The food in the new restaurant was delicious/different/challenging.
The new restaurant at the end of High Street was soon in the news for serving food that was both different and challenging.
The fact that it was alive on your plate was challenging enough.
I had ordered the Roast Lamb – “Done Different” – as the menu explained and different it was.
My plate was a generous serve of lamb and vegetables, which for all intents and purposes, looked as the meal should. It was appetising, and the aroma had my taste buds craving more and more.
I was about to tuck into it when I heard: “Excuse me but would you mind if we moved away from the baked pumpkin, we don’t like being associated with the awful yellow stuff.” I looked down to see the peas collectively move slightly to the left and away from the pumpkin, which gave a haughty huff. The peas now separate from the pumpkin huddled together and appeared to be chatting away amongst themselves.
I decided to attack the lamb first up and leave the vegetables to get themselves sorted out. There seemed to be a lot happening on that part of my plate, and who was I to interrupt them?
The lamb was another proposition altogether.
I suddenly had the sensation of the lamb looking at me, as if there were eyes staring me down.
“You’re not going to cut me with that knife, are you? I’ve led a quiet life until now. You’ve no idea how bad I feel being served up like this, and now you’re going to slice me up and devour me, it’s not right, you know.”
“I paid good money for you, and I’m hungry, and you appear superbly delicious,” I replied and then realised I was justifying myself to a piece of meat.
“I am delicious, I am tasty, but I have feelings, you know. This time last week I was grazing happily out on the farm, not a care in the world and then in the wink of an eye, here I am, baked with onion gravy on top. It’s a disgrace it is.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” said the baked potato, “all I hear all day is him whinging, there’s always something wrong, stick your knife and fork into him and get it over and done with.”
Just then, the restaurateur approached to ask if everything was alright. I explained the food was wanting to argue with me about their own existence. He listened to me and then put his hand on my shoulder and said: “I wouldn’t worry too much, they do that here, all part of the service, if you put aside their complaints and eat your dinner you’ll feel all the better for it.” With that, he gave my meal a serious look of “you try that on again, and it’s the pigs swill for you.”
There was a collective grumble from my plate, and I took my first mouthful, the peas drew back in horror, the lamb bleated painfully, and the pumpkin could be heard trumpeting, “I told you so.”