Treats

If you haven’t been, go on, treat yourself. If you can’t afford to go, do something like we do: save up, play the lottery, ask rellies to give cash instead of tat at birthdays and Christmases, delay your house purchase, cancel your holidays, rob a bank.

I wonder if that last suggestion might be construed as inciting violence. Could I find myself in the slammer, rubbing shoulders with Lucy Connolly, the silly lady who tweeted silly things after the Southport slaughter and who was sentenced to the silliest stretch, like ever? If I were to be banged up, imagine my blogs! No more Mrs Nice Guy. Governors beware – you have nothing to lose but your dignity. And if I came across a man identifying as a woman, by the time I’d finished with him, he’d be begging to be transferred to Shawshank State Prison. That might get me extra time-and-a-half, but it would be worth it for the email exchanges with JK Rowling.

I’d like to befriend Lucy, preferably not as a jailbird, but if our paths do cross at His Majesty’s Pleasure, so be it. I don’t agree with what she tweeted, but I understand why she let rip, and under her particular circumstances she deserves consideration, not incarceration. She’s not racist. She has no issue with people of different ethnicities; it’s illegal immigrants, one of whom she had read had murdered the little girls, she had a problem with. There is a difference between these two standpoints, a difference that’s obvious to the compassionate and commonsensical, but opaque to the soulless and senseless. Go Team Lucy! 

Where was I? Oh, yes. Rob a bank so that you can afford to go. Go where? Le Manoir aux Quat'Saisons of course. How insensitive of me. Many people struggle to buy fish ‘n’ chips, Lucy can’t escape prison porridge, yet here am I encouraging people to part with enough dough to buy a second-hand car. For what? Veal (baby cow), cooked three ways, on a reduction or a jus, not a gravy, accompanied by a solitary asparagus spear balanced precariously on a ball of hand-pickled turnip dotted with clementine crème, not cream.  

Yes but every time Hubby and I eat there, the food plays second fiddle to a surreal experience. The first time, we were doing a favour for one of Hubby’s work colleagues who’d booked dinner and an overnight stay to celebrate a special occasion but had to cancel at the last minute because of a family emergency. He stood to lose a criminal amount of money, so Hubby said we’d take over his booking, without consulting me first. I calculated that if he were to spend that amount on one dinner and a room, he’d have to cut back on the amount he spent on my birthday. He convinced me, by suggesting that Le Manoir could be one of my birthday treats. Oh all right then.

So on went my poshest LBD, my most dangerous stilettos and my most pretentious clutch bag. We were shown to our table. We sat. Air conditioning blasted down my bare back. “I hate air conditioning,” I muttered to Hubby under my breath. In 1 1/2 seconds, a Little Waiter materialised from nowhere and asked Modom if she’d like the AC turned down. Was there a bug hidden in the floral centrepiece? 

I can’t remember what we ordered for starters, (which came after the canapés and the amuse bouche) other than we chose a glass of white wine to wash it down. Whatever the dish was, it was scrummy. Not ‘scrummy’ as in my-homemade-shepherds’-pie scrummy, but more orgasmically scrummy. I preferred white wine back then – does that make me a racist? – so I asked for another glass to accompany my squab (baby pigeon) main course. The squab arrived, still in its salt-pastry crust. My eyebrows shot up into my fringe. No way could I eat all that, but the Little Waiter deftly cut away the pastry to reveal a morsel of tantalising flesh. What a waste of pastry, thought I, my northern thrift coming to the fore. But then I tried a mouthful (sorry, a soupçon) of squab. OMG. Delish. Stuff the wasted pastry. I took a swig (sorry, a sip) of white wine, and wrinkled my nose. This time, it took less than one second for the Little Waiter to reappear and ask if Modom would like a glass of red with her squab. Was there a camera hidden in the pepper mill? I said yes thank you that would be delightful. What would Modom like? Anything you recommend, Modom replied. Hubby kicked Modom under the table. But it was worth it. The Little Waiter chose well, and luckily there was room on Hubby’s credit card to accommodate it. But I daren’t ask for a second glass.

Another time we dined there, it was a business jolly. Hubby’s secretary had dutifully forewarned the establishment that he didn’t like nuts. Unfortunately, the kitchen over-accommodated his fussy palate and served him something different from everyone else for each course. The amuse bouche for the rest of us had one sliver of almond-garnish, the appetiser was dressed with nut oil, and the main (fillet of beef) was rolled in crushed nuts. For the record, Hubby can eat little bits of nuts comme ça, but can’t stomach a fistful of pecans or a bowlful of crème-of-walnut. Being a first-world problem, Hubby laughed it off. Then dessert was served, which again wasn’t that nutty, but Hubby was served something different – a coconut concoction. He doesn’t like coconut. I know it’s not a nut but he still doesn’t like it. I think the syllable ‘nut’ just plays with his head. I whispered, without moving my lips, “You ok with that?” Before Hubby could reassure me that he’d live, the Large Waiter grabbed the plate to remove it. I half-expected Hubby to grab it back and stage an unseemly tug-of-war. But he let it go and graciously accepted instead the sorbet-selection the Poor Chef had found at the back of the freezer. From that day forward, Hubby has not declared his dislike of nuts and will eat everything that’s put in front of him. Except lentils. He can’t abide pulses and beans. Look on the bright side – this household will never ever ever go vegan – Monbiot can go bake his head in a salt-pastry crust.

We were back at Le Manoir last week for lunch to catch up with friends we hadn’t seen since Henley last year. To be honest, this couple are perfectly fine with a quality curry (who isn’t?) but Le Manoir is more or less equidistant between us, and we hadn't had the expense of a skiing holiday this year, so why not? Hubby and I arrived first, in his spanking new Range Rover (plug-in hybrid), of which he is very proud but I think it’s butt-ugly. We recalled the time we’d dined at the Waterside Inn at Bray, where tacky Lamborghinis were the order of the day. At Le Manoir, the cars are mostly (but not exclusively) expensive but not flashy. In fact, we once turned up in my Honda Jazz and weren’t asked to park it in the staff carpark.

At the entrance, a couple were posing for Instagram/Influencer-type photos. What was I saying about tacky? She was wearing an off-the-shoulder satinesque cocktail dress. At lunch? Guess she didn’t get the memo that the dress code these days is smart casual. Neither did the family with the two-year-old, who chose to eat in the garden (thankfully) and wore leggings and T-shirts. They ordered burger and chips … I expect they were wagyu burgers and triple-fried chips.

As I’ve intimated above, the service at Le Manoir is on a par with its food, and its prices. But last-week’s lunch saw the waiters – Little and Large – get increasingly flustered. For my starter, I was presented with a plate of beetroot (prepped three ways). I think about beetroot what Hubby thinks about nuts. I’d gone for the risotto instead. After a lot of obsequious apologising and forelock tugging, my risotto was duly plonked (sorry, placed) in front of me. It was so smothered in multi-coloured fresh flower-heads that I couldn’t see any actual rice. Oh, there it is. Perfectly al dente with just the right amount of everything. Worth the initial confusion.

For my mains, I’d ordered the duckling (baby duck), so was surprised to see lamb (baby sheep) in front of me. Got that sorted quickly. Now on high alert, I pounced on the dessert spoon set before me when I’d actually ordered cheese and was expecting a knife. The cheese trolley was brought forth and I was asked to choose from a selection of several English cheeses and several French. I went for the Somerset Caerphilly (I kid you not), a Suffolk ‘brie’ and I think it was an Oxford blue on the grounds that Oxford beats France any day of the week, but they can’t beat Cambridge as this weekend’s Thames-spectacle showed. No rain for ages so no sewage spills and not a turd (done three ways) in sight. Unless you count Ed Davey on a paddleboard.

Nicely stuffed, we retired to the garden for coffee and petit fours (three of them). I ordered, and was presented first time with, a single espresso. Yay.

It was an awful lot of money to spend on one meal when a curry would have been perfectly fine. But then again, we’d helped to offset Thieves Reeves’ tax hikes on businesses, paid more than our fair share in VAT, supported British farms and food producers and helped pay British workers’ wages. Exactly what part of that could the politics-of-envy adherents find objectionable? 

To be honest, one of the other meals I’ve enjoyed just as much as Le Manoir was takeaway fish ‘n’ chips in Whitby while dangling our legs over the historic harbour wall. Then there was the curry near Kings Cross after a College reunion. The thread that binds my disparate culinary treats is not the food or the expense but the camaraderie. I’d like to think that Lucy Connolly has managed to bond with other ladies during mealtimes, a luxury denied to Tommy Robinson because he has to eat alone in order to stay alive. I’d happily treat Lucy and her family to a Manoir experience, or one of their choosing, if that would help their recovery from their obscene ordeal at Starmer Stalin’s behest, and I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy their company. Ditto Tommy and family.

Mind you, if I end up treating them both in quick succession I’ll need my water-company dividends to come through.