How about a date? I've been on dates before. I remember the first one, where I was slammed for taking a girl (yes) furniture shopping. In my defence, I was eleven and Home Cargo, the shop forever hosted with misery over the impending year round closing down sale was hardly the pinnacle of home ware and objective design. But this was Peterborough. I needn't say more. As I got older they got better. I meat a guy who insisted we had to go to this restaurant which was '70's themed' or rather, had not been updated since the shopping centre was built. As events unfolded, I noted that he really was not for me and through some medium, a close friend had managed to track us down on the elevator, to which my 'date' insulted her, only to receive a dead arm in return. Therefore, my outlook on dates has been that if we reach the intended end, without anyone crying, then its a success.
So now to the recent past. I had gotten myself to London. It was a slow train, it dragged its self along the track reluctantly, like a dog scratching its arse on the carpet. I thought, things could only get better. Luckily, I was met at the station, so things were not too traumatic. I was a little nervous, but I hope I didn't show too much. The events unfolded as intended and seemed to go fairly smoothly. Dinner seemed like a good idea. I was, peckish. The taxi driver was reassuring; he has a feeling the restaurant was somewhere, but the clock counted up instead of down; enough to give Carol Vordeman time to illustrate the situation with three consonants and a vowel, however it turned out that we were not too lost after all. Club Gascon. Known simply as french.
Greeted by a Londoner, carrying a vaguely convincing french accent, we were seated at a table in the corner. I noted people were not seated based on looks for a lonely looking man who's chin rested on his stomach was given centre stage. Champagne, a must, was quickly poured, required to give people that added confidence boost to say the french phrases listed on the menu. The waiter staff wore mainly black and vacant expressions. An apron, stretched to the floor looked suspiciously like they were hiding something. Subsequent thought indicates that they cook all the food via slow cooking on the thigh, to get that just warm sensation.
Meals are ordered like 'tapas', a phrase the staff spit out with genuine dislike, as if it insults their heightened view of 'real' food. After careful consideration, based mainly on the words I recognised, I selected Duck Frois Gras with grapes and Black Cod with some sort of coconut sauce. The basics of bread was provided with two varieties of butter. Not salted and unsalted, the only varieties Lurpak allows us to know, but a salty garlic butter and a creamy light butter. I would have been quite happy to consume the butter on its own, as I discovered when a butter cup reflected in my greasy youthful skin as a kid, that I liked butter, but in this setting, the restaurant and company seemed to suggest that that would not be appropriate. Instead 'my friend' had an olive bread roll and I had what I guess was a french bread in miniature, but took on the appearance of a heavy croissant. This was offered again throughout the meal, as I was to discover, to ground the taste buds.
Next came a plate which looked nothing like duck. In fact, this is a not-ordered-but-expected-nessesity. A square plate, with two spoons and several small deposits of jelly. One spoon featured a transparent party sausage roll, made out of some sort of cold, red, what could possibly be ham or a rolled up ear. The next spoon had an orange phlem consistency. To the bottom left was a cube of jelly, like the sort you get before one dissolves it in hot water, only it had a slight bitter flavour relative to sweat. Top right held a herby macaroon. The centre held some red sugar paper, pretending to be a dried pasta bow. All of this was quickly consumed, and left me feeling slightly confused. This want food and as for the orange bile, that was the chefs frustration, aimed at a porcelain spoon. Quite nice, none the less.
Now, for what I had ordered. Not to sound ungrateful, but it wasn't what I expected. I should have clicked by now, that I was not about to receive some crispy aromatic duck on a peely skin pancake. I received instead a layered installation of mush topped with impossibly thin and brittle wheat toast, with a dark burger of duck cruelly nesting on the toast. My knife was blunt, but it met no resistance, as the weight of the blade easily made short work of the duck frois gras. The char grilled outside revealed a very pink inside. I never thought of duck being medium rare, nor did I think I knew what frois gras was. I stayed ignorant till at least 24 hours after when I discovered it was a duck, force fed and slaughtered. I have always said I hate textured meat. This however was devoid of texture other then smooth. It had no texture but a lot of flavour. The small morsel, the amount the duck possibly would have preferred to eat, was mind blowing. Sensual overload. As to flavour, I could not describe. I discovered that the Basic's range does not mean anything to flavour. 9p Jelly does not even know where to start. Already, I felt defeated. I felt full. The toast was expected, the grapes, sweet. I'm not much of a foodie. I struggled. The waiters, I expect realised that half way through this painful ordeal that we would need to move on to the next course or they would not be finishing their shifts that night. To say it was painful however was not fair. It was a great experience, but, one not to be repeated. As someone to whom words are so important, I found it frustrating that I could not describe the sensations. I had nothing to compare it to. I felt lost.
Next course was coming. Black Cod. The bowl contained white flakes of very sweet fish. The flavours were yet again strong, however I managed better with this one. The coconut, a surprising combination, first thought of in Scotland, when a battered Bounty became conjoined with a portion of fish. It was impressive. Each petal of flesh was infused with a sparkle of magic. A store for an impossible variety of ingredients. Each one melted on the tongue and sent taste sensations with so much energy to the brain, that my neck twitched with the recoil. The battle with the fish I knew was not one that I would win. With these two water based animals, each survived my stomach in some part, from being digested.
Finally, the desert menu. I knew I could not take on a desert alone. 'My friend' here would have to assist. We chose a cheese cake. Still, I was sure that the sturdy cheese cake would not fail me in my expectations. Another not-ordered-but-expected-nessesity came out. It was another porcelain spoon, with frozen blackberries covered in froth. The blackberries were semi-thawed, but still, small ice crystals gave the jelly some texture. A cumulus cloud suspended above the blackberries captured the flavour of mint. It was more subtle then the foam created from brushing teeth, but very refreshing. It tingled.
Lastly, the cheese cake. A small column of the darkest chocolate presented beside a small tsunami of smoothest chocolate ice cream. The column was relative to the size of a Kodak film canister of the 90's. Inside this dark chocolate pillar was heavy, dark chocolate, infused with a cheese paste which was too rich for royalty. I have been miss labelled before as a queen, and I wasn't about to slip on those Choo's there and then. Instead however, I ate the ice cream, it was kinder to my pallet. The not-ordered-but-expected-nessesity before hand made sense. It was there to show the sharpness of ice, and the lack of its habitation within the ice cream. It was so smooth it was the cold sensation of taste. It was wonderful.
Conversation continued throughout, and the date went well. Nobody left crying or feeling disheartened; like the whole meal, it was a time for firsts.
The tab came, but there was something missing. The white, oval, sugar coated mint imperial had been missed off the silver tray. Honestly.
