I went out for dinner yesterday, it was a nice evening, food was wolfed, booze was swilled, conversation was had.
All in all it was excellent, what was not excellent however, was the serving wench who facilitated us with menus. Like all good restaurants they had a selection of daily specials, there was some soup, that was bean flavoured, I think, the accent was hard to get through to secure the true meaning, it might have been pea, or green. Quite what green flavoured soup would be I don’t know but clearly there was too much ambiguity about the whole thing so I shied away from that item.
They also had another special on offer, lets for the sake or arguments call it “lo sgombro non e’ piu’ disponibile”, that’s not the name but it was something Italian that I could not pronounce let alone remember, apparently it was delicious. I had my doubts as it was made from mackerel, one of the worst fish available if you ask my taste buds, but the description that was forthcoming from the waitress almost made me think twice with the poetic prose that she wove together extolling it’s epicurean wonderfulness.
Only had I wanted to order it, I would not have been able to, for it was so delicious that it had sold out long ago. Quite why she wasted a minute of my life telling me how delightful a dish, that I couldn’t order, was, I never know. Maybe she just likes deliberately wasting the time of the customers in honour of the late Mr. Henry Wensleydale… Also she laughed at me for asking for no mushrooms, I still don’t know why, it made me very suspicious. Hag.