Writing for life

What is it about kitchen drawers? You put things into them, and they disappear. When you need them, you can’t find them. Then, months later, when you’re rummaging through the drawer looking for the cheque book they re-appear.

It happened to us only last week – when my wife suddenly came across a voucher for dinner at a local hotel. We’d won it in a raffle last October, had put it in the kitchen drawer for safe-keeping and hadn’t seen it since. It was still valid, just, and when Sunday came around gave us the perfect excuse to head out for lunch and let someone else worry about cooking and washing up for a change.

We don’t go out to eat with the children very often, and they seemed to be doing their utmost to remind us of exactly why not. The restaurant was too noisy, it was too dark, the chairs weren’t comfortable enough, the table was too far away… the litany went on and on, and we’d only just sat down.

We went through the menu with them. It was typical Sunday lunch fare: beef, pork, turkey and stuffing, and salmon. For children there was the familiar artery-clogging selection of chicken nuggets and chips, sausages and chips, fish fingers and chips, and so on. We asked the waitress if they could offer half portions of the main meals for children, and she confirmed that they could. So far, so good.

Our waitress arrived to take our order. She was efficient and patient, if not exactly warm. After a lengthy period of procrastination one of the twins finally opted for salmon, the other went for beef, and the little one ordered pork. Things all seemed to be settling down nicely until one of the twins piped up with:  “This restaurant is rubbish, you can only pick meat or fish. Why can’t I pick my favourite vegetables?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

Instead I tried talking. I explained that there’d be a selection of veg with the meals, and the waitress added that the veg would come on-the-side, apart from the potatoes, so they’d be able to pick and choose what they wanted.

“Mashed or crispy?” came the almost instantaneous retort. She was talking about the potatoes. I explained to the waitress that by crispy she meant roast, and she confirmed that they’d actually get both.  That seemed to satisfy my daughter… for now at least.

Before long the waitress returned with five glasses and a huge jug of water. The food arrived soon afterwards and we all tucked in. I have to say I was pleasantly surprised. Eating out in Ireland so often disappoints. Restaurants routinely charge inflated prices for fare that rarely surpasses the mediocre. Most of the time I’m left feeling that I’d have been better off buying a bag full of ingredients and cooking them at home.

Why is it that so many chefs, who in Cork in particular are surrounded by some of the most sublime ingredients, manage to produced such utterly uninspiring food? There are exceptions, of course, but you have to pay through the nose for them – and even then it can be a pretty hit or miss affair. Compared to the continent, where you can enjoy a memorable three course menu almost anywhere, and often get change from €15 to-boot, eating out here is a joke. But I digress.

The broccoli may have been a shade overdone, the carrots a little under, and the roast potatoes could have done with a little more crunch – but the beef and the pork were beautifully tender and tasty, and the salmon was poached to perfection. All in all, as a family dining experience I’d have to give it a respectable seven out of ten.

Technorati Tags: parenting, eating out, Ireland, Evening Echo