Ladies Who Don't Lunch

A rare weekend off - by that I mean I didn't spend any of it working, looking at buildings or thinking about buildings. Instead, I indulged my second love, food. Like Guvnor Gadget I enjoy cooking, especially with the added pleasure of a nice bottle of Aussie wine on the side.

Duck a la Alice

Slow roasted duck (courtesy of a local farmer), the skin pricked and rubbed with salt; served with orange sauce (OK - very 1970's - but I was thinking of Gene Hunt as I was cooking it). The bottle behind the duck contains a very nice Masala, great for adding to hot roasting tins to get of all those lovely gloopy cooked-on bits; the soul of any sauce or gravy. On the side, I did sprouts, spiced roast parsnips, roast potatoes in duck fat, carrots with cumin and butter and another bottle of Aussie Merlot. Heaven. Sheer bliss.

Some time ago, I was on the road with two colleagues, I will call them Jim and Rob, going to survey several buildings a client was thinking of buying. We were in three separate cars, as Rob, the 'boss' had a dog, and simply would not leave the damn thing at home, and the last thing Jim and I wanted was to end up stinking of dog and covered in hair. He wasn't really the boss, but we were helping him out. As the client was his, and we were most likely going to make a suitable amount of money, he called the tune, if you like.

The morning dragged on, it was cold although at least it wasn't peeing with rain. As you know from past posts, dear reader, winter means surveys. Summer means stuck to a computer in the office with the blinds down.

After visiting two buildings with a lengthy journey in between on the dreadful tracks they call roads in this part of the country, I suggested we break for lunch. Jim agreed.

'Oh, I don't do lunch' said Rob. So, no lunch, not even a cuppa. I finally arrived home, desperate for a cup of tea and large amounts of food, at five thirty, when it was too dark to continue surveying.

The following day, Jim and I insisted we stopped for lunch - it was cold, wet and depressing so we practically threatened strike action unless we were fed. We stopped at a really lovely country pub, with proper armchairs to flop in whilst reading the menu, and a real fire. The food was lovely; simple pub food of the best kind. I had ham, egg and chips - the ham was thick, juicy and cut off a real joint; the egg had a deep yellow yolk which spoke of happy hens scratching in the grass under some trees; the chips were fat, chunky, uneven, golden and made from King Edwards or some other proper, floury, chipping potato. Jim had a mackeral with mustard sauce, and from the silence whilst he ate it, it must have been sublime. Rob decided on fried haddock and chips. He kept up a constant mutter about how he 'never did lunch' and 'he wouldn't be awake during the afternoon' and 'I am a quarter of a stone overweight, and this will ruin the diet'. I looked up from the delicious ham for a moment. 'Quarter of a stone?' I said, looking at his belly protruding from his jacket. More like three stone I said with my expression. Then I looked pointedly at his plate. And why have fish and chips when there is salad on the menu.

At lunchtime the following day, which happily was the last, Rob drove off and told us he would meet us at the next site in an hour. Jim and I had another nice lunch, not quite as good as the last one, but satisfying none the less.

There is nothing more miserable than those who 'don't do lunch' on a cold, wet, winter's day.