Lasagne and chips. In Britain we can murder anything. The wine was good, a warm and spicy Pay d’Oc. My wife and I had ordered a whole bottle, vital if we were to have any hope of downing the aforementioned lasagne. Our food arrived but it was self-service and I’d forgotten to pick up cutlery. The young waitress kindly fetched some for us.
At half-time – pause, slurp, slurp – a group of 4 entered and sat opposite. They placed their order and within 5 minutes their lasagne appeared. A member of this party raised concern: had their meal had arrived too soon? The young waitress went to check and the proprietress duly appeared – more mother of the bride really. Bright blue dress (full-zip back), white coiffed hair, heavy make-up (cold-war era), white Birkenstocks (displaying aggressive toes) and pink marigolds.
The reckless customer was quickly silenced. Madam remained, glaring. Nobody else questioned the state. We never saw the young waitress again. Naturally we assumed she was being questioned by the KGB.