29. Nigel
NIGEL
Nigel held open the pub door for Helen. This place wasn’t as rough and ready as he remembered it.
‘Have you booked?’ the woman behind the bar asked - “Faye, Senior Restaurant Manager”, according to her badge.
‘No. We’ve just dropped in on the off chance.’ Nigel looked around the almost empty pub.
‘I might be able to fit you in.’ Faye spent the next minute scrolling through a screen before picking up a couple of menus and leading them to the darkest corner of the pub. Nigel glanced at the table by the fire, which looked far more welcoming.
‘Could we sit over there instead?’ he asked.
‘That’s booked from two o’clock.’
‘But it’s only 12.15 now. We’ll have finished eating well before then.
‘Most of our patrons take at least two hours to eat.’
He caught Helen’s eye.
‘I don’t know about you, but I only want one course,’ she said.
Nigel turned back to Faye. ‘We’ll be finished well before two, unless your service is particularly slow.’
Faye huffed and led them to the better table.
‘The haddock is off, but we’ve got everything else,’ she said as she put the menus in front of them.
‘I think you’ve ruined her system,’ Helen whispered.
‘Would you rather we were sitting in the corner?’
‘No, I love a roaring fire. Though with only one log “roaring” might be stretching it a bit.’
The menu was more sophisticated than Nigel remembered it. ‘What happened to chicken in a basket?’
Helen smiled. ‘I think you’ll find that’s the free-range chicken in spicy panko breadcrumbs, served with triple-cooked beef dripping chips and a homemade wild garlic aioli. No plastic basket in sight.’
Nigel carried on reading through the menu. He’d eaten at some pretty fancy restaurants in his time, but none of them had menus as confusing as this one. Not ones whose menus were written in English, anyway.
‘You’ll be safe with the lasagne,’ Helen said.
‘Where’s that?’
‘At the bottom. The layered artisanal pasta bake made with slow-braised Herefordshire beef. You could have it with a symphony of hand-picked heritage leaves if you want to be healthier?’
‘Could I? How have you worked all this stuff out?’
‘Because I spent a lot of time in gastropubs while you were away. Angus used to love a heritage beef and stout reduction en croute.’
‘A what?’
‘A steak and ale pie.’
‘It’s like trying to solve a cryptic crossword.’
Helen laughed. ‘You used to enjoy a challenge.’
‘Not when I’m hungry, and I just want something to eat. I was looking forward to scampi and chips. I haven’t eaten that for years. Is that lurking anywhere on here?’
Helen shook her head and closed her menu. ‘Let’s go to the Kingfisher.’
‘The pub near the Grange?’
‘Yes, that’s firmly stuck in 1999.’
The Kingfisher menu was written on a chalkboard on the wall. Nigel had a choice of two sizes of scampi and chips - a light bite or a full plate.
‘How many pieces of scampi do I get with the light bite option?’ he asked the barman.
‘Not enough. Only tourists buy that when they’re attempting to do some sort of English tapas.’ He rolled his eyes.
‘I’ll go with the full plate then.’
‘So that’s one full scampi and chips, and one lasagne. Side salad or chips with the lasagne?’’
‘I forgot to ask.’ Nigel looked over at Helen, who was sitting by a considerably more generous fire than the Fox’s minimalist one-log effort. ‘Hel, do you want a side salad or chips?’
‘Sod it. I’ll have chips.’
‘That’s lucky for you,’ the barman said.
‘Why?’
‘She won’t be nicking yours. My wife always says she doesn’t want chips, then eats half of mine. Same with onion rings.’
Nigel laughed. Helen had form for nicking his chips on a regular basis when they were teenagers, so much so that he started buying her her own portion.
The barman rang the order through the till, and handed Nigel the card machine. ‘Help yourself to cutlery and sauces. They’re by the serving hatch.’
Nigel walked across the sticky carpet with the ridiculously complicated colourful design. This felt more like the pubs of his youth than the pristine, polished floor of the Fox.
‘What were you grinning to yourself about?’ Helen asked.
‘Your tendency to pinch my chips.’
‘I remember you rudely said I was worse than a seagull.’
‘But you were. I’ve lost more food to your raids than all the seagulls combined.’
‘Friends share their food.’
The F word again. He was still firmly in the friend zone.