We were invited by good friends to be their guests for dinner at a small bar in the country. We had heard them speak about it often enough so we were delighted. We had to phone in advance to sort out a menu because there would be no choice. Our friends drove: we would never have found the way. This was deep in rural France.
We arrived at a somewhat (very) shabby building. No sign there was a restaurant inside, but a Peleforth sign indicated the bar. Twenty or so rusting mouli-legumes were hanging high in the porch, with a light bulb in each handle. They weren’t lit.
It was like walking into another world, another century even. Two men of indeterminate age were leaning on the bar in the faded blue overalls you see everywhere in the countryside. They barely acknowledged our presence. A log fire burned at the other end of the room. The tables and chairs were Formica or something similar. The draught excluder round the window was sticky tape, or perhaps it was holding the window shut. I would have turned around and walked out if we had happened upon the place.
The food however was divine. Good, simple, French country cooking. The local food.
Which brings me to my point. Our younger son and his partner have been in India for the last few weeks. They phoned us from a restaurant, I can’t remember why, something to do with the time difference. Our whole family loves Indian food (most food really) so we asked what they were eating.
OK …………. fine.
To be fair, I do remember doing something similar when I couldn’t face another mussel in Brussels.