I happened to field a call last Sunday morning from a very pleasant person enquiring about the possibility of partaking of a gluten free Sunday lunch.
The booking sheet was looking pretty full but feeling particularly genial due in part to the availability of a family bag of Minstrels I thought I'd squeeze the party in at the end of service without mentioning it to the kitchen.Yep, its not difficult to 'manage' a couple of surreptitious bookings without the knowledge of the kitchen, I'd already planned to just tell them they'd been booked in earlier but arrived late which of course is a daily occurrence so would arouse no suspicion whatsoever..She was so bloody effusive at the idea of a lovely home cooked lunch with gluten free gravy that the mention of the Gluten free Sticky toffee pudding practically had her proposing to me down the phone line.
I was feeling pretty pleased with myself and looking forward to welcoming them.
Fortuitously(or not as will be revealed later)they arrived(thank god)on time,I indicated the menu and bestowed them with my best beam whilst requesting they order fairly promptly.
No point pushing my luck with kitchen too far.
When the order came to the kitchen the Little House on the Prairie sweater unravelled pretty darn fast.
In addition to gluten she was allergic to:
The main upshot of this bombshell being that of course she couldn't have the gluten free gravy as obviously made with stock containing CELERY and GARLIC.
'Can't you make some up with bit of chicken Bouillion?'I said (you know that handy tub of stuff sitting on the top shelf that no self respecting Chef will admit to keeping for emergencies.Wink wink.)
I was already making a grab for it.
|Marco knows best..:)|
Chef was not joyful.Suffice to say he was right up in my grill with some choice expletives(don't worry I've bookmarked some of the more colourful for recycling on future potty mouthed occasions) and its fair to say Reader,on this occasion I was NOT feeling the love.
The edited outcome being that there would indeed be potentially more celery in the little plastic tub of disgrace than in the homemade stock.
She'll have to have a dry dinner,God dammit that was going to stick in her craw both situationally and existentially, make no mistake.
'It'll be ok' I say 'just butter the veg'
Butter makes everything better.
I realised my mistake just as the words were out,but not as quick as Chef had his deadpan face on full display.
After the meals were cleared and the redundant sweet board having been feebly offered I wondered if there was anything lurking at the back of the fridge I could offer her by way of a pud.
Unbelievably the previous offer of the sticky toffee pudding was brought up, along with the enquiry was it dairy free...
I could have knocked her out.
'Who does she think I am.. fucking Dynamo?' said Chef helpfully.
'Not to worry, I'll just have the cheeseboard instead,I can take a bit of dairy.'
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?...
I crawled off to a dark place and sat quietly for some time.