Writing is the main point of tachras, and it would appear that writing about restaurants and food is not only a literary high-point, but financially rewarding as well …
…so here goes. If Michelin Tyres can do it, then so can KidneyStone Tyres.
The KidneyStone Restaurant Guide.
We’d been there before, several years ago, and knew that it was fairly expensive. But we had tried the local ham – and it was delicious! So, with the rain pelting down, and lunchtime upon us, we thought ‘Yes! Let’s have a nice meal.’
A little table in the corner. A tatty wooden table, and rickety chairs. I was brought up in a place where good food and hygiene were not necessarily companions, and survived that. So no problem there. We were given the menus (it’s a top place when everybody gets their own menu!), and the wine list.
The wine list went first. A glass of white or red for a fiver? Not really. A bottle of the local wine for thirty quid? No chance.
‘Two glasses of Coke, please.’
It came with ice, and that stupid slice of lemon. Why lemon?
The waitress apologised for the fact that the slice of lemon was holding the ice down at the bottom of the glass. I smiled and displayed urbane indifference. I’d had Coke with ice before. The Real Thing, trademark and all. With ice. Mr Cool!
We were hungry, and knowing that the food would not arrive immediately, we both agreed on the soup of the day. Leek and potato. It would keep us going until the main course arrived.
‘Two soups of the day, please.’ We were not foolish enough to say ’soup du jour’! We were here to eat. Not to entertain the locals.
Back to the menus. We reviewed our choices, considered the ham again – it was nice the last time! – but decided to try the chicken, in a tomato and pepper sauce, dauphinoise potatoes, and seasonal vegetables.
We sat and waited for the soup.
And waited …
… and waited. For over fifteen minutes.
We read whatever there was on the table.
‘Recommended by Michelin’.
‘Finalist. Restaurant of the Year 2008′
Who started the place. When. Not why, but people do theses things.
We tuned in to the other diners.
‘A fair size place, Tours, in the Loire Valley’
‘You don’t need to know a word of French! Everyone speaks English. They have an English pub. They even have an English newspaper.’
In Scotland, we refer to them as ‘White Settlers’.
‘I love to go in to work. There are all these young people flitting off to New York. It is quite invigorating!’
I have no idea whatsoever as to what this ‘work-lover’ actually did. Although I am certain that the planet would manage just ducky without them.
‘Have you brought the car round?’
‘It’s at the door.’
‘At the front door?’
‘Of course! We don’t do walking!’
‘Oh Lord! We have fallen amongst sinners. The righteous and the idle.’
At last, the soup arrived.
‘Apres Ham, le Deluge.
The soup was a pale and insubstantial. With slices of toasted parsnip floating on top. Served on a square wooden plank, with two triangles of brown bread and two dollops of butter. No taste, no texture. Just gruel for the End of Days.
‘I saw no provender upon a pale froth!’
(I had to work hard to squeeze in that pun!)
I had to work hard to force down the soup. I buy better stuff in tins from Chez Heinz!
A taste of things to come.
The Chicken.
Lying dead on the plate after a Leylandii explosion. Bits of conifer sticking out of the flesh and a bone protuding from one end. Do chickens come like that, naturally?
The tomato and pepper sauce was red. Probably the only foreseeable part of the dish. The seasonal vegetables consisted of a slice of squash (I’m guessing here!), roast vegetables (impossible to guess which type – all charcoal looks much the same), roast parsnips (must be a glut of them locally), sliced carrots (recognisable but rubbery) and the usual oily broccoli, giant economy size.
The chicken tasted of soap, but I ate it. And the carrots. I passed the dauphinoise potatoes to my companion. She couldn’t eat the chicken at all. So the dauphinoise potatoes kept her alive till later. She did not know what dauphinoise potatoes were. Now she thinks that they are Kraft Cheese Slices sandwiched between two slices of potato.
Close enough.
When asked if we had enjoyed the meal, I said that ‘It had not been to my taste.’
The waitress was strangely silent. We paid the bill. Even left a tip.
After all, anyone who charges the ‘creme de middle classe’ such high prices for such dreadful food, and manages to convince them that what the are served is quality worth the price, must surely rank as a ’Working Class Hero’.
On the way home, we made a detour through the town where we had stayed nearly 20 years before. The local Chinese Takeaway used to be excellent. 10 minutes waiting for a Beef Curry and a Chicken and Pineapple, both with boiled rice, was time well spent.
It took another hour to reach home, and we had to re-heat in the microwave.
But it was the culinary highlight of the day.
Good food and good company.
And no need to leave a tip.
Except this.
Mints are handy when trying to remove the taste of a dreadful meal from your mouth.
And tyre manufacturers are not necessarily the best guide to food.
Would you let Heinz & Co. fit your car with tyres?
