When the deadline siren sounded for my Script submission, I almost wept with joy. For five days straight I’d hopped out of bed, still in my onesie, galloped downstairs and applied my beak to the task of creating a 90 minute screenplay. So thoroughly immersed in the lives of my characters, I forgot about the fundamentals of life and was getting by on a nourishing bowl of fruit +/- dark chocolate rice cakes. This only lasted for the first two days. After a challenging yoga session out in the open air, I developed the appetite of a T-Rex. Luckily, next door’s main pet choice wasn’t a tethered goat or it would’ve been on the menu.
Confident I would finish early, I accepted a 60th birthday invitation to dine at Leicester’s finest eatery, The Suitcase. I don’t know the difference between a restaurant and an eatery and the internet’s no help but in this case, I suspect eateries are for people who can’t cook. I submitted with two hours to spare, although much work lies ahead try to make the synopsis and treatment match the script; a task not unlike hiking up K2 in new Louboutin’s.
Turfing through my wardrobe generated a choice of outfits. Alas the backless, baby pink and blue lace number from a summer wedding went straight to the charity bag along with a silver velvet jacket last seen on the album cover of St Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. I’d also been to Phase Eight and as everything that fit cost twice what I was willing to pay, I’d opted for a dress that aged me 20 years. I did a twirl in front of the mirror and gazing at the back view, all that came to mind was the main stage at Glastonbury and it went back the next day.
After all the thunderstorms, Friday evening’s air maintained a swampy feel making any garment containing polyester attach itself to the body like clingfilm. In desperation, I’d ditched my black feathers for a floral wrap number from Wallis but made a subtle miscalculation in my underwear choices. I tried it on wearing an elderly ‘gardening’ bra in an A cup yet flew out of the Nest in a C cup and found the attractive bundle of fabric gathered at my waist had slithered up to my chin as I clambered up into the front seat of a taxi. I spent the next half an hour apologising to the driver.
We flocked at the Gin Palace Bar which used to be a very expensive hi-fi shop; something of a rarity these days. Its dark interior suggested long nights of inebriation, suspicious plots and after counting up the number of black bottles along the bar, I felt at home immediately. My relationship with gin has been a long one, especially after two weeks in Ibiza in the 1980s. Granny’s Bar in Es Cana still exists although the website’s a bit disturbing. They celebrated a decade of inebriation in 2014, but back in 1982 I was served a highball glass filled to the brim with ice and gin and a tiny splash of tonic; all for a couple of Pesetas. You could lose days of your life drinking those and I’ve got the pictures to prove it. On Friday, my beverage of choice on an empty stomach was ‘Burleigh’s London Dry’ with a £34.00 price tag and it tasted divine with a slice of pink grapefruit. After two of these with slimline tonic, I was ready for that tethered goat again.
Culinary choices as a child were a tug-of-war between what I liked and what we could afford, and daily featured cheese slices, tinned marrowfat peas or a Vesta packet curry with added corned beef chunks (thanks Dad!). Aged five, I petulantly refused school dinners for a year after being served the malodorous cheese pie and beetroot salad combo; I can still smell it now.
Upstairs in The Suitcase, we finally realised the need to pre-order our food weeks ahead. We hadn’t and 14 people filled with G&T don’t make decisions in a hurry. Experience has taught me this and usually I’ll fill up before I leave The Nest. At one point I was so bored waiting for food that I got up and inspected the ladies room fearing the development of bedsores. When it arrived, my risotto had lots of parmesan and some green lumps which I think were edamame (windy) beans and tasted absolutely delicious washed down with a good New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc costing £6.99 in the Co-Op or when it’s had the screw top removed by a waiter it becomes £23.00 on the bill. There was no uncorking fee available I would have smuggled in a case of Aldi’s fizzy for £7.99 which is better than Prosecco. There, I said it!
I love a good mutton stew or better still a curry for my main course. Something to be savoured. They should be gently cooked for at least three hours and left to stand for a day or two. So will someone please tell me when did it become fashionable to serve lamb not only rare but in danger of exsanguination? Next time I’m asked how I’d like my lamb, my response will be ‘deceased’ and I didn’t expect it still to be frisking on the plate and surrounded by artwork of brown streaks and green blobs. One of our number is an interior design student who suggested the blobs might be peas. Can I please have peas without blender involvement next time? At 10.00 pm, I refused pudding consisting of a circle of frozen chocolate mousse, tarted up with a chopped up Crunchie bar although the bit I tried tasted lovely. Those patrons who chose the Eton Mess with Basil Ice Cream felt it was ‘interesting but more appropriate on Dolmio Day’.
This is the second time in 2016 I’ve been for a meal and landed back at The Nest still hungry. That’s all good because I’ve been eating French trying to shed a few unwanted kilos. Small meals with tiny pieces of locally sourced meat, hand picked vegetables from the garden and two Jersey Royal potatoes carved into a likeness of the Emperor Napoleon. My inner T-Regina said ‘stuff that’ and as I zombied-out at the weekend, I could barely raise my beak on less than 3,000 calories a day. All this waiting around burns up some serious carbs let me tell you.
Tip of the Beak: On Saturday, Alphonse returned from a lengthy stop at Gregg’s feeling a bit confused. He’d ridden home on the No.54, generally described as a switch-back ride and akin to the Paris-Dakkar rally. He’d shared his seat with another of the regulars ‘Scouse Alan’ who is a self-confessed alcoholic and generally full of surprises. Now Alphonse isn’t a great sharer of private information - not rank, name, serial number or retirement status pass his lips - so imagine his surprise when greeted thus.
“Watcher Alphonse … how are ya mate?” Scouse then took a slug of White Lightening and vodka, and slumped next to Mrs Alan. Taken aback, Alphonse asked how he knew his jazz name having kept it under wraps. Alan’s reply was legendary.
“I might be an alcoholic but it don’t mean I’ve got a poor attention span” For the sheer brass neck of it, Alphonse treated Scouse and the missus to lunch at the chippie with all the toppings. More than he does for me, that’s for sure.
Raven
