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Saturday 11 September 2010

A Lymington taste of France

Last Sunday I decided that we would venture out of Milford on Sea for Sunday lunch. My plan had already been compiled, and the dining destination of Lanes Restaurant in Lymington had been chosen. I had heard good reports, but we had never been. It was the least I could do, as my wife had had a traumatic week, nothing had happened in particular, but I think she finds living with me a bit more difficult these days. I suspect the constant excitement may be getting too much for her.

Whilst she got ready & painted her face with all sorts of mystical stuff, I got the old Jag fired up & ready for our little jaunt. I suggested to my wife we shared the driving, & that I would happily drive there. For some reason I was greeted with a withering look.

On arrival we played one of my favourite games; ‘find a space to park in Lymington’. I felt quite pleased when we found a parking space where the NFDC didn’t get any more of our cash. We then made our way to ‘Lanes Restaurant’ for our Sunday treat. Wandering up the alleyway to the restaurant I was feeling quite pleased with myself for getting something right for once. My wife was even looking forward to it. That was of course until we discovered the doors locked. In my wife’s usual understanding manner, she queried ‘Do you practice being so inept?’. No answer to that one I’m afraid – other than I am a man of course.

Before I received any more abuse I suggested we had a drink in The Angel Inn to decide where to eat now. A nice pint of cider later we were still undecided, & it had started raining. (My fault again.) I then had a brainwave. My wife had quite liked me during the time when we emigrated to France. My wife insists that a six week holiday does not constitute emigration, but I am sure that I am technically correct. Anyway, on the way up the hill I had spotted ‘Brasserie Gerard’, perfect to get back into her good books I thought. (I think she has some good books, just struggles to find room for me in them these days.)

Our new dining venue agreed, we set off, with my wife containing her excitement admirably. Regular readers of the ridiculous nonsense that I scribe will know that I am fluent in my own version of French, & indeed take great pleasure in wearing berets, so a French Restaurant is a perfect choice. On entering ‘Brasserie Gerard’ we were impressed with the chic contemporary style & very soon I felt myself transported back to the cafes of Deauville on the Cote Fleurie.

As I greeted the waitress with a friendly ‘bonjour’, my wife just looked at me & said a firm ‘don’t’. Once seated it was good to see that the menu was in French with a translation in English for the other diners. A quick look warmed my heart, as I saw such French favourites as ‘pear helene’ & ‘tarte au citron’. Strangely, the French do not have their own words for ‘creme brulee’. Sweet chosen, I could now concentrate on the rest of the meal. Starters of ‘French onion soup’ & ‘champignon farci’ were soon selected by us, to be followed by ‘steak baguette et frites’ and ‘poulet burger with brie’. As our waitress took our order, I chatted away to her in French, she was charming, but did not seem to understand. I was later to discover she was actually a single language speaker from Pennington.

The food arrived promptly, just after I had explored the whole restaurant. Being narrow, they had made good use of the space & even made it feel light & airy with a glass roof section. The walled garden also offered a pleasant dining option with lots of coloured pots of flowers.

As we tucked into our meals we were approached by another waitress with a charming French accent. She asked how we were enjoying our lunch, so being polite, I responded with something like; ‘Tres bonne madame, mes compliments au chef’. The next thing I heard was a swish of air, as a 6 inch heel embedded itself in my leg. Luckily my wife could not extend her leg far enough to actually break my leg. ‘Ce mal‘ I mumbled to myself. I decided to concentrate on enjoying finishing my meal, which I have to say was not hard to do. As the French waitress reappeared to take my dessert order I had spotted a special of ‘Armandine tarte’. This time I decided to save my leg & just ordered the ‘cherry & almond tart please’. I looked to my wife for approval, but her eyes were simply staring at the ceiling as she made a funny huffing sound. Whatever it should be called, it was delicious. As our delightful French waitress brought our bill I could resist no longer, and asked her which part of France she was from. ‘Poland’ she replied. As I explained that I can’t speak Polish, but have been to Hungary, my wife was slipping under the table giggling like a five year old. I sincerely hoped she wet herself.

On our way home I mentally made a list of friends I would happily recommend ‘Brasserie Gerard’ to. Feeling nostalgic, I asked my wife if she would like to emigrate to France again. ‘Not really’ she replied, ‘but I would like you to’.

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