In the hotel dining room, the tables were decorated with lace tablecloths and single flowers in cut-glass vases, which made the room look like something out of the 1950s. A log fire was dying slowly in the fireplace, crackling occasionally. On one side of the room was an ancient carved timber sideboard and, on the other, double timber and glass doors led to the lounge bar. Soon the food arrived. My steak (rare, pepper sauce) came on its own plate. There was no room for anything else, so the vegetables arrived on another. T. had ordered fish and chips: a huge beer-battered piece of fish lay over a bonfire of fries with salad and vegetables. The chef, who must have been no more than eighteen - might have been the apprentice - delivered the food himself. Enjoy your meals! he enthused. Then he pointed to the sideboard, on top of which sat a tarnished and dented silver tray bearing bottles and jars of sauces, relishes, jellies and condiments. Help yourselves! he said, and disappeared beh
Recipes and ruminations from a small house in a big city.