Stains news, and this story will break your heart. I was down in the capital of Scotland, whatever it’s called, on a cat-sitting mission.
As ever, I tried seeing as many pals as possible during my stay, and had arranged to meet footer friends in our favourite Italian restaurant.
I say “favourite”, which in my lexicon means “least worst”.
I dislike eating out
I’ve had to face the fact eventually that I dislike eating out. Can’t abide the whole creepy, or surly, welcome thing, and the tense, uncomfortable interactions with waiters. I’d rather sit in my car eating a poke of chips.
Anyway, as in the best thrillers, I now add a sub-plot. At Markies and Spenceries, I’d bought a nice shirt that made me look right sophisticated, ken?
It was “iron-free” but, after an initial wash, the garment was crushed at the executive-style pocket and down the back.
But where is the iron?
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find an iron in the big Morningside hoose (“Swanky Towers”) where I was staying.
So I texted my holidaying pals, Cedric and Millicent (real names changed to protect the guilty), to ask where they’d hidden this essential domestic implement. But neither got back to me in time as they were irresponsibly playing golf.
No matter. The damage was not really visible to the chronically short-sighted. And, as matters panned out, it was to be the least of my shirt problems.
In Italian restaurants, I never know what I’m ordering. I’m limited by being dairy-free but, at any rate, can never envisage the dish I’m ordering – the stupid names don’t help – but just try to choose something that doesn’t sound too revolting.
Now, about the fettuccine
In this case, it was a fettuccine affair, infused with squid ink. I wasn’t particularly happy about this, as I gather squid are actually rather pleasant and intelligent individuals. But what can you do?
I certainly wouldn’t order veal, and once threatened to pour Pironi over a mate who tried doing so.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to eat fettuccine or the longer pastas, but the idea is you shovel the stuff towards your face, but it all comes up in a big lump so you must gob half of it back onto your plate.
While trying to master this, I hadn’t noticed until too late that it was splashing back and splattering my shirt. The whole chest area was covered in spots of squid ink. And it wouldn’t come off.
The shame of it all
My mates were happily banging on about the problems of midfield, but I took little part as I tried wiping off the stains with the cheap paper napkin provided.
The waiter gave me a funny look as I was thus employed. I gave him a simpering smile, while inwardly thinking: ‘This is your fault, with your stupid foreign muck.’
Worse still, I was going home by bus and had to board the busy conveyance covering my torso. More funny looks.
I’m done with this. Next time, I’ll ask my mates to get a window seat in their swanky restaurant while I stand outside with a bag of chips taking part in the discussion from there, possibly having to shout to make myself heard.
It’ll look undignified, but it will avoid stains. As long as I don’t get sauce on my chips.
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