A Menu Ten Feet Long

Ever noticed that the main thing on a menu these days is verbiage?  I ordered some dish the other day and forgot it half way through its description.  Admittedly, vegetarians usually have an easy job, Mushroom Stroganoff being the only possibility in a carnage of meat, but that day I joined the ranks of exhausted omnivores attempting to eat out.

Possibly the urban centres have moved on to another trend, but here in the provinces it still seems necessary to describe Beef Wellington as ‘Pan-fried, pulled- out, poked-in bull’s toenails in a seared turnip sauce enwrapped in double-buttered pastry, served on a bed of very expensive, bitter, wilted lettuce’.

Now I just want a name for my dish so that I can order it, not a detailed account of how to cook it.  If I wanted to cook it I would have stayed at home and invented it myself.  Like yesterday’s homemade luncheon – Quorn Swedish-style balls lightly fried in olive oil, jostled in spinach gravy, accompanied by oven-baked round mounds of finest sage and onion stuffing.  That would go a treat on the Specials board of some of my local eateries.  What did I call it?



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