Suzy sodding Homemaker. I walked right into it.
As did he, falling, drenched through the door with his entrance fee – a bottle of red wine which I’d requested. After several texts confirming (you know in case he had a better offer in the meantime) he had called me earlier in the day asking what he should bring. I hate it when blokes do that... You know the form, and you shouldn't need to be told.
If a woman asks you what she should bring she means do you need a salad, some bread, a pudding or cheese, as well as some plonk. When a man asks you, it means I’m too tight and/or can’t be bothered to buy a bottle of wine and so I’m hoping you will waive it and say, oh just bring your lovely self because you’re such scintillating company that it’s a positive honour to slave over the stove all day to serve you without even a token of thanks or appreciation.
I should have asked for a large bunch of flowers.
But Frenchman has never been known for his generosity. Since I stopped writing about restaurants I haven't once been invited to either of his places for dinner - though the fact that he runs the business with his wife might have just have had something to do with that. Moving swiftly on... Except, as the evening progressed, I realised I hadn't moved on at all. I was entertaining Worcester II – the sequel, but wiv a Franch accent.
'Do you think books do anything for a room?' He asked, doubtfully, as he scanned the shelves, the many shelves of books in my sitting room. 'I'm not convinced. I don't see the point of them. I'm not sure why people have them. Why do you have them?'
I explained that most of them belonged to my ex husband, which makes it a valid, if rude, question. He then began to pace, rubbing his hands anxiously, and asked what and when we were eating. He was 'starving', he announced.
I stuck the broccoli in a pan and turned the grill on.
'Don't worry about the broccoli. I don't do green,' He said. Mentally, I put away the salad as I turned off the gas.
‘Oh, I like zis,’ he said, sounding surprised as he toyed with his chicken and chorizo stew which I served with celeriac and mustard mash, the intimation being that he hadn’t thought much of the first course – Serrano ham with baked figs and goats cheese. Something I’d guessed by the fact that he left all the figs… Seventy pence each, not that I’m counting. At least Worcester was always impressed and delighted with whatever I cooked for him. I found myself thinking of his enthusiasm with nostalgia as I watched Frenchman pick chunks of chorizo out of the casserole and tear his bread (Poilane - £6.50) up into shards and not eat it. So much for his supposed hunger. He then asked a long detailed question about the pot I had cooked it in - always a sign of culinary enjoyment. I think not being presented with a menu had somewhat perplexed him. Perhaps owning restaurants doesn’t prepare you for eating what you’re given and imagining that, even as a guest in someone else’s home, you should have a choice of how the food is presented.
‘I would have preferred to eat in the kitchen,’ he told me, as I cleared up.
Well fricking fa la la, I thought – you would would you? I’m sorry your majesty, the maitre d' should have asked you where you wanted to sit at the time of booking.
I didn’t offer him the cheese (Jeraboam's) , pudding (chocolate and coconut tart) or coffee but still had to listen to him drone on about going to some chap’s country pile for the weekend as though he was a household name that I should recognise, though I didn’t, and telling me about the D list celebrities he was going to be with. He dropped their names twice when they didn't make enough impact the first time.
I barely stifled my yawns and eventually he left.
That was the best part of the evening.
I was in bed with Hung by 10.15. Watching, not paying.
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