A comment by Mrs Angry, whose Broken Barnet blog should be required reading for all politicians and senior council officers in that benighted borough, prompted me to remember the worst meal of my adult life. I mean here the worst paid-for meal of my adult life. I shall not mention domestic dishes like the liver curry I used to prepare, or the dish of hearts a house-sharer presented us with when, as students, we were on an economy drive.; nor shall I write about school dinners which are in a class of their own.
Like hers it was in Ireland, in Arklow. I was on holiday with my then-girlfriend. It was early evening, and we were looking for somewhere to eat. We drove for miles, failing to find anywhere. Desperate, I suggested that a town the size of Arklow must have a restaurant. We headed for the town and found one, attached to a large hotel in the centre. Reception was unstaffed, but behind it was an empty dining room. We walked in. Ten or fifteen minutes must have passed before a frightened waitress emerged. 'Are you serving supper?', I asked. She was unsure and retreated to the kitchen, returning with some menus. We ordered pâté, followed by a main I can't remember. The pâté came after half an hour or so. My companion looked at it. 'Excuse me', she said to the waitress, 'this is spam'. The waitress giggled and fled back to the ktichen. We left. We did not pay.
