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This Bank Holiday weekend was enlivened by visits to Bristol and Cheltenham Spa and, by way of a celebratory meal, we visited Gianni’s Italian Restaurant in the latter city. We arrived 5 minutes before they officially opened but were welcomed in and grabbed on of the two tables not pre-booked.
The opening patter was great and we decided to share the four “Special” starters between the four of us. Three of these – Goats Cheese, Scallops and Sea Bass & Salmon were extremely tasty, the fourth was forgivably Italian being an aubergine lasagne drowned in a tomato sauce. No alarm bells rang as we destroyed these at a pace only to be matched by the ravenous Bug-Blatter Beast of Traal and we demolished a bottle of Bardolino which was extremely good value for £16.95.
A warning bell rang faintly when the waiter explained that the bottle we’d had was the only one of its kind and that an alternative Bardolino would be supplied with the main course. When it did arrive it became obvious that the first must have been supplied by mistake as it was so superior to the second. Not a bad wine, you understand, just different.
Then the main courses arrived. Mine was a superb Tournedos Rossini, a dish which it is easy to turn into a sodden mess but on this occasion was indeed perfect in every way.
Gianni's, Cheltenham
Wendy’s Breast of Duck in Blackcurrant & Port sauce was remarkably good, the vegetables arrived just on the right side of al dente and complemented our meals well. Our companions had chicken dishes – one with a ham, mozzarella, mushroom, white wine and tomato sauce and the other in red wine and mushroom sauce.
Utterly sated with pleasure, I beamed at the waiter clearing our table, “bloody marvellous” were the words I used and indeed we were all very happy.
Then, that bane of all busy restaurants, the Long Wait began. 15 minutes after clearing our table and supplying a modest dessert menu, a different waiter appeared and took our order. What we ordered was a Tartufo classico, banana split, strawberry cheesecake and a cheeseboard. The Tartufo Classico was obviously out of a freezer and was described as “quite nice” by its consumer. For the rest, well….
The cheeseboard consisted of three pieces of cheese, one soft and two undistinguished hard cheeses, each no more than 3cm by 1cm by 1cm. The accompanying celery was ok, the biscuits were Jacobs Crackers and Ritz’ finest. UNimpressive.
The banana split. Well, if a banana, a lump of ice cream and half a bottle of squirty cream makes a banana split, then I suppose this was a banana split, but produced with a paucity of imagination redolent of a restaurant with no idea what to do about desserts.
My wife’s strawberry cheesecake was a laughable quarter slice of what appeared to be Lidl’s finest, again accompanied by squirty cream. It was cloying, artificial and awful.
I strongly believe in squirty cream, usually accompanying jelly and 4-year-old squealingly delighted children. I don’t think it belongs in any kind of adult menu. I know there will be people who disagree with this, but I stand firm: it’s rubbish.
As Bill Bryson said, “The British will stand for many things, but don’t fuck with their puddings”.
A further 40 minute wait ensued to get our bill. At one point we all stood, hoping to get the staff’s attention, which ploy failed miserably. When the waiter’s attention wandered our way, my wife chose to speak instead of me and pointed out quietly but firmly that the first two courses were superb but the dessert course was terrible. To be fair, the waiter didn’t argue at all, although he did ask what was wrong with Lidl’s finest. Oh, not really. After a further 15 minutes of preparing our bill (who knew we’d be leaving?) I paid £140, £16 of which was for Lidl’s finest, £34 for the wine and the rest was extremely well spent.
To be fair if we had had the same wine throughout we’d not have quibbled, but the switch to a markedly inferior one took the edge off.
So to the marks out of 10.
Starters: 7.5/10 – three of the four were delicious.
Mains: 9.5/10 – difficult to see how they could have been bettered, but 10/10 is reserved for the truly extraordinary.
Desserts: 2/10 – mainly because the plates were clean
Staff: It was a story of two halves, until we’d finished our Main Course, 9/10, from then on 1/10 and that only because I didn’t actually have to go to the till to get my bill, although that would have been faster.
Do I recommend Gianni’s? Wholeheartedly. Just don’t bother with dessert. Also, be prepared for a long wait for the bill.
(We paid £140 for 4 3-course meals, (plus tip) including two bottles of wine)
Gianni’s Italian Restaurant,
1 Royal Well Place
Cheltenham,
Gloucestershire
GL50 3DN
01242 221 101
http://www.giannicheltenham.com/
(Abundant local parking)
Well, as Max Bygraves sang, it’s Spring again, so here come tulips from Amsterdam to the shops. It’s about 40 years since I visited the home of tulips, Keukenhof in Holland and I’d still like to go back with camera in hand, one day. A torrent of these beautiful flowers reaches our shores every year and I generally end up buying some for Wendy.
A brief concern, decided Eric, fondling grateful hands. I just know, leading my Nan off piste, quite ridiculous. So this under very wise x-ray, was your Zeitgeist.
After 11 years and 189,000 miles, we said goodbye to our Toyota Avensis today. The clutch had gone and the engine was going, so we decided that was it. We put it on Ebay for Spares or Repair and it has been bought by a spares dealer who will chop it up tomorrow.
We’ve been on a lot of journeys in that car, which, despite Jeremy Clarkson’s description of it as a “boring car” was bloody reliable and a good friend to our family.
Ah well, onward….
On this Mothers Day, I remember my Mum. Alice died 5 years ago next month at the grand old age of 88 and I miss her. To be frank I lost her a few years before – after her stroke in 2001, but until that point she was still charging about all over the world at 90mph and rushing my Dad off his feet. Afterwards she progressed into paralysis, dementia and the land of the faerie.
In 1940 when this picture was taken, she was young, vibrant, brainy. Her Dad died at the end of WWI, her Mum left her, her brother and sister, at a poor school when she went off to marry a new husband claiming to be a virgin bride with no children. She went into service at 14 for a Princess, worked for a Harley Street Dentist, went to night school to get her Baccalauréat and was evacuated from London during the blitz. She worked for the Admiralty until the end of WWII, went to post-War France and Germany and met my Dad in 1948 after he returned from being a Japanese POW. She was bright, vibrant and ditzy. Mad as a box of frogs in fact.
My childhood was blessed by a loving Mum and I remember her today with a smile on my face.
She was great. Thanks for the memories, Mum.
The sounds of the bedroom had a subtle sameness every morning, but, waking, he knew something was different.
He noticed his wife was lying next to him, he glanced at the clock: 8 o’clock. “Wakey, wakey” he said, softly, and reached to give his wife a cuddle. As his arm touched her back, he suddenly realised the difference this morning: he couldn’t hear her breathing. As his arm rested on her back, he felt alarm take him. She was cold.
Horrified, he pulled back and looked at her closely. Her face was in perfect repose, but there was no movement and he knew, without doubt, she was dead.
In a daze, he dialled 999 and asked for “Ambulance”. When the man answering heard his description of his wife, there was a pause, then “why don’t you get a cup of tea, sir, we’ll be along in 10 minutes”.
Walking down the stairs, he realised he was still naked, his normal sleep attire, so he filled and switched on the kettle and went back upstairs.
While he was getting dressed, the doorbell rang. Ignoring it, he concentrated on getting the right shirt and trousers, each grey, and some nondescript socks he had with loose tops to avoid constricting his legs, he knew it would be a long day.
The phone started to ring and he picked it up, quietly saying “I’m coming to the door now”. When he opened it, he saw that not only had an ambulance come, the paramedics on his doorstep, but he also saw a burly Policeman, chatting down the path with the neighbours. Bloody hell, the place was untidy, they can’t come in!
The lead Paramedic, tall, black and sure in his movements, walked in, gently suggested he finished making a cup of tea, and went upstairs with his colleague, a mousy blonde woman who looked at him with wide eyes.
As he made the tea, Marjorie from next door came bustling up, with Burly Policeman in tow. “You sit down luv”, she said, in an artificial cheeriness that made him wince. “I’ll pour out the tea”. Protesting that he was fine to make tea, for gods sake, he was led to the sofa by Burly Policeman, who, it transpired, was Paul, the son of a friend in the next road. “Would you like Dad to pop round?” he asked. “Well”, his reply was caught in his throat as the mousy Paramedic came down and said, “Sorry dear, she’s dead”.
An unsugared pill, if ever there was one.
Paul the Burly Policeman stepped outside to confer with the Paramedics, the senior bloke having descended the stairs. Eventually he came back in and said “we have to take her to the hospital, you know. Find out why…” his voice trailed off as the man jumped up. There was absolutely no way she would have wanted to go out in those tatty pyjamas. “Sorry sir”, the black Paramedic said, “she has to stay as she was when you found her, for the moment. Plenty of time to dress her for the funeral, if that’s what she would have wanted”.
A second Ambulance had arrived now and two young women in green uniforms came in with poles and sheets and took them upstairs. The man started to follow them, but Marjorie stood in his way and said quite firmly that he needed to sit back down and let the professionals do their job.
As he sat on the sofa, their plans for today, tomorrow, this month, all came flooding into his head. Bloody hell, they were meant to be going to see a film that night with their daughter.
Their daughter! “Um, I must make a phone call” he said and, grabbing the phone, called Sally. An answer phone! He should have known she wouldn’t be in at, goodness gracious the time had flown, 10 o’clock. “Er, it’s Dad”, he said, apologetically to the robot at the other end of the line, “something’s happened to Mum. Can you give me a call?”
Paul the Burly Policeman heard him leave the message, asked where Sally worked and promised to get a message to her.
The two young women came down the stairs with Anne in a zipped up bag suspended by poles either side. Strong, they must be, to just walk down the stairs like that with someone’s weight supported by their slight frames. Then he realised, they do it all the time you fool, he thought.
As they approached the door he stood and said “do you think that I…” and walked towards them. “Of course”, said the one at the front. She expertly turned around without letting the bag drop. He leaned forward to the zip. Pulled it down. Anne’s feet poked up, pink nails gleaming. “Sorry”, said the woman, “zips at both ends”.
He gently pulled the other zip fastener down and saw her face. He saw that the left side was distorted. Stroke, he thought. Bloody hell, that’s why I have all these tablets. And now she’s gone.
He did up the zip and backed away. The women took Anne out of the door and into their ambulance. Then the younger one came back and gave him a piece of paper, He looked at it and slowly focused in on the words “What happens now?” With the hospital she was being taken to marked by a stamp on the head of the paper.
Shooing Marjorie out of the door, he sat down. The ambulances drove off. Paul the Burly Policeman asked if he’d be all right. Then, realising how stupid this sounded, he went bright red.
“I’ll be fine”, he said. Although it was a different kind of fine to any state of fineness he’d ever had before.
Paul the Burly Policeman, left.
He was on his own for the first time in 40 years.
For the first time all morning, he allowed his emotions to manifest. His shoulders slowly moved as he quietly cried to himself and waited for Sally to arrive.
56 Up
Watching “56 Up” on ITV last night made me reflect upon my life in comparison to those shown, who are a few months younger than me.
I have no idea how I’d face up to the barrage of questions every 7 years but I do know that my dreams at 7 bore no relation to reality. I think at 7 I was just happy to have a home with warm, loving parents; a school within walking distance; a comic every Thursday (it was my Dad’s weekly payday) and a chocolate bar or ice cream on a Saturday afternoon.
At 14 my world had changed. I was at a Grammar school, bullied incessantly and most unhappy.
At 21 I was married and really very, very happy. Quite possibly the happiest time of my life.
At 28 we had a house, a mortgage, 2 kids and again I was very happy.
35 found me married with 3 kids and at the tail end of a career in an american IT company, cynical, bruised and waiting for redundancy to strike.
At 42, I was a successful contract Project Manager and having the time of my life, work-wise.
At 49, I was at an all-time low, my Dad had died, my Mum was “on her way” and several of my dreams had gone up in puffs of smoke.
Now, at 56 I have to plan my happy days and find enjoyment in the achievements of my wife and kids, since I have found it difficult to disturb the world of work for several years.
If some bloke with a microphone sat in front of me now, I don’t think I’d come across as any better or worse than those interviewed in “56 Up”. I think that being born in the 1950′s was a curse in some ways – to be a part of a demographic bulge that saw me in school classes of 40+ and to have very limited prospects of further education – but on the other hand, the technical advances at home and in society as a whole are downright amazing.