Out to lunch
February 26, 2013
I don’t have shares in the Duke of Kent, but perhaps I should as we were there again on Sunday. And once more we were meeting friends for Sunday lunch. Oh how innocent that sounds.
We were an advance party celebrating a birthday and started off with a few drinks in the bar, just to settle the stomach and awaken the tastebuds. My French chardonnays slipped down a treat. Hubby was on Pride and the drinking arm soon relaxed in to action.
We moved through to the dining room to eat, but changed tables as there was a cold draught (not of the Guinness variety) and we wanted to be comfortable. The pub had no problems seating us elsewhere and the willing, friendly service kept those drinks coming. We all had roasts bar one who had Lancashire hot pot and red cabbage, both served in miniature pans and looked like doll’s food.
There seemed no reluctance to eat up and non stop conversation ranging from tattoos – I don’t like them but they don’t put me off David Beckham, but I couldn’t persuade our friends that they might be acceptable in any circumstance. It is great to be able to disagree completely and have a fanstastic time. To Jeremy Clarkson – I couldn’t be persuaded he is ever acceptable under any circumstance – to families and holidays and children and jobs. And anything and everything. And stuff I can’t remember but was fun at the time. But the red wine flowed. And flowed.
And puddings came and went (mistake to have the jam roly poly – I’d forgotten my sister had had it before and thought it leaden. She was right. But the caramel ice cream was yum!)
And lunchtime moved in to evening and it was 9 oclock. What?? Where did that time go? No fear, let’s have a couple of cheeseboards to finish off the red wine. Oh, the red wine’s already finished. Better buy some more then. And so we did.
We rolled out at about 11 ish in to the fresh air.
We were replete. Full of food, wine, love and laughter.
That’s what I call a proper Sunday lunch. All nine hours of it.