Shall we dine?

Hello!

Sometimes it's so nice to have someone else cook for you.  Now that I cook at home AND at work I don't always want to have to think about what to have or to cook.  Takeaways - well, they have their place, but going out for dinner and being waited on is even better once in a while. We are spoilt for choice here and it reminds me that when I was growing up what little choice there was by comparison. I mean, unless you are in a tiny village most people can go out for dinner these days, not too far from home and choose from almost any international cuisine rather than just Italian, Chinese or Indian as in days of yore. I mean, amongst everything else we have two Nepalese restaurants in our small town and both are superb. But before we decide whether we fancy sushi, eclectic British, French or Himalayan Gurkha fare let us go back in time for a moment to those days when eating out was such a special treat - something that was planned for weeks and for which best dresses were donned and best behaviour was required ....

OK, so we're back in the mid-'70s. Can you tell it was my favourite era? When we were little and went out it was so exciting. Certainly there was no such thing as a gastro-pub or one of those super-family-friendly kind of places you get now - but because of that it made the event more special somehow. We couldn't just dash out to the Japanese noodle bar for a quick fix and Zizzi hadn't been invented, so what did we do? Well, when we were splashing out for an occasion we had a few favourite places near us. The Three Kingdoms was the only Chinese restaurant in town that wasn't just a takeaway and it was  attractively situated on a mad roundabout in the middle of the one-way system near the railway station.  Parking, as you can imagine, wasn't easy.  But once we had battled our way to the entrance, dodging traffic, trains and weather, we were faced with the enticingly (and forbiddingly) modern, smoky, dark plate glass frontage (you couldn't see in but They could definitely See Out) with its blue Diners Club and American Express symbols stuck slightly skew on the door. Inside there was a patterned, bamboo-y interior, around which wafted some relaxingly exotic plinky music.  Shiny and slightly fierce waiters slid about tinily between the white-clothed tables with deliciously fragrant and sizzling dishes. We'd dive on the prawn crackers (who doesn't) and then share a selection of dishes which haven't really changed at all over the years. Special fried rice, sweet and sour prawn balls with all that orange shiny gloop - divinely disgusting. Cashew or lemon chicken - bliss. Chow mein - hmm, too many slimy beansprouts for me. Crispy beef - got stuck in your teeth for weeks but one muddled through somehow. Aromatic crispy duck was the piece de resistance, with all the fun stuff attached - the waiter theatrically  shredding the meat at the table and donning a pile of thin white pancakes and accompaniments with alacrity, after which we could roll our own juicy morsels with the tiny batons of cucumber, spring onion and a lovely dollop of plum or hoi-sin sauce. Yum!  I could have eaten a whole half duck on my own I'm sure. Then of course we'd spoil it all by forcing down a few eyeballs for afters ... I mean shouldn't lychees (along with okra) be banned from the planet forthwith, or is it just moi? Anyway, so that might be a Friday night once in a while and lovely it was too. We'd get home at 10 and be allowed to stay up and watch a bit of Dave Allen or Monty Python before bed while Ma and Pa had a nightcap.  

Otherwise, there were a couple of  little genteel family-run restaurants aspiring to be a bit posh - this type was often above a shop  - with names like Le Chanticleer or La Petite Maison, where we would go for birthday meals on Saturday nights or Sunday lunchtimes. People whispered in these places, above the barely audible and crackly tape playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons or Air on the G string  - everyone behaved as if they were in church and the clink of glasses and clatter of cutlery on china was much louder than the sound of people actually enjoying themselves. You could just hear the odd "pass the salt, dear" or "waiter, could my wife have another fork please", things like that. I remember my sisters and I got the giggles terribly once, because an awfully serious and tidy silver-service waitress whose face I can remember to this day came along with the vegetables and as she got to each person she'd look us in the eye and hiss "parsley potatoes Sir/Madam?" under her breath at us one by one, until we couldn't sit up straight for trying not to laugh and tears were sprouting cos it was so funny and ridiculous. Mum and Dad were trying hard to keep us under control but were beside themselves too so it all went hopelessly wrong. Our lovely Granny always came out with us for family meals and her crisp perm would bob about anxiously above her Liberty print frock as she watched the horror unfold and whilst trying to keep a straight face herself. Which only made things worse of course. The waitress fortunately didn't take too much umbrage at our shocking manners and gave in to giggles herself eventually - she couldn't even get the words out by the time she got round to Dad - "ppppsly pppptatoes, Sssir?" - let alone deliver the green-flecked bullets to their rightful slots without pinging them on to the floor. I fear that a couple of them did bounce under the table and possibly got kicked about slightly, to a soundtrack of tutting from the lady who had got another fork.

Then there was the odd Italian "Trat" (checky tablecloths, breadsticks, floppy pasta, raffia'd Chianti bottles housing dusty red candles) or the little French-style brasserie (checky tablecloths, baskets of fake french bread, langoustines, steaks and lovely thin frites). Or if we were on holiday, perhaps driving around the Lake District or Devon, there would be hotel restaurants to eat in. I loved those. We wore our best dresses, lacy knee-socks and patent leather shoes and we would meet for drinks in the swirly-carpeted bar half an hour before our table was ready. Dad would come down in his grey flannels, navy blazer and some dreadful paisley cravat to sip a G&T, mum would waft in in a caftan on a wave of Elnette and teetering on her wedges towards her dry Martini. We would slurp lemonade or Coke on the rocks through stripy straws and then suck on the slice of lemon grimacing hideously. There was  much nipping to the Ladies to check that our alice bands were on straight before we were directed to our table. 

In the dining room, waiters pulled out red velvet chairs and pushed us up to the table, flapping proper napkins onto our laps - soooo swish and sophisticated. And they'd come round and deliver the plates and condiments swiftly and silently - shame about the "mustard, sir?" moment though ... my sister was most put out and wished she hadn't had her hair cut so short...

Menus were very limited of course, though at the time we didn't think so - they seemed just splendid. Starter choices would always include the obligatory half a grapefruit with a glace cherry perched classily in the middle. Then there might be some sliced melon with port (hmm, OK but even better if there was a sliver of salty Parma ham atop) or half an avocado pear ("eugh, it's just like eating soap" said Cousin Richard), with a pool of vinaigrette in the hollow. Or a small glass of concentrated orange or tomato juice, on a plate WITH A DOILY.  Why concentrated juice was considered an adequate starter I'll never know. Or "Soup of the Day" - woe betide if it was minestrone but I loved the French Onion with its cheesy crouton on top. If poss I went for prawn cocktail, or pâtė if it was on the menu, with bendy toast and a sprig of parsley on the side. Often, it had more than a hint of Pedigree Chum about it ... Dad once peered down at his and asked the waiter why his slice of "pâtė maison" was so perfectly round and the answer was "because chef can't buy it in square tins, sir".

Thence to the the main courses ... there were a lot of stews and breaded things, I remember. Veal escalopes - very contraversial and they were my fave, fried and with a twist of lemon on the side and some sautėed potatoes and peas  - heavenly. Gammon and pineapple - vile and to be avoided at all costs but no hotel or pub menu would be complete without it. Steak and kidney pie or Coq au Vin. Baked trout with almonds, the occasional lobster thermidor - only for super-special occasions! Dad would usually go for a mixed grill or sirloin steak - rare - and chips. Possibly with a flat grilled mushroom and a gobbet of garlic and parsley butter on the side.

Then there was The Dessert Trolley which is thankfully a thing of the past now - we'd have our beady eyes on it throughout the meal, whilst eying up our fellow diners to see who was ordering what and whether the flaccid chocolate profiteroles would all go before we had a chance to get any. It would squeak past us throughout the evening and then go back again to its dark corner minus a few more portions of ghastly gateaux, the remains of which were all the while getting warmer and runnier. (It always paid to book your table early - get in there at 7pm and you might not get salmonella by 9). Sherry trifle (Granny always ordered it and the soggier the better), lurid cream cakes of varying types, Black Forest Gateau being the most sophisticated of course, fruit fools and possibly a rubbery chocolate or lemon mousse, so loaded with gelatin that you were chewing on it for hours. Much safer to have the cheese (brie, stilton, mild cheddar) and biscuits with obligatory grapes (seeds in of course). Absolutely splendid and I wouldn't have changed any of it for the world!

Happy eating out!

AMT