.He's a bit of a dude,plays in a band and is encouragingly receptive to my helpful suggestions.He dodges around the kitchen in trendy Converse trainers.I was looking forward to the two week break and cessation of hostilities.
In fact this week was heading towards our busiest ever at the new pub with only Sunday lunch to go.
I love Sunday lunch service,its the easiest of the week(albeit the busiest) it has that Friday feeling,you know the one you get when you work normal hours?
I was just loading up my car having pilfered a few extra puds from the apprentices fridge at the Inn,when Chef appeared, phone in hand  'you've got a problem'..
The stoves had cut out at the New Pub in the height of Sunday lunch prep,roasts still in the oven and veg yet to be cooked.
By the time I arrived at the pub half an hour later it was obvious Sunday lunch was not going to happen.
Ems had to ring all the bookings(over 40- trade building up),and explain that we'd had an unforeseen equipment failure.The promise of free drinks for re booked tables softened the blow.Somewhat.
Part time Chef rescued the part cooked pork joints from the oven and took them home to finish the cooking.The beef remained deliciously rare..
We cobbled together a limited menu of starters and roast sandwiches,fish and chips(hurrah for the fryer),just in case any walk ins decided to stay despite the lack of a Sunday roast.

Blue Peter stove.

We found this little electric hot plate which was an absolute godsend and produced a hot soup and a couple of warm salads.
The kitchen had a war time feel,a keep the home fires burning in the face of adversity spirit,we were feeling quite proud of ourselves there was even a frisson of excitement when a table of six ordered.We even had a short sing song.
We managed to serve over 30 covers,we were buzzing....

Now you may be wondering what the problem was with the stoves.
If there's one thing fundamental to a fully functioning  kitchen other than a Chef and a stove,its fuel to run the stove.
Surprisingly,in country areas there is often no mains gas supply.Indeed,*some* kitchens operate with the assistance of bottled/tanked gas.
Of course in any well run establishment measures would be in place to ensure the status of the tank/bottles were monitored weekly to ensure an adequate supply was in place at all times.
Some would say it was the responsibility of the Chef to ensure that all equipment within his kitchen was serviceable and fully functioning.
In fact Pub-chef had commented to me only a couple of weeks earlier how embarrassing it would be for those cooking,should gas supplies to the kitchen run short...

That's one big fat detail to fail to notice.The words 'hoisted' and 'petard' spring to mind..

I might be in the corner for the foreseeable future

Serendipitously,a text arrived to my phone from Pub chef at 11.30am, just half an hour before Sunday service was due to start:
'Just enjoying a G & T on the deck,overlooking the bay at Cannes'

You don't think?? Nah he wouldn't....Would he??

Chef was not amused.

Public service announcement:Visit Northumberland.

Kielder Water is the biggest man made lake in Europe,construction began in the 70's and finished in 1982. It was widely accepted that the valley would take ten years to fill but in practise it took only two.Perhaps the planners were still suffering after affects of the heat stroke incurred during the long hot summer of 76..
Constructed initially to satisfy expected increased demand for water in a booming UK economy(a novel idea-got that one wrong too),its now also a major tourist venue attracting over a quarter of a million visitors each year enjoying the wide range of outdoor activities on offer.
Interestingly, Kielder is also the least light polluted place in Britain[citation needed, I've heard Chef mention this  but couldn't find corroboration on the interwebs,but I can confirm its very dark up here..]so if you fancy a bit of stargazing there's no better place,also there is an observatory so it must be a good spot.
Ooh and LOOK at this,it also has the freshest air in England,well it did in 2003.
Last Monday on the hottest day of the year so far,we flung our bye cycles  in the back of the pick up(it has its uses after all) and headed up to Kielder with the Chap for some fresh air and exercise.

Looking out over Kielder Water.Looks a bit gloomy but it was steaming hot.I find it quite an eerie place,strange to imagine that a whole village lies under this lake complete with station and church.

Plashetts station ,now submerged.

A few years ago the water levels dropped and some of the tips of the buildings were exposed.

Water levels adequate today

We followed the curve of the dam,some stunning views,great tracks for cyclists.

Looking down from the dam,this is the point where the river emerges.
The Chap was flaggin a bit by now,it was exceptionally humid.We wondered why he kept stopping and lying down on every available drain cover.Eventually we realised it was a valiant attempt to cool down in the pleasing updraught.Hes not daft,well it blew Marilyns skirt up didnt it?

Chef ended up carrying him under his arm..  he looked distressed.
Despite the quarter of a million visitors we didnt see a soul throughout our visit,well not until we arrived back at the car park.
There were a couple of seniors sitting in their Porsche doing the Times crossword, whilst tucking into some cream cakes.
Just as we got to the car Lady Senior emerged from the Porsche to dispose of her Marks and Sparks meringue box in the car park bin.
Unexpectedly The Chap went for her,luckily I managed to restrain him just in the nick of time.
I dont suppose I've told you about the Chaps' behavioural problems.

Hes just a pussycat really..

Well,I wouldnt really call them behavioural, more phobic.He has two phobias,the first is gentleman( or women) sporting facial hair,specifically moustaches.The second is TARTAN.If he happens to glimpse either of these two abominations the metamorphosis from cute friendly doggy to baying Hound of the Baskerville guardian of the Gates of Hell is a sight to behold.
Now Lady Senior being blissfully unaware of the Chaps' disposition had no qualms whatsoever in striding directly past wearing the nattiest pair of tartan trews ever.
In the commotion and in an attempt to salvage some plausible excuse for the Chaps' disgraceful behaviour I shouted:

'Im really sorry, its because he doesn't like your trousers..'

Which actually was intended as a statement of fact and in no way as a  personal insult or affront or indeed any opinion on the validity of the tartan trews(though personally I wouldnt have been seen dead in them).
Though admittedly,I could well have chosen my words more carefully.
Lady Senior looked angry.
Chef motioned the slice off your head by the neck with your hand action(shut it),then the head gesture to the car.
We beat a hasty retreat before further damage ensued.
Though had Lord Senior fancied giving chase to defend his Ladys' honour, I wouldn't have fancied our chances in the pick up...

Lunch
Not far from the reservoir is this lovely pub.We stopped for refreshment.

Its just as nice inside as it it out,cosy and traditional,unspoilt and in a stunning location.
As we approached the bar,the Chef came out from the kitchen and served our drinks.
We chose our lunch from a blackboard in the bar.
For me:A Ploughmans with local cheese.
Having noticed sirloin of beef on the menu Chef cheekily asked if he could have an off menu beef sandwich.
I pulled him up on this, reminding him of one of his favourite mantras:
'If they want to write the menu themselves, why dont they stay at home and cook it themselves'
Apparantly on this occasion it was permissable as 'the beef will have been left over from Sunday lunch and they'll be wanting rid of it'
We retired to an outside table to enjoy our drinks.

Ginger beer pour Moi,Fosters for Chef and a mineral water for  the Chap.

Self:Im really looking forward to my lunch

Chef:Whys that?

Self:Didnt you notice how clean and tidy the Chef was?Im going to be confident about eating his food.

Chef:Ah yes, definitely not a skiprat.

We both commented on how good menu the menu read and how we were spoilt for choice.
The food arrived.Cue Family fortunes wrong answer fail horns.

Ploughmans

Theres nothing actually wrong with this but the last time I saw a tomato cut like this was on my mothers buffet table in 1977.She used to painstakingly cut the tomatoes into crowns like this then scoop out the pulp,mix it with grated cheddar and chopped onions and refill the shell.

Stufffed tomatoes.

There was always way too much filling to fit back in.During the 70s everything had to emulate a Vol au Vent.You had no chance of getting onto a buffet table unless you were stuffed.Particulaly heinous were the hard boiled eggs with the yolk scooped out and then mixed with sardines in tomato sauce then forced back into the void,left on the buffet to develop a crusty skin.Otherwise known as bombs,for some reason they always ended up on the carpet...

Beef sandwich

The bread was compacted so flat that I wondered if our ex apprentice had found his way up here.

Theres a lesson to be learnt here,if youre not that great at cooking,BUY GOOD ingredients,then do as little as possible with them.The good local cheeses which I felt by passing my stomach and going straight to my thighs and the decent beef made this an ok lunch.

Perhaps Chefs' time would be better spent learning to make some home made chutney and simply cutting the tomatoes in half.

Chef said it was a nice menu but in practice poorly executed.

As we sat at the table I noticed an iron cross in view of the garden.

I sent Chef over for a closer look.A memorial for two German pilots who lost their lives here when their  bomber crashed during the war.

Chef summed with things up with typical brevity.

'The locals must be friendly'

We might go back next Monday.

Have you ever visited Northumberland?

Its not all about Lahndan you know..

POSTSCRIPT

Last weeks disappointing lunch reminded me of this place which we visited last year.Thought we'd pay it another visit yesterday to see if the Ploughman's was still as good.

There must be half a pound of cheese on there.

It was.Simply presented,a menu of twelve mainly local cheeses to choose from.Pickles,Branston(no reason why not) and a decent bit of bread.No time wasted on silly presentation which adds nothing to the dish.

If only they'd ditch the butter portions.

Home baked ham and cheese sandwich.

Ploughmans with 2 local cheeses.
Ham & cheese sandwich.
2 Packets of Tyrell's crisps.
1 pint Fosters
1 Appletiser.

Total Bill: £15.60

UNBELIEVABLE VALUE.

Blooming marvellous!

This week we've I've been busy with floral displays at both pubs,I like to make a big effort.The gardens at the Inn are stunning,though every year I seem to forget the inordinate amount of extra time (which I can ill afford to spare) spent with the ritual watering.

Did I mention we're on a water meter?

Further evidence of excessive water expenditure

The gardens at the New Pub are looking reasonable but not quite up to the extent of the required floral impact.I returned to the garden centre to source yet more blooms(Id exceeded the budget already but Chefs recent motor vehicle expenditure has afforded me a degree of flexibility...)
Id spotted a flat roof at the back of the pub which was crying out for some colour.
Last Thursday evening just before service I nipped out to place the final touches in situ.
Please note a lightweight garden chair such as this one does not, I repeat does not, make a suitable ladder.

Inappropriate ladder showing impact damage

Just as Id lifted the second box into position I lost my balance.I endeavoured to jump clear of the chair but friends,unfortunately my chunky kitchen clog had become trapped in the slatted seat.As I sprang clear like some latent gazelle( I know an optimistic picture),the chair flew into the air still attached to my foot.I rolled to the ground (at last my Pony Club training proves invaluable)with the chair still clinging on for grim death, feet skyward,flailing on the pavement,sited conveniently directly next to the now busy road awash with teatime traffic.
A number of cars slowed down to help enjoy the spectacle,I even solicited a couple of jovial toots of the horn.Adrenalin hauled me back to my feet as quickly as Id fallen, projecting a nonchalant image fiddling with the blooms and standing back in feigned admiration, stoically keeping my back to the traffic until I was absolutely sure no driver remained who had witnessed the debacle.
But actually Ive cracked my elbow..

The offending window boxes

I seem to be spending an increasing percentage of time on my backside lately.

Continuing synchronistically on with the bottom theme ( all will be *revealed* later),I've been meaning to treat myself to a new camera.
The extent of my photographic skills verge from mildly unflattering to downright offensive,unsurprising given that in the main  most pictures(including all on this blog) are taken on my mobile phone.Recently I sought the advice of the good folk of Twitter, the consensus confirmed a Panasonic Lumix  would indeed ideally meet my requirements.I've been admiring the functionality and practicality of the product on line and dropping subtle hints in favour of an early purchase.
The other day I happened to notice a camera case lying next to the bookings diary at the Inn.
I was informed that a customer had left it over a week ago.
'Has no one rang for it?' I say.
Apparently not.
You would not believe the quantity and diversity of personal items that people discard at the pub.As a general rule I store items for a couple of weeks then any that remain unclaimed are offloaded at one of the many charity shops in our local town. Me and Oxfam are *like that* .
Sadly, valuable items are generally claimed within a couple of days.
As an afterthought I casually picked up the camera case and opened it.
Would you believe it dear readers?An actual PANASONIC LUMIX camera ,the very object of my desire,was fortuitously contained therein.
Mahoosive dilemma.
Conscience wrestled me momentarily, then bade me surrender the camera to our local police station.
I was advised that should the item remain unclaimed,within a specified timescale it would be returned to my personal possession.Huzzah!
I'm tentatively sitting out the qualification period with nervous anticipation.
This afternoon I was regaling the tortuous nature of the camera situation to a couple of the girls and was met with an uncharacteristical stunned silence, followed shortly afterwards by three panic stricken faces.
It transpires that the contents of the camera had been viewed on many occasions over the course of the last week and had been disparagingly noted to contain photos solely of train stations and varying train and engineering parts.
Working on the premise that the owner of the camera would no doubt return to claim his prize at some point very soon,certain parties had deemed it appropriate, nay even a favour, to supplement the interest and indeed the variety of the existing portfolio by taking photos of a certain persons bottom.
I'm reluctant to disclose whose posterior in particular was captured on film but it seems Only Daughter was central to the plot.Clearly,the possibility of m'self handing in the evidence to our local Plod had not been factored in to the equation.
Ive been feigning absolute disgust and have suggested that the resultant investigations may culminate in a 'bottom identity parade'.
(This conjured up a mental image of a Toulouse-Lautrec painting featuring a row of Moulin Rouge Can Can  bottoms ,I tried to source this picture but I'm afraid I must have imagined it).

Imagine a row of these

Chef makes a far more convincing bottom via this Fentimans drip mat.

Secretly though I'm  moderately concerned and am keen to know what the craic(snort) is with this?

Is it a criminal offence to photograph ones derrière for the personal perusal and delectation of ones diners??
I sought Chefs' expert advice:
'Well..' (scratches chin thoughtfully)'that depends...'
Self:'On what??????'
'on the individual attributes of the bum in question......'

Obviously...

Car Wars and Nee Bloody Craic

Things have been a tad hectic.In fact last week was our busiest week ever at the Inn.
The Apprentice made a return to the kitchen a couple of months back..I decided to keep this piece of information under wraps for a while for fear of another disastrous outcome but thankfully he seems to have learned his lesson.To be frank I'm afraid he and Chef may have been spending too much unsupervised time alone together.Last week they went halfers on this:

I call this 'Ironic parking'

Its a *classic* [sic] old wreck car. Note the backdrop, I'm sure the irony of the parking location escaped Chef.
A 'project' for the winter months during which time it will undoubtedly be restored to its former glory.
The fact that the Apprentice has yet to obtain a driving license nor a competitive insurance quotation has not deterred his enthusiasm.A constant stream of equally impressed mates have relaxed contentedly in the capacious leather seats whilst simultaneously admiring the smooth up/down action of the electric aerial.The discovery of the Valet Park button was a particular high point,an invaluable feature which allows one to lock ones valuables in the trunk prior to passing over ones keys for polite parking.Now all we need is a valet to park it...preferably as far away as possible from our in demand parking spots.
The purchase of a new set of tyres has already incurred an investment far in excess of  the value of the car itself.
Yesterday morning I was awoken at 6.45am to the sound of a strange squeaking noise,now there is undoubtedly an abundance of varied wildlife round these parts, in fact last week we played host to  an uninvited squirrel in our kitchen, but this repeated eee eeee eeee eeee sound was a new one on  me.I  squinted sleepily through the early morning sun to  observe Chef and The Apprentice out in the car park with soapy sponges and buckets in hand,lovingly washing their new acquisition PRIOR TO STARTING WORK.
To be fair I've never seen either of them so happy.
In Chefs own words :'I've never been this excited since the day I met you..'
Quite.
I happened to mention that Id need to sort out my own transport arrangements for the winter months,mindful of the daily drive up the hill to the New Pub.
Then today this arrived:

Corrrrect.
A pick up.
Which will be perfect for me during the inclement winter conditions 'when the dray cant make it up the hill and I have to go and collect the kegs myself..'
How thoughtful.
And all I had in mind was a new set of snow tyres...


Come the end of the week we were both exhausted, but only Sunday night behind the bar to go prior to a well earned early finish and rest.
You know when people are asked what they like best about running a pub, invariably they will  respond 'the craic'?
This 'craic' mullarkey is mentioned on nearly every pub web site( come down and enjoy a pint and some craic with the locals),in fact we are actually guilty of propagating this myth ourselves.Admittedly the craic can be brilliantly entertaining but what every web site fails to mention is that not all craic is good craic.
In fact lots of it is mind numbingly boring.
There's a chap that comes into the bar on a weekend.He's known as 'nee craic'(pronounced  knee) and not to be confused with the similar Scots equine 'nae craic' which can be heard just over the border.
Why is he known as Nee Craic? Because he has Nee bloody craic...
Now here's the strange thing.If the bar is packed,Nee Craic goes home,but if the bar is empty he stays as late as he possibly can sipping his half pint of ale,each of which can last him 45 minutes at least.
Predictably Nee Craic turned up this Sunday.By 10.15 most had departed leaving Moi,Chef and Nee Craic.
Chef was having trouble keeping his peepers open so retired to the comfortable bench seating in front of the fire.
I have a well rehearsed routine which I employ in this situation:

1 Find a task to relieve the monotony,usually polishing glasses.
2.Encourage Nee Craic to impart a  run down of his week(which is exactly the same every week) which keeps him going on his own then I can add the odd 'oh yes' or 'really' at appropriate intervals.Culminating in the Friday morning decadence of the sausage sarnie at Tebay services.All delivered with monosyllabic tedium.

Presently, out of the corner of my eye I noticed Chef nod off, and begin to emit soft snoring noises.As Nee Craic leaned over to feed the fire with yet another log(obviously in for the long haul tonight), I seized my opportunity deftly  launching a damp blue cleaning cloth in  Chef's direction which conveniently caught him full face.He looked momentarily disorientated then smirked  with obvious pleasure at his misdemeanour before snuggling back down.
I kept on with the polishing,making some effort to talk over the top of Chefs impolite punctuations.
11.15pm:
'I see two dogs got through on Britain's Got Talent'
(Slow and deliberate sip of half pint)

'One singing'
(Further definitely unpregnant pause.Further slow sip of the ale).

'One dancing'

Dear God.
As Chef says he could send a glass eye to sleep.

Show you my drains.

The drainage saga continues.
The kind chaps from Dynorod have kindly inserted an inspection camera into my drain and established the root cause of the persistant blockage.

Et voila:

A collapsed pipe.The carefree turds float along merrily until they arrive at said obstacle then,due to the volume of water not being high or forceful enough(due in some part to the modern day water saving flush trickle) some of the little buggers become trapped underneath, then gradually the solid mass increases with every new arriving turd failing to breach the dam:
Result:BLOCKED DRAINS.
Seemingly the only solution is to dig down under the pavement,a distance of 2.5 metres and carry out said repair.
Seemples.
Not quite.
a.We need permission from the council(cue deafening alarm bells) to dig up a public pathway.
b.There is some confusion over responsibility for the work ie us or the council.

Now a word of warning dear friends.
If you ever  experience a blockage such as this,never ever try to sort it out yourself first.Why?
Let me explain.
Over the past couple of weeks we've paid for various plumbers/Dynrod to jet/rod the drains ourselves.We have also rodded the drains ourselves on numerous occasions.See below:

On the occasion of the Bank Holiday blockage,Ems' Ma and Pa kindly helped out.Pa descended the manhole cover and vigorously rodded the drain.Presently the sludge spluttered and cleared and as the pit of the manhole was revealed it was duly noted to be littered with pebbles.
Pa was of the opinion that they needed to be painstakingly extracted to avoid an exacerbation of problems.
Due to the 'ole being a tad snug and Pa no longer being as svelte he used to be, bending over in the restricted space to pick said pebbles out was clearly not on the cards.
I love, nay ADORE my whites, they absolved me once more.
Pa's eyes alighted on Ems 'youre skinny you'll fit' Nodding enthusiastically.
Ems: Nooo, i cant.. (tears)
Ma:'Ill do it.' Raised eyebrows.
Ma strode over with purpose,starfished on the concrete, then dove head first into the manhole(stern farming stock)
Ma:'It stinks down here'
Pa:Well,it will do, people have been shitting down there.'
Moi:'What if she's overcome by fumes and falls in??'
Ems:'Dont breathe!!'
Ma:'EH what do you think I am ??A fish???'
Me:'Quick grab her legs!'
I'm no atrtist but I think this gives an idea of the scenario.

Folllowing the camera jobby (no pun intended) and report from Dynorod we contacted our local council for permission to carry out the repair.On their first visit they inferred that the work might in fact be their own responsibility despite the problem being in the private sewer prior meeting main drain, due to some caveat covering pre 1916 properties.
Great methinks-when can you sort it out??
Not that simple.
Why? because the council cant see any problem with the drains because they are clear.
'Yes' I say,' we've rodded them repeatedly ourselves'.Nodding overly enthusiastically.
'Ah' says council man.'Thats where you've gone wrong.You should have called us first then we could have logged(no further pun intended) the problem.'
Council man was an irritating little balding sort with blatantly obvious control issues.Hoisted by his own petard.And loving it.
'But I have the Dynorod report' I say.'See??' Pointing at the incriminating photo,'I've paid £175 for it'
Hopeful face.
'No' says smug council man 'you need to wait until the drain gets blocked again,then call us out.Then after two or three visits we will log a problem then we may well instigate further investigations,possibly even a camera to see what the bother is.'
'Eh?????'
Later I recounted the days events to Chef.
'Well you know what to do tomorrow dont you??Lift the cover and make sure the bleeper is blocked.'
Chef expressed a retrospective desire to shove the bleepers' baldy napper down the drain himself...

Beam me up Scottie, there's no intelligent life down here..

Fuhrer bars crisp eating Goldendoodle,in flatulence incident.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death..
Alfred,Lord Tennyson,1854

Regular readers of this blog will be aware that I am well versed in the treatment and despatch of badly behaved customers.
However,over the last couple of weeks my customer service skills have entered a whole new and completely unexpected area of expertise,which has forced the introduction of a new policy at the pub.
Previous landlords,in keeping with the country theme,had permitted,nay encouraged,canine companions to accompany their masters to the pub.
Not wishing to make too many changes outright,we decided to reserve judgement,go with the flow and monitor how this panned out over the first couple of weeks.
We've experienced quite an assortment of pooches in this time.Not unsurprising considering there aren't that many pubs round these parts offering dog lovers the benefit of this privilege.
Things came to a head last Monday.
The Inn being a food free zone on a Monday,teatime found Chef ensconced at the bar at the New Pub enjoying a leisurely beer whilst awaiting my emergence from the kitchen.Deciding we'd do lunches every day at the New Pub had proven ill advised from my perspective, in terms of the time off stakes.
No matter,by 6pm I had joined him and was sipping a well earned beverage.
At this point a middle aged couple entered the pub with their much loved pooch in tow,a Goldendoodle no less. (that's a cross between a standard poodle and a golden retreiver FYI,a breed yet to be recognised by the kennel club but popular with owners suffering allergies due to the minimal hair loss-I know this because they told me so..)
Fido lay compliantly down on the floor just behind our bar stools,the owners purchased a couple of ales,some snacks and then took a comfortable seat by the fireside.
They then proceeded to toss crisps across the void for their beloved pet,who scoffed them greedily.
 At this point a gentleman from yon side of the bar traversed the room en route to the little boys room and tripped clumsily over said dog.He laughed a tad too hysterically then made a big show of petting Fido enthusiastically in an effort to hide his obvious embarrassment.
The owners chuckled amusedly: 'Fido, loves to lie in awkward places'
Does he indeed.
Ems intelligent assessment of the situation surmised an ill disguised hint might solicit the required reaction. Channelling her very best Marcel Marceau she negotiated the hurdle that is Fido, stepping slowly and pointedly over the dozing mass.
And again.
No reaction.
Presently, what can only be described as an exceptionally odoriferous odour enveloped myself and Chef as we sat innocently at the bar.Our eyes met simultaneously and accusingly in horror.Then as realisation dawned,our gaze drifted down at Fido lying contentedly on the floor.
The Cheese n' onion crisps had wrought their revenge.
Nostrils curling,Chef smirked,calmly stood up and retired outdoors for a fag.
Fido slowly and deliberately raised himself to his feet and strolled nonchalantly over to his owners side.
Leaving Moi sat alone at the bar,enveloped in the fug.
Predictably,an exceptionally smart couple timeously entered the pub and approached the bar for drinks.
Dear friend,I have no need to describe how this looked.
My burning cheeks compounded my unfounded guilt.
I fronted things out momentarily, then bid a hasty retreat outside, proceeding to berate Chef for his lack of support.
'Eh?Did you see how many cheese n onion crisps the mutt had downed?I wasn't going to hang around when there was clearly going to be another of those in the departure lounge'
Action was needed.
We've introduced a DOG POLICY.

Lets hope the bleepers can read.

As luck would have it,the day following the introduction of the Dog Policy,the flatulent Fido returned.
Being a 'food service time' I was conveniently out of sight in the kitchen.
The owners failed to notice the prominent notices pinned at both entrances.
Ems drew the owners attention to the signs,explaining the reasoning behind the  policy.
'But dogs have always been allowed here,THIS IS A COUNTRY PUB..' Angry faces.
(Well not always,in fact the pub was closed for over 10 years,but lets just draw a veil over that..)
They agreed to finish their drinks then leave.
Ems suggested they might like to sit in the garden,it was after all a beautiful sunny afternoon.No,Fido would be cold apparently,despite the custom made fur coat he was wearing...
Ems explained,by way of a consolation that they were welcome to bring Fido along during 'non food service times'
'No,No that's not going to work for us,we wont be back.'
The gist of the conversation was relayed back to the kitchen as each food order was sent.
Presently, as time passed,it became apparent that despite being informed of the new policy Fidos owners were reluctant to shift.
On a brief respite in orders I decided an appearance in the bar might be in order.
On catching sight of Your Truly the owners stood up,marched over to the bar,remarking loudly:
'Come on Fido( glaring at me not at Fido) lets go,you're BARRED..' 
Then in an audible aside:
'BLOODY,FUHRER.'
One is becoming increasingly thick skinned.

PS Sorry about the lack of an Umlaut couldn't work out how to do it..

This is the one that nearly never was..

A couple of things happened last week (not very interesting ones so I wont bother to elaborate) which had me a tad fraught and questioning the actual wisdom in posting these ramblings. Whilst pondering the absurdity of life in general  I chanced upon this in one of those shops which sell cheap imported repro tat from China quaint little antique shops in our local town.

I've hung it on the wall at the New Pub.Its my new mantra.
So,ever onwards and upwards...

Discussions re what type of menu to put on at the New Pub have been our main thrust.Though we've a successful formula at the Inn,we were conscious that the New Pub is only 11 miles away and not wishing to dilute our audience if you get my drift,Chef came up with a novel plan.
Well,says he,we already know that people love bad food,so how about we do exactly that,but do it properly?Pub grub,homemade pies,fish and chips.Mass market stuff with broad appeal,but it'll be the best bad food they've ever tasted..
A fanfare to the common man..
So we've employed a new Chef.Following our previous form with the younger generation, we decided to go for a more *mature*applicant.
He's been around the track a couple of times, had his own place in the past,classically trained and knows how to do things properly.I think he just wanted something non too taxing with not too much pressure,a bit of a wind down..
Needless to say I don't think he bargained on the 70 odd hungry diners who tipped up unannounced on our first Friday night.
To be fair he didn't flap,just kept his head down and ploughed through it,with me plating up AND doing starters and calling the checks.I'm sure he enjoyed it though,I may even have seen a twinkle in his eye..

We've been getting along quite famously.
Though admittedly last Thursday I did have to tell him his balls weren't big enough.

Ice cream ones of course..

Apart that is,form a couple of little niggles...

Lets consider Chips.
I'd set the standard a little bit having done the kitchen on my own the previous couple of weeks. Home-made chips blanched off at low temperature then crisped off in the fryer at a high temperature once the check comes on.This produces a nicely cooked crispy chip which is pleasingly golden and easy on the eye.
On the first night with PubChef, I duly noted his chips weren't as crisp as one would have liked.

'I think you need to crank up the fryer a wee bit' says I.
'No' slowly and with deliberation  'the fryers OK as its is' says he..
Hmmm...

That night as I related the days events,Chef advised caution.
'You want to be careful you don't piss him off upset him,otherwise you'll end up doing the whole lot on your own...'
At this point  my Violet Elizabeth tendencies came to the fore,I may even have stamped my foot.
'But I WANT crispy chips'(folding arms petulantly)
Chef grinned.
'Well' said he 'you know what you need to do don't you??'
'Already done Chef,already done..' says I (triumphantly)
'You turned the fryer up when he wasn't looking???That's m'girl..'

Desperate times call for desperate measures...

His reluctance to use the temperature probe is also a slight bone of contention.
Lets be honest there are two schools of thought with this one.There's the 'I can tell if its done by the touch of my finger' Which is true.To a certain degree.But to me its more about making sure that the food isn't overcooked than checking that its cooked(though obviously high on the agenda is not picking off ones diners with a tasty but suicidal  E-Coli casserole..)
If his pinky can tell him whether a piece of fish is at the optimum 50 degree temperature(look away now EHO Inspector) when the protein has  just set or if its gone beyond this by a couple of degrees then he's a much better Cook than me..
As Chef said he's probably too old school for a probe,even when Chef did his training(he's 40 FYI) the full extent of temperature testing involved inserting a skewer into said item,then placing the skewer on ones lip-if it burnt twas done..
I think we'll have to agree to disagree on this one.
Anyhoo,as I said to Chef later,I do like a good probing....

In other news in the spirit of embracing the local community Ems and I decided an entry to the fortnightly quiz held at the New Pub was in order.
We looked forward to the picture round and subsequent shining with our worldly knowledge of current events aided in no small part by Ems encyclopaedic knowledge of all things *sleb* due to her ongoing subscription to Grazia.
Then this.

Need I say more?

PS I don't dare publish Chefs eagerly awaited daily  missive via the text message to the landline medium on this particular subject....

Pub landlady cleans up soot damage left by Southern Comfort drinking coalman at Jamaica Inn

I bumped briefly into our butcher this morning for the first time in a couple of weeks,due to the inordinate amount of  time I'm spending at the new pub.



Hello stranger!Hows it going up on the hill?? says he. *knowing big wink*
Self:Not bad thanks
Butcher:Interesting eh?????(Folding arms slowly,relaxing one leg and waiting for the gory details)
Self:Yes its great thanks,loving it....(lying through teeth)

To be honest I'm afraid the New Pub might be a bit more of a challenge than I had first anticipated.I haven't yet furnished you with the full story..
It was reopened a couple of years ago following a lengthy campaign by villagers to prevent it being turned into a residential home,having been closed for more than a decade.In the two years since the reopening two or three landlords have passed through...

Over the last couple of weeks I've seen things that never in a month of Sundays did  I expect to see in a pub..

On the first night a fellow strolled up to the bar, black from head to toe apart from his ginger hair which was teazled into a Gummidge inspired style and the large gold signet ring on his wedding finger.
'He must be the coalman' I whispered..
'I didn't know coalmen still existed' said Ems
Self:Well of course they still exist,where do you think we get the bleeping coal from???
Thankfully,Tesco Direct have yet to infiltrate that particular market..
He smirked and offered his hand to me.I knew it was a test.I rose to the challenge then feigned an excuse to depart to the kitchen to wash ones hands after failing to inconspicuously dislodge the damage onto the seat of ones arse jeans.. .
Surprisingly he was a double Southern Comfort and lemonade aficionado. Well blow me down with a feather, I didn't see that one coming.By the end of the evening, being well oiled and a tad unsteady on his steel toed boots,he stotted in a side to side motion down my previously buffed back passage steadying himself all the while on my newly painted Burnt Verdigris walls..Sadly a black smudge frieze on a wall doesn't do it for me.Thank gawd for Cif.

Then,last Saturday afternoon a middle aged couple approached the bar.Swarthy looking types, faint hint of a moustache.
Conversely the husband was clean shaven.Ordering themselves a couple of ales,they took a cosy seat by the fireside where the wife produced her KNITTING from a very large Tapestry bag then,proceeded to knit for the next hour and a half.Not a word was spoken.Now I wondered what the crack was with this, so I googled knitting and apparently these two are bang on trend as knitting is once again a popular pastime amongst the rich and famous.Though to be honest I cant see Gwyneth Paltrow sizing up a half finished garment to Chris Martins back in a pub..Truly not a sight one sees very often..

I don't regard myself as a city slicker,the Inn is undoubtedly in a rural location,but it is almost within spitting distance of a small market town.The New Pub locals regard *small market town*as the bright lights.We had to put the prices up(one has to make a profit) there's been a bit of opposition, feedback has been on the lines of: 'but them's *small market town* prices...'
I've been feeling like the landlady at Jamaica Inn,every time the front door opens I'm beginning to hear a howling noise as the wind blows,yesterday I swear tumbleweed followed a customer through the door.
'Its blowing a hoolie oot thar' says he.That's the other thing,its windy.All the time...
Today someone asked to order a *nosebag* and no it wasn't for his horse..
And men wear *strides* not trousers round these parts..

Anyhoo, apologies in advance that toilets/drainage seem to be a recurring theme,but yesterday we had another little incident.It appeared the water wasn't draining away from the upstairs loo.Following prolonged efforts with plunger and rubber gloves,still no joy.
I decided to leave it and  returned to the kitchen to do some lone prep for lunchtime(following last weeks sacking).Ems Mum had kindly brought some duck eggs down from the farm so I thought I'd knock up some Duck egg and smoked bacon mayonnaise for the sarnie menu.They were so bloody fresh I was having difficulty peeling them and was muttering incoherently to myself when I felt a drip of water plop on my head.
To cut a long story short we had to call out an emergency plumber as the water was seeping through the joints in the soil pipe from the loo sited conveniently directly above the kitchen.
At £80 call out plus £40 for every 15minutes thereafter I was hoping the problem would be resolved quickly.
I left Ems to deal with the plumbers(dour chaps not much crack).Presently I heard excited shouts with my name interspersed in the din.
I ran from the kitchen with the half peeled egg still in my hand.
Plumber:'COME HERE YOU'VE GOT TO SEE THIS'
I gingerly peered down the manhole cover and witnessed a six inch wide solid mass slowly emerging from the waste pipe.
Ems was on the periphery of the activity whimpering,silent tears rolling down her cheeks.
Plumber:I've never seen anything like it,its this long(stretches arms wide at full length)at least ten feet,compacted right up the soil pipe,at least a couple of months worth there.'
He was quite animated unlike his demeanour on his earlier arrival.
Well at least someone had some job satisfaction..

From the comfort of his provincial though close to civilisation kitchen, with wall to wall hotcupboard,tattie rumbler and hot lamps,Chef was blissfully unaware of the dramas that were unfolding far off the beaten track.

When news filtered back to the ranch, the old text message to landline chestnut was called into play once again.

'Oh dear...there was a big fat sausage in the loo pipe'

I fear the lady from Masterchef is the only thing that's keeping us going at the moment...

Hard boiled egg anyone???

History teacher sacks Kitchen Hand and promotes self to Head Chef

You know that saying 'it never rains but it pours'? Well folks,last week we experienced a veritable monsoon.
Worryingly I lost track of the date and time in a frenzy of relentless cleaning,trips to the tip and Fired Earth paint(Chef valiantly attempted to steer me towards the B & Q own brand but obviously failed).
The refurbishment has not been unproblematic,for example:

• Bubbling drains backing up under the floor of the gents and making an unsolicited entrance through the grate on the floor.Lately I seem to be dogged with toilet troubles,though the request that one of the tradesmen  'buff up my back passage ' did lighten the mood somewhat..
• A central heating system stuck permanently in the 'on' position resulting in a full tank of oil 1000 litres (don't ask how much)being burnt in a week

Dysfunctional kitchen equipment including:

• an oven door held closed by a hard spile (who says men cant multi task?)

• Fridges running at a balmy English summertime 18 degrees.
• Freezers packed to the rafters with 'food waste'.This in particular made me very sad( and for all you grammar pedants I'm not talking about the offensive apostrophe usage).

As did  a whole freezer dedicated to that doyen of English culinary hospitality: the venerable Yorkshire pud.

Some conveniently individually cling filmed

Some free falling

In the midst of the mayhem and the twice daily drive between pubs,something had to give namely the 45 minutes spent blow drying ones fairly long and very thick hair.An unplanned stop at the local hair salon and the request for something a bit shorter and less labour intensive resulted in a cut verging dangerously on the functional and tidy rather than the aesthetically pleasing.You know the sort of cut women of a certain age adopt when they've given up trying?
On seeing the new look Chef smirked and acerbically quipped 'you look like a history teacher'.I think that's a compliment..
On the plus side the hairdresser was delighted,as apparently people with hair like mine are the reason she was 'starting to develop weightlifters arms'.
Despite all this the new pub is slowly starting to take shape.

Told you there was a potential cosy corner..

We've inherited a 'Chef'(and I use this term folks in the loosest possible sense) whom I tasked to thoroughly clean the kitchen and dispose of all the foodstuffs therein.This Friday we managed to put on a very limited menu,just some light dishes and sandwiches.'Chef Manque'offered to knock up his secret recipe red onion marmalade to go with the pate.The other ingredient being Orange Cordial.This also made me very sad.
I've been watching him like a hawk,trying to prevent his hands coming into contact with any of the food items..his hygiene practices were imaginative to say the least.My eyes alighted on a couple of plastic nozzle topped bottles stored in the under counter fridge.You know the squeezey ones with which some Chef types like to squiggle on the plates(not my style at all).One containing Raspberry Vinaigrette,the other Mustard vinaigrette,both with snotty deposits around the bottle tops,similar to the stuff you find on a well used ketchup bottle.Ick.
'We wont be using these' I say tipping the contents down't sink.'Can you get them cleaned please'
Two minutes later I witnessed him with the nozzle in his gob,red cheeked and forcefully blowing the darn thing like a bugle.Which of course may well have been an appropriate accompaniment to the plethora of microwave pings which he had been accustomed to hearing.
'There must be a mustard seed caught in the end' says he.
Christ Almighty.
If I hear one more time about his Sticky Choccy Mocha Cake with Butterscotch sauce and white chocolate sauce and a drizzle of raspberry coulis, I might well ram the offending creation right up his bleeping jacksy.Along with the 'smoked salmon on a bed of creamy mashed potato,topped with a cheesey mustard sauce'(its lush,flies out)..
He's also been late for every shift.
He had to go.Being Sunday and Chef catering for 100 plus diners at the Inn, it fell on my toes to impart the dirty deed.
Our accommodating veg supplier offered to call over to New Pub as back up just in case he kicked off.I love it when ones custom is so valued that suppliers go that extra mile..'all part of the service' he said.
I declined of course.
I lay in wait for him this morning, hoping he would be predictably late as usual.He was.
Telling a thirty five year old that you have no confidence in his ability or commitment to do the job to the required standard isn't an experience I enjoyed.He left without much fuss though.Phew.

Later I felt a whole lot better when on my hands and knees I pulled three pans out from under the sink with food waste growing in them.Gawd knows how long these had been there.
Enough penicillin to treat the population of the local hinterland and beyond.

The lazy bleeper had it coming,its people like him that give cheffing a bad name..
Presently I received a text message of support via the landline (no mobile network at the New Pub) from Chef. Imagine this if you will, read in the Masterchef voice over mode:

'Hurrah,hurrah the troll has gone'

Cheered me up no end..

Oh and one other thing. I've had an unexpected assistant who has diligently painted with new found fortitude following his unforeseen five day suspension exclusion from school due to(and I quote):
'standing outside the assembly hall window,pulling faces at the Year 9 students participating in orchestra practice,whilst smoking what appeared to be a spliff'
I kid you not.
The shame.

How to get rid of your customers

Running rural pub isn't a bed of roses.Frankly without a decent food trade you haven't got a flying feck of making it pay.
With that in mind theres a couple of pointers you might just want to bear in mind should you ever fancy chancing your luck in this trade.

Dog cage featuring bowl and niffy blanket

Firstly,try siting a feature dog cage complete with feeding bowl and assorted canine accoutrements directly in front of the bar.Does this cry out to you 'come and eat here'??
A complete no brainer.

How about this?Fancy a tinkle on the old joanna?

Potential cosy corner

A bad photo. I've managed to make this look better than it actually is.Note the plastic plant pot proudly displayed in the central position,the plant(a cactus)shrivelled and dusty, these plants are NOT attractive.Though it and the piano made cosy bedfellows .Perfect choice to see off your customers with a subliminal sign see below:

Traditional two fingered send off

or the modern one(limp) finger salute

Or how about a quick game of Scrabble to sharpen up your brain skills?

Clutter central

Not a terrible idea,but  to be sure of success please stack tatty boxes untidily in FULL view on a WINDOWSILL,illuminated by a tasteful bedside lamp.

Or how about a game of pool?

Delightful Pool view

Site your gaming table in full view of the dining area.Make sure there's some random table tops and other assorted junk in view,it will take the diners minds off any inconsistencies in the food.As will the disturbance of the flashing lights and nudging noises emanating from the pinball machine,any diner returning after this experience would have to be particularly determined.

Strict adherence to the above will  guarantee a high success rate.If customers continue to frequent your establishment perhaps you may need to resort to the following initiative..

Following our observations above,we tootled down to the nearest village to have a quick shufty round the other local hostelries.
There were two pubs,the first looked a little scruffy,paint peeling from the signage,but encouragingly some attractive looking lamps in the window.Love a nice flocked lampshade,swings it for me every time.
Approaching the bar we were greeted warmly by a jovial chap sporting one of those darts type shirts.You know the black short sleeved epauletted ones which flap in the breeze around the midriff area,skirted on the underside by a pair of low slung black polyester trews?
I requested a cup of coffee.
 Darts Man being a surprisingly perceptive chap, advised apologetically :

'Its only filter coffee I'm afraid,none of those fancy coffees here pet'
'Thats ok' I say 'Filter coffee's fine'
'Take a seat and Ill bring it over' said Darts man.
What a canny fellow I think.
Chef and Ems had beers.

We sat down in a quiet corner to plan our offensive with the new pub.10 minutes later my coffee still wasn't forthcoming.

'I wonder if he's forgotten' I say.
No sooner had the words escaped my cake ole than Darts man appeared with a tray bearing a nice cafetiere of steaming hot coffee and some spanking clean white crockery.

'Sorry about the wait' says he 'I'd ran out of milk so had to pop over to the Co-op to get some for you'.
My instincts were affirmed,what a canny fellow.

'That's no problem' I say.
The coffee was lovely.
Though to be honest I wouldn't have chanced a meal here.

The next pub was smarter in a branded chain pub sort of way.There was a bit of a Bet Lynch type behind the bar,though not as attractive as the telly version if that makes any sense.Stern and unwelcoming.St Michaels finest square print patterned blouse in shades of Jade green and Cornflower blue,lots of gold chains,gypsy earrings and overpowering perfume.Probably miffed because we'd disturbed her tea and Hob Knobs.
I threw caution to the wind and ordered half a lager.Another beer for Chef and Ems.
We took a cosy table next to the fire.There was a table of diners but disconcertingly two Chefs ensconced at the other table chatting.Not a good sign at 1pm.But then again not really much prep to do if there's only a freezer bag or two to snip open.
Ems noticed there was lippy on her glass so went to change it.Bets eyes narrowed as she tipped the contents into a fresh glass but disappointingly no apology was proferred.
We leant forward to continue our clandestine discussions.

'Oh no' said Ems 'There's lippy on this glass too...'
'Just go and ask her for a straw' I say..then in a quick change of heart: 'no go and ask her for a clean glass, you've paid for the drink you're entitled to have a clean glass to drink it from...'
Nobody should accept poor standards.

I watched Ems politely point out the offending red lippy.Bet picked up a glass from the shelf and thrust it towards her.
'Here do you want to inspect(heavy emphasis) this one before I tip your drink in???'

'No' said Ems, channelling her best Oliver Twist voice 'Id just like a clean glass please'

Bet made a big show of holding the glass up to the light,frowning disapprovingly as Ems returned to the table.

'I think she needs some new Geps' said Chef.

It appears there's not really much competition round this neck of the woods.
Good.

This is the one where we finally lose the plot.

You know in these times of austerity and widespread economic hardship we consider ourselves very lucky indeed to be at the helm of a successful business.We heard a couple of weeks ago that the pub has finally made it into the last of the guide books which we weren't in(toot toot)
So a very comfortable position for us,time to kick off our shoes,sit back a little,rest our heads on the antimacassars and toast our toes in front of a roaring fire.
A chance to feel a welcome respite from the pressure and enjoy the fruits of our labour,perhaps even take up a HOBBY.( I do actually have one in mind for when I retire, its a bit controversial might tell you about it at a later date..)
Actually no..
You know when you are chasing something and the anticipation is such that you can constantly  feel the excitement of getting close to your goal,but its just out of your reach and there's the danger that you might not quite make it?
I think its called adrenalin.(Or maybe the build up is invariably better than the main event,if you get my drift).
Then when you finally get there,it all feels a little bit,well FLAT...
We should be feeling like Charlie Bucket after he's discovered Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket,but what we actually feel like doing is going in search of another ticket..

Chef summed things up with typical but accurate brevity:
'That's it then..Its all a bit boring now isn't it'
Followed by:
'What are we going to do next ?'

Rural pubs are still closing at a rate of knots.Anyone entering this business in the current climate would need their head examining.

A glance at the trade press and its easy to find some amazing bargains just crying out for someone with a bit of enthusiasm(well to be honest you need more than enthusiasm,a bit of expertise and some spare cash wouldn't come in wrong) to snap them up..

(Its becoming a tad obvious where this is going isn't it..)


Imagine if you will,a rural pub,even further off the beaten track than this one, which is about to close its doors.A dying business,just waiting for someone to breathe new life into it.
Imagine balancing two businesses,one a thirty minute drive from the other,setting up one(this is the bit we're particularly interested in), whilst not taking ones eye off the ball with the other..now that would pose one hell of a challenge.

We pick up the keys in two weeks time.

I think there's a fair chance we're a couple of serial business start up offenders,hopefully this one wont be the first to go pear shaped...

Bizarrely I found this today,amongst the selection of antique books which I have scattered around the pub for customers to browse:

No one admits to leaving it and its certainly not one of mine..
Do you think its an omen??

So if things go a bit quiet on here for a while,you know why.
You can follow the chaos developments on Twitter @mynewpub ,if you're interested...