Bob and Nob (aka Robert and Gabriella) came round to dinner last night. Bob is bearable in a simultaneously louche and high-handed sort of way whereas Nob is a greedy and snaggle-toothed screecher. Nob is also three months pregnant. You wait. She will produce a much larger mammal than the one she is expecting as her pregnancy already seems to have been endless. She’s been screeching about it since the minute she stood up after a particularly vigorous coitus (described energetically one evening in front of both Bob and my mother-in-law). But - remind me what is to be avoided in that first delicate trimester? I served homemade pate as a first course, a carpaccio and oily fish mini-buffet as the main and a lovely soft and blue-vein cheeseboard to finish. And to drink? Salmonella-ridden tap water or alcohol, Nob?
She started it. This was revenge for another memorable occasion. Bob has been the Major’s friend in an enforced discomfort zone for some years whereas Nob is a recent addition. ‘You must have your oysters from Loch Fyne,’ screeched Nob on seeing my bed of bivalve molluscs. ‘They are the only ones to have.’ Everyone is a foodie. Everyone is a photographer. Everyone has a food blog or a Photoshop-manipulated hobnob site. ‘Are they from Loch Fyne?’ ‘No, sorry, Nob, they’re not.’ The sound of a thousand triumphant bugles and a clash of cymbals exploded inside her head. ‘Oh – oh – what a shame, darling! Never mind!’ Nob made savouring faces as the soft mollusc bodies in swift succession slid down her as yet unstrangled throat and deemed them to be ‘pretty tasty’, but not quite as superb as those marvellous Scottish ones. As it happens, my oysters were from Loch Fyne.
I am a cook (or rather an ex-cook), but this is not a food blog.
She started it. This was revenge for another memorable occasion. Bob has been the Major’s friend in an enforced discomfort zone for some years whereas Nob is a recent addition. ‘You must have your oysters from Loch Fyne,’ screeched Nob on seeing my bed of bivalve molluscs. ‘They are the only ones to have.’ Everyone is a foodie. Everyone is a photographer. Everyone has a food blog or a Photoshop-manipulated hobnob site. ‘Are they from Loch Fyne?’ ‘No, sorry, Nob, they’re not.’ The sound of a thousand triumphant bugles and a clash of cymbals exploded inside her head. ‘Oh – oh – what a shame, darling! Never mind!’ Nob made savouring faces as the soft mollusc bodies in swift succession slid down her as yet unstrangled throat and deemed them to be ‘pretty tasty’, but not quite as superb as those marvellous Scottish ones. As it happens, my oysters were from Loch Fyne.
I am a cook (or rather an ex-cook), but this is not a food blog.
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