Escargots!

That's snails to those of us who aren't French.  On Sunday 2nd June I popped into a local restaurant at lunchtime, accompanied by my middle daughter.  It was quite busy with people enjoying Sunday lunch, but we only waited a couple of minutes before the Head Waiter came and showed us to a table.  It was a strange mixture of traditional Sunday roast to a largely elderly clientèle  which was what we saw before us alongside promotions on the table advertising a four course Italian meal, which was in keeping with the restaurant's name.  The décor was white and lilac, which didn't seem to go with the Italian part either.  The tables were quite close together, with not much room for the carvery trolley to be wheeled up and down and I half expected Basil Fawlty to come leaping out from behind the bar at any moment to talk to the Major.

Anyway, we sat down and the waiter brought over two menus.  Now I have to mention at this point that naturally I had done my research (good old Google!) and already knew that the restaurant in question was one of only two places in the town that served snails.  We'd also checked on the menu in the window before going in, to make sure it hadn't changed.  Whilst waiting to be seated we'd discussed what was about to transpire - being handed a menu when we already knew what we wanted.  Should we take the menu and pretend to peruse it at our leisure and then opt for: 'Oh, I think I'll have the snails', 'me too'.  Or should we just be up front and order snails without looking at the menu?  And in that scenario, how much information should we give about why we wanted snails?

Well, I couldn't bear to lead the poor chap on, so as he proffered the menu, I explained I'd never eaten snails before and wanted to try them, so could we have two portions please.  He did his best not to look fazed by this and calmly asked whether we wanted garlic butter or tomato sauce with our snails and would we like a main course afterwards, to which I replied, 'no, just the snails in garlic butter please'.  There was the slight hint of a raised eyebrow before we were asked about drinks and then he retired to pass on our order and get the drinks.  The table next to us was so close that I could easily have helped myself to the nearest lady's meal, so they must have overheard the conversation about our lack of main course.  I was glad I didn't try to explain about the whole fifty things for the first time in my fifty first year, although it might have explained why we were only having a starter.

Whilst we were waiting for our snails to inch their way from the kitchen to the table, our neighbours were deep in conversation about Newbury in Berkshire, which is not far from Reading in case you weren't aware.  Suddenly an elderly lady from the table behind us, whose husband had disappeared in his wheelchair with one of the waitresses just after we went in to the restaurant, got up and approached their table to join in the conversation.  Well I say suddenly, but that makes it sound like she leapt to her feet and galloped to the other table, but it was more a lumbering sort of movement really, so actually not very sudden at all.  Anyway she leaned across the other table, which was occupied by four women, and said, 'Did I hear you talking about Newbury, I come from Reading, which is not far from there.'  [See I told you that, didn't I] and then proceeded to relate various tales of her youth in Reading and going to a dance in Newbury,  We made a mental note not to mention anything about Reading out loud.  After a few minutes she said she ought to go and check on her husband, who had not returned with the waitress, but then went and sat back down at their table and helped herself to the remaining vegetables.  

My daughter decided to document the occasion, taking a picture of me awaiting my snails, which duly arrived.  Cue next picture - the dish of snails.  They came minus their shells, so no difficult instruments to cope with to de-shell them, just a knife and fork.  They didn't really look like I thought they would, but then I didn't really have any idea what they would look like.  They were very garlicky, scattered over a piece of garlic bread and with plenty of garlic butter.  They were a very dark grey-brown in colour and almost reminded me of mushrooms to look at.  I took the plunge and tried one.  To be honest they tasted a bit like mushrooms as well, just chewier.  They weren't bad, quite tasty in fact, but I'm not sure I'd go out of my way to have them again. Still I polished off the lot; there were probably about eight of them in the dish, I have to confess I didn't count them.  A waitress came to collect our empty dishes and asked us if we'd like a main course.  We opted for the bill, finished our drinks, paid and left.  The other customers probably thought we were a bit odd, but what the heck, it was another fifty first accomplished.

Oh and in case you were concerned, the elderly man in the wheelchair was eventually returned to his table by the waitress, presumably from the toilet, by which time his wife had polished off everything that was left except for the items on his plate.

An unplanned first

Monday 27th May, Reading, UK.  I'd gone to visit my youngest daughter who is at university there, taking my middle daughter with me.  We'd had the usual kind of journey, playing our favourite game of queuing on the M25 for what seems like forever and for no apparent reason.  On this particular occasion I think it was due to everyone having the same idea as us - stop for coffee at the Clackett Lane Costa to get away from the interminable roadworks for a short time - which resulted in lots of traffic trying to get back into the reduced speed, reduced lanes all at the same time.  Anyway, we managed to make it to Reading around lunch time after a second traffic jam experience, this time on the M4.  I empathised profusely as we eventually managed to speed past all those family saloons trying to leave the motorway at Windsor, presumably heading for Legoland, probably full of over excited children continuously asking if they were nearly there yet.  But back to my story, so we picked up daughter number three and headed to town, negotiated the one way system and joined the queue for parking at the Oracle.  We didn't have to wait too long before getting through the ticket barrier and setting off towards the higher floors - altitude practice for my forthcoming skydive!  There were some empty spaces available on the fifth floor (I think, I have to admit I wasn't really counting), so we drove round that level to find one.  The first empty space we came to was not far from the lifts, stairs and pay point so seemed ideal, the only problem being that the diver of the black car in the next door bay, had parked over the white line, in fact considerably over the white line.  Granted there was a concrete wall on the other side of their bay, but the car was approximately two foot away from the wall, that's how far off centre the driver was when reversing into the bay.  Still, not to worry I thought, as the driver of the car on the other side of the empty bay had also parked slightly off centre towards the left of his/her bay, but within the lines. Also, my Peugeot isn't very big, so I had a go and managed to fit nicely in the bay, within the demarcation lines and with enough room for us to be able to open the doors and get out. Okay, so my daughters both got out on the other side of the car, where there was slightly more room, but I got out the driver's door, which opened about 6 - 8 inches and luckily there's not much of me, so it was fine - my door made no contact with the other vehicle and I felt quite proud of myself.  Job done!

We had a lovely lunch in the Slug and Lettuce and then headed back to the car to go to Silchester for a look around, as my youngest daughter is studying ancient history and archaeology and excavating the Roman town of Silchester is part of the course.  The first thing we noticed on returning to the car was that the black car next door had gone and someone else was parked in that bay, this time well within the lines.  As I opened the car door I noticed a piece of paper stuck under my windscreen wiper, which I retrieved as I got in.  Shutting the door, I looked at the note, for indeed that's what it was, presumably left by the lovely driver of the car I'd originally parked next to.  By way of a thank you to me for my skill and courteousness at parking within the white lines of the parking bay despite the difficulty caused to me by him or her not being quite so skilful at manoeuvring, the driver had written in large capital letters, one word - T**T.  Obviously there weren't any asterisks, but I'm sure you can work out what the missing letters were.  I was speechless.  Absolutely speechless!  Not to mention completely staggered that someone would do that when they were the one who had parked incorrectly, not me.  So there you have it, my unplanned fifty first - I've never had a rude note left on my windscreen before.  Technically I suppose I could count it as two fifty firsts, because I've also never had a rude note left on my windscreen for being the person who didn't make a driving/parking faux pas by the person who actually did make the driving/parking faux pas.  But that's way too confusing, so I'll just happily accept it as one fifty first and in a strange way, I have to thank the inconsiderate T**T, to use their words not mine, for helping me one more step towards my goal!


If you want to see the photographic proof visit Alison's Fifty Firsts on either Facebook or Twitter.