the one that got away

We've all experienced this: the job, the man, the surfboard that misjudged the wave. What about the deer?

Today I took a wheelchair-bound relative out for lunch. I burned up trillions of calories navigating the wheelchair out of her flat and down to the hotel, even more wheeling her back up the road again.

It wasn't an auspicious start. When I booked the table last night, the receptionist didn't ask for my name. And when we arrived we were the only patrons in the dining room - always a bad sign - and remained so. The walls were a mustard yellow and the lone chrysanthemum table centres lacked more than imagination.

For starters I ordered pigeon and beetroot salad with balsamic vinegar. I hadn't eaten pigeon before so wasn't sure what to expect. In fact I sent it back because it was pink in the middle and bore a disconcerting resemblance to liver. Apparently it's easy to overcook pigeon and end up with something too tough. Arguably it's easy to undercook pigeon and end up with a mirror image of a prop from a horror movie. They offered me a replacement dish: the leek and potato soup seemed a safe bet but tasted more like saltwater than vegetables.

For the main course I opted for a promising-sounding venison and apricot pie with chive mash and when it arrived, attacked it with my usual enthusiasm for anything culinary. It was tasty, very, but with a conspicuous absence of venison.

With a gritty and determined conscientiousness that would have impressed Taggart and Poirot and all preceding and subsequent sleuths, I combed through it to see if I'd missed anything which could even vaguely be perceived as venison, more to appease my tastebuds than with the intention of whisking it off to forensics in a plastic bag. (All those years of watching detective series have not been wasted. Absolutely not.)

I found one morsel, smaller than a five pence piece. Somewhat rashly I ate it, instead of keeping it in splendid isolation for the inevitable exposé. When the waitress appeared to see if everything was alright, rather than wade in with yet another complaint, I ascertained she wanted an honest answer, and having been assured the hotel welcomed feedback, explained about the lack of venison in my venison and apricot pie. As we were the only diners, perhaps she appreciated an unusual task, regarding it as preferable to hovering, noticing smidgeons of dust on wooden surfaces and wondering if it was likely to rain that afternoon.

Whether the chef was wreaking his revenge on my rejection of his pigeon salad or was just slapdash, I don't know but it seemed most odd. My aunt, meanwhile, was enjoying her pie which, as the menu implied, did contain venison. The waitress eventually reappeared with a soup bowl of venison and gravy, which I added to my plate of pastry fragments and mushy potato. We didn't order desert.

The hotel is hosting a wedding reception tomorrow and while we ate, pots of geraniums were being arranged on either side of the steps leading into the hotel grounds. I was tempted to place cards on all the tables saying: don't choose the venison, but, as we all know, revenge is a dish best served cold.

Irritably yours


Jane