Esther Chilton

I’m bringing back my Guest Writer Spot for anyone who’d like to share their writing. If you’d like to be included in this slot, please get in touch: estherchilton@gmail.com. Poems can be up to 60 lines and prose 2000 words. If you’d like to add a short bio and photo, then great. All I ask is that there’s nothing offensive.

My first guest is Murray Clarke, who has made us chuckle recently with his photos for my Funny Of The Week slot. Today he’s sharing a story:

WINE AND DINE

By Murray Clarke

I don’t know about you, but whenever I dine out at a posh restaurant, I always dread the moment when the time comes to choose the wine!

The Wine List, with it’s bewildering selection of overpriced bottles is, to me, more unfathomable than the Enigma Code used by the Germans in WW2.

For our 25^th Silver Wedding Anniversary, Maria and I have reserved a table at “Les Nouveaux Riches” – a swanky restaurant that recently opened on the High Street. On this special occasion, my beautiful wife has decided to wear her favourite, long-flowing, white cotton dress. She looks amazing!

When we arrive, the place is packed with well-to-do-looking ladies and gentlemen tucking into their Michelin-starred, cordon bleu, morsels of food.

A waiter minces towards us. ‘A table for two, monsieur?’ He’s over six feet tall, dressed like a pompous penguin in a black dinner jacket and tie.

His name tag says: “Pierre”, and he speaks with a French accent – but I’m not convinced. Peter, more like – or just plain Pete.

‘Mr and Mrs Carter.’

‘Follow me,’ he says snootily.

Pierre – or whatever his real name is – leads us to a table in the corner of the busy restaurant.

He pulls out Maria’s chair, but leaves me to seat myself.

We are left to study the comprehensive menu on the table. It’s all in French – never my strongest subject at school. Maria’s from Madrid; speaks fluent Spanish. But that’s a fat lot of use now.

I have to be careful when ordering food in a restaurant: I once embarrassed myself by asking for “a steak tartare, well done” – before realising it’s served raw. Uncooked!

We are still deciphering the menu when the waiter returns.

‘The wine list, monsieur,’ he announces, thrusting it into my hand.

‘Two glasses of red, please, Pierre. Large.’

‘Would sir be more specific – we have many fine wines to choose from.’

I was afraid he’d say that.

Maria and I put our heads together and consult the extensive list – attempting to look like true wine connoisseurs, but, I suspect, fooling no one.

‘Look at the prices!’ whispers Maria. ‘This one’s over £200! . . . Just go for the cheapest.’

The waiting waiter coughs discreetly.

‘I can’t do that!’ I reply conspiratorially. ‘We don’t want him to think we can’t afford their inflated prices.’

‘Then choose the second cheapest, my dear.’

I find a Cabernet Sauvignon at £29.50 – a pound more expensive than the cheapest red wine on the list. I turn to the waiter. ‘A bottle of this one, please.’

He snatches the wine list from me and walks away, nose in the air.

He returns with the bottle, and points to the label.

‘Yes, that looks like a red!’ I confirm.

With a flourish, he removes the cork. ‘Would sir like to try the wine?’ I nod enthusiastically.

He pours a drop into my glass. I sniff it delicately, take a sip and swill the dark-coloured liquid around my mouth – just like they do on the telly.

‘Yes – it definitely tastes like a red. Thank you.’ The waiter smirks, and fills our glasses.

We then order our five-course meal – even though we hardly understand a single word on the menu. The Penguin departs to fetch our food.

I top up our 250ml glasses to the rim.

I raise my glass. ‘A toast! To the next twenty-five years, my darling!’ So saying, we clink glasses. However, I am perhaps a little overzealous, and the red wine splashes all over Maria. She shrieks hysterically, causing several diners to turn and stare.

‘My best white cotton dress! she cries. ‘It’s ruined!’

Then inspiration seizes me. ‘Apparently, red wine stains can be removed by soaking them in WHITE WINE.’

‘But we haven’t got any white wine!’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Leave it to me . . .’

I see Pierre serving at the next table.

‘WAITER!!!!!’ I call out. ‘THE WINE LIST, PLEASE . . .’

***

Image credit: Pinterest