I went out to supper last night. I had duck breast, served pink, in a sweet peppercorn and orange sauce. It was very good. The duck was tender and had a good flavour. However the peppercorns were red (is this natural?) and I think I prefer them when they are green or black and have a little more bite. The sauce was a little too sticky. Nice and orangey though. It came with a bowl of hot fresh vegetables, and some boiled new potatoes. Sometimes I think you can tell whether a chef can strut his kitchen with authority by his veg, and these were good enough to allow him to practise (?sp) his strut. Firm carrots, sweet broccolli, and lovely al dente mange touts. The only thing I would say is that I prefer my red cabbage to be moist, not dry, but I think that's a personal foible.
To drink there was a rather good little Petit Chablis. I know, white + duck = chav, but I've drunk a ton of red recently and on this pub's wine list finding a decent one I wanted to drink was not easy. And the Chablis leapt out at me. It was rather good.
I wish I actually KNEW about wine, rather than this fumbling about I really do. I once chose a totally innappropriate wine, a Sauterne I think, when I was out with some work colleagues. As this was probably about 20 years ago, you can tell that the incident still rankles. The lesson to them is never trust a chap to know about wine just because he speaks posh compared to you because he went private, and boarding. I think I made one of those little internal vows on that excrutiating night, as the honeyed sweet wine with our surf'n'turf (or something, I am guessing) made us all feel sick, to do better with wine. Draw a line, move on.
I finished with mango and passion fruit sorbet. Two of my favourite flavours in my favourite pudding. I was in heaven. I should have had a glass of Sauterne. It would have been appropriate this time, but pubs don't do that sort of thing (although, this pub has been voted 'eating pub of the year' two years in a row for its brewery chain, which I think is Allied, so quite large). As far as I can see the Sauterne is the only possible reason to eat foie gras. Which, to me, has a rough equivalence to mushy peas. Apart from the taste and the colour of course. But once on the pallette they both induce a gagging reflex.
The sorbet was served with each of the three boules on its own bed of a fresh orange slice, and with a sharp orange sauce. Excellent. And it completed the theme. Perhaps I should have finished with a Cointreau.
I made two of the waitresses laugh quite a lot, and got into trouble with the credit card machine when I wanted to leave a tip. All in all, it was a good evening. One of the waitresses put her hand on my arm as we left.
I also ate out the night before. This frequency is unusual now. It used not to be. That night I had a steak. The first for about eight to ten years I would guess. I very rarely eat beef in any form. I overdosed on it in Australia where we had it three times a day. We killed our own steers and butchered them too. It was all we could afford. The supermarket was a place where we rarely went, and when we did we had to empty our pockets in the car outside and count what we had before we went in. None of us had a line of credit, none of us had an earned income, and as a consequence we ate steak and eggs. I eschew both now. However, the steak on Wednesday night was delicious. This does not indicate a change in habits. Even writing about it now is making me feel queasy.
Coming through.
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