No. 1

Recently, on our way driving down south from Edinburgh, my wife and I took a lunchtime break in Berwick on Tweed. As it is not my intention to malign the small pub we eventually chose for our meal, I will not identify the actual place. Suffice to say, when we went in, it was immediately obvious it was unpretentious. In fact, it was a pub which catered for its local community. The menu was very limited but I saw that as an advantage. A large menu in a very small cafe/restaurant usually means reheated microwave meals. Looking around I spotted a young lady apparently enjoying a meal of fish and chips so, suspecting nothing, I ordered fish and chips. My wife, with a lot more common sense than I was showing, ordered a sandwich. A few minutes after the bar man took our order, he was back at our table.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but we have run out of cod. I could give you haddock instead, if you don’t mind.’

I assured him I didn’t mind. ‘In fact, I prefer haddock,’ I replied.

I said it was a small pub and it seemed the bar man was also the cook and the waiter.

When my meal arrived, the bar man apologised. ‘The haddock was so small, I have given you two.

I thanked him and began my meal. It is no exaggeration to say, the fish was hopelessly overcooked and was impossible to cut with a knife. ’I did manage to crack it open using both hands when I revealed that the fish part was no more than about two millimetres thick and was brown rather white in colour. I was at the start of a three week holiday and was determined not to act sourly. In any case the chips and peas were delicious. I would have said nothing but when the barman arrived a few minutes later to ask how I was enjoying the meal I truthfully said the chips and peas where excellent but the fish was somewhat overdone. The evidence was clear for him to see and he said, ‘Don’t eat that, sir. I’ll cook you another one.’

Unfortunately, his second attempt was no better than his first attempt, so it too was set to one side. When I went to pay, the barman said he would not charge for the fish and chips as it had been so bad but I insisted on paying. I did suggest, however, that he should reconsider changing his supplier. We parted on the best of terms but I had learned another valuable lesson.

No. 2

Some years ago I was driving around Westmorland with my wife – that was before its name was changed to Cumbria. I had just started a new position in Lancaster and we were house hunting. So obsessed were we with our task, we quite forgot the time. So, it was three in the afternoon when we started to look for somewhere to get a bite to eat. Eventually we found a small cafe in Lower Bentham. We were the only customers. A sweet, elderly lady took our order while a dour, old man stoked up the fire and added more coal to it. Finishing that task, he went into the kitchen only to return almost immediately with the sandwiches we had ordered. Clearly, he had not washed his hands. Putting them down on our table, he then carefully rearranged our sandwiches on the plate. We had great difficulty suppressing our mirth at the absurdity of the situation. But worse was to follow.

We had scarcely started on our meal when the door to the cafe opened and in poured about a dozen or so old people from a local care home. It soon became apparent that this was one of their regular stops on their day out and because there were so few tables in the cafe, a group of five old people crowded onto our table. They never asked if we minded sharing. This, presumably, was where they always sat. The driver, who was accompanying them, sat in splendid isolation at another table. We found we were completely trapped in by our unwelcome guests who immediately started complaining about this and that while not listening to what other people were saying, and all the time completely ignoring us. While being jostled by our other guests we tried hard to eat our late lunch in as dignified a manner as circumstances permitted.

Eventually, it was time for the invading army to move on but before doing so, they had to settle up for what they had consumed. This proved to be extremely difficult. They couldn’t remember what they had ordered and nor could they find sufficient money to pay. Clearly, the proprietor was used to this and patiently waited while we impatiently waited to be allowed to get on our way.

No. 3

Many years ago, we found ourselves at lunch time in Coombe Martin, a tiny village in Devon. We had a twelve month old baby with us at the time. It was a Sunday and our car had broken down just as we had entered the car park belonging to the B&B we were using. Because we were late, we had missed the B&B lunch so, after securing our room and taking our suitcases up to it, we decided to walk the mile of so into the village where, we were assured, we would be able to get lunch. Even though we had actually paid for lunch at the B&B, there was no suggestion they would make us a couple of sandwiches and a cup of tea. As far as the proprietors were concerned, lunch was but a distant memory.

Arriving at the village, we discovered there were very few options available at that time of day so we went into a typical sea-side cafe. Two elderly sisters were running the place. After giving us the menu and giving us time to make our choice the waitress returned to take our order. When we told her what we wanted she said we couldn’t have it because it ‘was orf’. We tried again, but it too was ‘orf’. After trying a third time and receiving the same negative response, we had the common sense to ask what was actually on. It transpired that anything with meat in it was no longer available so we had to settle for egg and chips. Why the waitress went through the ridiculous charade of asking us to choose when there was actually nothing but eggs and chips available, to this day I cannot fathom. But that was fifty plus years ago and things have now changed, or have they?

No. 4

On Holiday in Western France some years ago, my family and I went into a lovely harbour-side fish restaurant in the small town of Les Sables d’Orlon. I am always a bit suspicious of shellfish but feeling particularly adventurous that day, together with my wife and son, as a starter I order fruit de mer. My daughter, with much more sense, ordered soup. When the starter arrived it was on three large stainless steel dishes with separate compartments for the various types of shellfish together with a central area for two enormous languistines. It looked magnificent. I was still looking suspiciously at the shellfish while my wife tucked in. Suddenly she gave a little start.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said.
‘That one just moved,’ she replied.
‘Don’t be silly. It was just your imagination.’
‘I’m sure it moved,’ she said, poking another one, which did in fact move as I watched on in horror.
Turning my gaze to my own meal, I prodded one of the shellfish whereupon, it immediately clamped shut.
Anxiously, I called the waitress over, noticing in passing that everyone else in the restaurant seemed to be looking at us in amusement.
When the waitress arrived I explained the problem. ‘Off course they are still arrive. That’s how we ensure they are fresh when you eat them.’
‘But we are British. We don’t eat things that are still alive,’ I said plaintively.
Looking disdainfully at me, she grabbed a knife from the table, picked up one of the shellfish and pried it open with the knife. ‘Now it’s dead. Now you eat it,’ she said. By this time the people at the tables around us were almost falling out of the seats laughing at our antics.
Using a complete length of baguette, I managed to force three or four of the shellfish down while my wife carried on eating heartily. But even she decided enough was enough when, after opening another shell fish, a small pink crab fell out and ran across her plate.
I have never ordered fruit de mer since.

Bernard Gallivan
September 2019