It had been a while since anyone wanted me to review an eatery, particularly after the Russell Bland debacle. Therefore, when I was commissioned to write a review of my latest random Flopsy's home Christmas dinner, I jumped at the chance.
Her name is Miranda (I think this is correct, can the sub-editors check) and she hails from some ghastly little town that isn't London (I think it's in Wiltshire somewhere). We travelled down by train which was most relaxing in 1st Class, Flopsy was a little more constrained in her movements down in cattle class, but she seemed relatively jolly every time she brought me a cup of coffee and a brioche! We eventually arrived at aforementioned ghastly little town and Flopsy moaned a little carrying my cases to the taxi rank, but we were soon arriving at the rather gauche entrance portals to her parent's farmhouse. Her parents seemed pleasant enough, if somewhat limited in their knowledge of Japanese Noh Theatre, the works of Thelonius Monk and also, sadly, the preparation of an alternative Christmas Dinner.
The starter was a rather plain choice of homemade tomato soup or a dull homemade Brussel's pate. I plumped for the pate and was greeted by a pink, smooth nonsense of dull taste and inept seasoning. The turkey was huge, over basted, too dry at the top and stuffed with sausage meat of all things! Flopsy's mother, who's name completely eludes me, served this abomination with sprouts (how five minutes ago!), roasted potatoes, parsnips, cranberry sauce and a gravy so thick you could have re-pointed your pied a terre in Kensington with it! This was followed by a Christmas Pudding like a cannon ball served with thick skinned custard. Enough to make one's homeopathic therapist gibber with horror! She finally committed good taste suicide by serving me INSTANT coffee afterwards! Quelle horreur! I had made notes during the meal and as we sat in front of the roaring log fire of their tasteless ignlenook fireplace, I read out my review of the meal we had just enjoyed. Everyone was obviously thrilled to have such a reknowned restaurant critique in their midst as they listened in increasing silence. When I finished they were all just staring at me, aside from Mrs Flopsy, who appeared to be weeping with joy into her handkerchief. Flopsy's father then stood up and said he wanted to introduce me to another local Christmas custom. This seemed to consist of him hitting me repeatedly in the face as Flopsy's 18 year old brother held my arms behind my back. These rustic lunatics and their little foibles! Their local custom concluded with Flopsy's father then throwing all my cases on the front lawn and setting fire to them, before frog marching me down the muddy lane they call a driveway and throwing me in the main road. When I got back to their front door, I found it locked and had no way back in.
My mother drove me back to London before a brief stop at Portland Hospital for a check on a broken nose and mild hypothermia. What a Christmas!
Anyway, if you have somewhere you'd like to recommend I should check, then please mail me the details to email@example.com and I shall give it the once over! Bon appetit, mes amies!