It’s a special treat for a birthday ending in a zero. First class train tickets, then lunch, fresh from the kitchen garden. Waiters wear floor-length aprons. They speak with heavy accents. Are they really French? No matter.
“Will Monsieur choose ze wines?”
Alarmed at the prices, hubby breaks sweat but orders anyway.
“Madame will try tian de champignons?”
I look at my plate. Grandma would have said, “Pity to make it dirty for such a morsel.”
Six exquisite courses, all homeopathic portions. We say “Lovely”, but we are starving. We go home, stopping for egg sandwiches and a doughnut at the station café.
Ros lives in London, and is enjoying writing short fiction in retirement.
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