Scumbag for two...sorry, table.

I ate at a Michelin-starred restaurant for the first time on Saturday evening.  They're always fraught with tension, these high falutin' eating out affairs, as I'm furiously minding my manners, which leaves scant processing resources for Mr Brain to operate my limbs for me.  

The reason for the unease is that I'm terrified I'll betray my lowly origins by unconsciously making an Olympic qualifying gaff - using the fish knife to to stir my wine for example, or calling the head waiter dad.  I remember one occasion a few years ago when Mrs O and I were staying in a five-star hotel in northern Spain.  There didn't seem to be much craic available in town, so we decided to dine at the hotel.  The waiter poured us the customary tumbler of wine each and then disappeared with the bottle.  He stashed it on a special wine table about 40 feet away.  This presented me with a problem: would it be considered pour form to mince over in my flip-flops for a refill unbidden?  Also, I doubted my ability to make the distance without knocking over an antique samovar and being deported.  I needn't have worried; being the attentive silver-service type he somehow sensed when we getting to the dregs and would slide over with the bottle in hand without having to be asked.  It was like he was on wheels.  He seemed to float over the parquet without moving his legs.  You'd have to suppose this is part of the training.

Luckily Saturday's shindig was different.  It was a gastro-pub as opposed to a straight-ahead restaurant, so you could order at the bar.  Also, there were no supercilious staff to do passive-aggressive battle with.  They even plopped our bottle of wine down on the table and left it for us to pour as and when we wanted.  Fabulous.

The food was just what I'd hoped it would be: beautiful, subtle and delicious.  The old balance of flavours thing is what marks out a fine restaurant in my experience.  The flavours on the plate join forces to give your tongue the treat of its life.  Mrs O had some horseradish in her dish, which normally I detest.  In this case though it was wonderful.  It wasn't even really a flavour; it sort of swept-up after the other ingredients and made sure your mouth was in a fit and proper state to accept more manna.  I only actually noticed it half a second after I'd swallowed a mouthful, like a faint yell of Geronimo! as it disappeared over the tonsils.  That's elegant cooking for you - well brought up horseradish.

Back on the homemade slop tonight I suppose.  [sigh...]