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.