Mother. (Episode 2)

I’ve never really looked forward to eating out with my mother. These outings always seem to end up being a major disappointment with resulting bad moods and recriminations about who chose the restaurant.

Either there are not enough berries in the ‘Eaton Mess’ or the portions are too small, too dry, too cold or overcooked. Once, on a family outing where we had all ordered desserts, my mothers ended up being the smallest (Creme Brule in an egg cup). We laughed whilst tucking into our giant-sized trifles and profiteroles, she got angry, and that was that visit ruined. We’d only laughed because of the look on Mother’s face. A sort of pinched wince.

Once at a Pizza restaurant in Orlando Florida, my mother interrogated the waitress about the origins of the tea bag. Would the water be boiling? Was the tea English and would the tea be a strong blend? All this before we had even looked at the menu. We never did receive the pizza’s. The waitress had ‘forgotten’ to hand the chef our order.

I won’t even go into our experiences at a pancake restaurant on the same holiday, suffice to say that I still get flashbacks of my mother pushing a plate piled high with pancakes away with a look of disgust, the whole lot collapsing onto the table right in front of a very obliging waitress.

I received an email from mother yesterday. My sister had treated her to a pub lunch, and needless to say the food was ‘Absolutely disgusting!’.

 

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