“Would you like an
Artisan tea”, he asked me? Blimey. You mean to tell me that artisans have
their own tea of choice now? I mean, we've all heard of artisan bread, right.
So, perhaps this is what you're supposed to drink whilst eating your artisan
bread sarnie. Doubt it though, not at that price. It was one of
those rather poncy pyramid shaped tea bags too, to maximise diffusion, so I'm
reliably informed. Perhaps it was designed by an ancient Egyptian architect who
worked for a pharaoh and, in between building the world’s largest tombs, found
a novel way of adding a little delicate flavouring to the otherwise bland waters
of the Nile?
It seems that teas go by
profession or trade these days, what with Builders' tea a traditional
favourite with construction workers so they say, being a strong cuppa
brewed in a mug with a tea bag. Its no doubt not dissimilar to Sergeant Major’s
brew (one so strong that the spoon should stand up in it unaided, so my old man
used to say) and which should be dispensed at twice boiling point from of a
large brightly polished tea urn. It should then be gulped down at a throat
scalding temperature (pain is for civvies) between blood curdling roars of fury
directed at poor souls gasping their last on Satan’s very own parade
ground.
Doubtless Doctors and
other medical practitioners automatically prefer a more genteel experience, and
are inclined towards that expanding universe of medicinal "herbal"
teas. I tried one once; it was nettle infusion tea, meant to be good for hay
fever. It smelt of old grass cuttings, you know the ones kept in a warm shed
for too long. It tasted even worse. Hay fever was preferable.
What about teachers, or
do they prefer whiskey (queue gales of laughter please at this prime example of
distilled wit). Doubtless something of a more soporific nature to help them
while away those long school holidays. What about chemists? Perhaps
a memorable mixture of leaves and other naturally brewed psychotropics.
It could be well worth trying in these politically stressful times for
all of us.....
Restaurant and pub menus
are often another unintended source of mirth. Saw one the other day in a pub;
it was a Sunday roast, and the pork proudly declared itself to be “hand
carved”. I imagined some machete-wielding AI out back slicing up the
roast pigs with atom like precision except on Sundays. For a Sunday treat
however, the pork was being carved by a human – perhaps an award winning
sculpture? Relief all round especially for the pig no doubt - at least that job
hasn't been automated by a Google designed robot….
The biggest joke on the
menu however was that claim made by those old staples under the
"traditional meals" section, namely, of course, The Pies! All
insisted they were home-made, conjuring up quaint images of the publican's wife
(sorry, "partner") applying some special recipe passed down by word
of mouth for generations and rolling the pastry, hand prepared only
minutes before, with one of those old rolling pins that your mum used to keep
in the kitchen. All these fanciful illusions are cruelly dispelled the moment
said home-made pie arrives, in the generic white baking dish and super-heated
to the point it’s almost undergoing nuclear fission. The pastry crumpled and
flaking like layers of burnt newspaper, threatens to blow away if you so much
as prod it with a fork. Underneath all of this, the pie’s “contents" are a
glutinous molten lava soup bereft of recognisable or edible solids save
for the odd faded pea and shrivelled survivor of diced carrot. So much for home
made.
One last anecdote.
I remember stopping for breakfast once in a Little Chef (big mistake),
one of those road side Michelin starred temples to motorway haute cuisine. In a
mad fit of over-expectation I order scrambled eggs on toast. Let’s overlook the
fact the toast was no more at best than barely warm bread, the portion of
scramble looked like it had been conjured up from out of a single sparrow's
egg. Curious as to its miniaturised avian origin, I asked the immensely tired
and monumentally disinterested waiter why the scrambled nano-egg portion was so
small. He lethargically went off to check with the so called "chef"
returning with the biologically illuminating feedback that that was all you got
in the packet! Well, well, and there I was thinking all my life that
scramble was made from an egg that came in a shell laid by a hen. Never trust
what they teach you at school.
Thank the
stars I didn't ask for any bacon....
