carve him. Probably he was brought back from some holiday
somewhere.
Louis Armstrong is telling her what a wonderful world it is, and she has to agree. Look at her: free as a bird, with enough money in the bank to keep her going for quite a while if she’s
careful – not that she intends to twiddle her thumbs for too long.
Pity she hasn’t got someone to share all this freedom with, though.
She thinks of Tony, setting the tables in O’Gorman’s for the night. Just over two weeks ago she was setting them too – imagine . . . and then she went to the dentist.
She hopes Tony doesn’t hate her for escaping.
She pushes him out of her head and turns to the menu.
Food, before I die of hunger
.
It’s a folded cardboard page, handwritten. No starters, just three main courses – lamb shepherd’s pie, chicken-and-bacon hotpot and vegetarian lasagne. Good home cooking,
hopefully. Two desserts, apple tart and fruity bread pudding, both served with custard or ice-cream. A real comfort-food menu – perfect for the middle of an Irish winter.
Lizzie’s mouth waters as she reads. She’d eat an elephant this minute if one appeared. Her waitress comes back with her glass of wine and a jug of iced water, and Lizzie tells her
she’d love the shepherd’s pie, please. Monday dinner at home is lamb chops; she thinks of Mammy putting two less under the grill tonight.
She picks up the glass and takes a sip, rolling it around on her tongue. The taste is woody and velvety and blackcurranty. She swallows and feels the wine meandering slowly down into her empty
stomach, leaving a tiny warm explosion after it; lovely. She takes another sip and swirls it around in her mouth, tilting the glass slightly and watching the little trails the wine leaves behind
when it falls away from the sides – didn’t she read somewhere that that’s the sign of a good wine?
She swallows again, and a pleasant buzz starts up somewhere in her head. God, her empty stomach – she’d better watch it, just in case she has to drive any further this evening.
Surely, though, she’ll find a bed and breakfast here, even if she has to go the length and breadth of Merway; that should take her about five minutes.
She glances around the room. Nobody is looking at her except the child, who says, ‘Gah,’ and bangs his spoon against his tray. Lizzie beams back and waggles her fingers at him,
catching the eye of one of the women, who smiles over at her. People seem friendly here.
She picks up her glass again and settles more comfortably into her chair. The fire is warm, the music is mellow, the wine is going down very well indeed. This was really a lucky stop – as
long as the food is good; and, if the smell is anything to go by, it will be.
She’s not disappointed. A generous helping of what is clearly freshly made shepherd’s pie sits on a blue plate. It smells wonderful. Lizzie picks up her fork and dives in. It tastes
as good as it looks – succulent, herby, with lots of onions and carrots mixed in, topped with a mountain of buttery mash, browned and just crispy enough. A bonus of golden roasted parsnips
– Lizzie’s very favourite way to cook them – sits on the side. Divine.
She tucks in happily, stopping only to take the odd sip of wine or water until her plate has been completely cleared. She comes from a family of plate-clearers; Mammy takes it personally if
anything is left, pressing the last spoon of mashed turnip on you, looking martyred as she clears away any remains. And Lizzie needs no coaxing to finish every bit of the tastiest meal she’s
had in a long time. Of course, it helped that she was ravenous to begin with, but still.
As she finishes, wishing she had a hunk of bread to mop up the last of the sauce – it’s the only thing that’s missing – the same young girl appears with the menu.
‘Would you like dessert?’
Lizzie imagines a slice of cinnamony apple tart, smothered in thick, creamy homemade custard, baked
somewhere.
Louis Armstrong is telling her what a wonderful world it is, and she has to agree. Look at her: free as a bird, with enough money in the bank to keep her going for quite a while if she’s
careful – not that she intends to twiddle her thumbs for too long.
Pity she hasn’t got someone to share all this freedom with, though.
She thinks of Tony, setting the tables in O’Gorman’s for the night. Just over two weeks ago she was setting them too – imagine . . . and then she went to the dentist.
She hopes Tony doesn’t hate her for escaping.
She pushes him out of her head and turns to the menu.
Food, before I die of hunger
.
It’s a folded cardboard page, handwritten. No starters, just three main courses – lamb shepherd’s pie, chicken-and-bacon hotpot and vegetarian lasagne. Good home cooking,
hopefully. Two desserts, apple tart and fruity bread pudding, both served with custard or ice-cream. A real comfort-food menu – perfect for the middle of an Irish winter.
Lizzie’s mouth waters as she reads. She’d eat an elephant this minute if one appeared. Her waitress comes back with her glass of wine and a jug of iced water, and Lizzie tells her
she’d love the shepherd’s pie, please. Monday dinner at home is lamb chops; she thinks of Mammy putting two less under the grill tonight.
She picks up the glass and takes a sip, rolling it around on her tongue. The taste is woody and velvety and blackcurranty. She swallows and feels the wine meandering slowly down into her empty
stomach, leaving a tiny warm explosion after it; lovely. She takes another sip and swirls it around in her mouth, tilting the glass slightly and watching the little trails the wine leaves behind
when it falls away from the sides – didn’t she read somewhere that that’s the sign of a good wine?
She swallows again, and a pleasant buzz starts up somewhere in her head. God, her empty stomach – she’d better watch it, just in case she has to drive any further this evening.
Surely, though, she’ll find a bed and breakfast here, even if she has to go the length and breadth of Merway; that should take her about five minutes.
She glances around the room. Nobody is looking at her except the child, who says, ‘Gah,’ and bangs his spoon against his tray. Lizzie beams back and waggles her fingers at him,
catching the eye of one of the women, who smiles over at her. People seem friendly here.
She picks up her glass again and settles more comfortably into her chair. The fire is warm, the music is mellow, the wine is going down very well indeed. This was really a lucky stop – as
long as the food is good; and, if the smell is anything to go by, it will be.
She’s not disappointed. A generous helping of what is clearly freshly made shepherd’s pie sits on a blue plate. It smells wonderful. Lizzie picks up her fork and dives in. It tastes
as good as it looks – succulent, herby, with lots of onions and carrots mixed in, topped with a mountain of buttery mash, browned and just crispy enough. A bonus of golden roasted parsnips
– Lizzie’s very favourite way to cook them – sits on the side. Divine.
She tucks in happily, stopping only to take the odd sip of wine or water until her plate has been completely cleared. She comes from a family of plate-clearers; Mammy takes it personally if
anything is left, pressing the last spoon of mashed turnip on you, looking martyred as she clears away any remains. And Lizzie needs no coaxing to finish every bit of the tastiest meal she’s
had in a long time. Of course, it helped that she was ravenous to begin with, but still.
As she finishes, wishing she had a hunk of bread to mop up the last of the sauce – it’s the only thing that’s missing – the same young girl appears with the menu.
‘Would you like dessert?’
Lizzie imagines a slice of cinnamony apple tart, smothered in thick, creamy homemade custard, baked
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