Why is nothing ever easy?

I needed a lemon to make the cod goujons that LMM insisted I treat her with for dinner. So I went to my local supermarket to secure said lemon. A fairly mundane and hassle free chore I'm sure you would agree. I mean it's a lemon, what could go wrong?

Pfft, this is me we are talking about.....

the lemon
nothing more nothing less

I had been circling the fruit and vegetable section of my local supermarket for what seemed like an eternity in search of a lemon. I had been doing it for so long that I had attracted the attention of the burly security guard. Why it takes a man the size of a Ford Fiesta to guard the fruit and veg section I just don't know. Times are tough at the moment for sure but are people really stealing turnips and cabbages? He was staring at me with accusatory eyes and I'm positive he was whispering about me into his radio, "Fruit fancier, back up required, he looks like a right odd one. May have a pumpkin up his shirt."

I circled and circled, occasionally stopping to touch the exotic looking mangos and star fruits, but still no lemons would reveal themselves to me. Eventually I found a net of lemons but this was no good. What the hell was I gonna do with a net of lemons? I needed one not twelve. I'm not a fan of waste. So eventually and with a heavy heart I gave up and sought the advice of an employee. I find some supermarket employees to be snootier than some of us waiters and every simple request is like asking them to recite War & Peace.

Looking for an approachable supermarket employee was as tough as finding a single lemon. But I settled for this one guy who looked fairly agreeable.

"Excuse me...", says I in the politest and least bothersome voice I could muster. He had his back to me as he was, well I'm not sure what he was doing but it was something involving butternut squashes. I thought, "If he fucking sighs I'm gonna go postal."

Turning round to face me he sighs and says, "Yup?"

Bastard.

"Thanks. Eh have you got any lemons?"

Eyeing up my bag of unwanted lemons he asks, "You mean other than the bag of lemons in your hand?"

Fair enough, I'll give him that. "Yeah I wasn't looking for a net of lemons, just one will do."

"Have you tried the fruit section?"

I was sooo fucking tempted to repeated that right back to him mimicking the voice of a bratty child but didn't, obviously. Hardest thing I've ever done. Instead I just gave him a long, "Yeah..." and continued with, "...there's only bagged lemons there. I need loose lemons."

"Loose lemons?"

"Loose lemons."

Snickering like a thirteen year old looking up the rude words in the dictionary he followed with,

"Loose lemons like as in available lemons? The sort of lemons that sleep around? Eh eh....?"

Awesome I get the supermarket's comedian. No lemons, just cheap laughs. Funny he may have been but useful he was not.

"Right, good one. [fake laugh] So what we think about un-netted lemons then? You got em or what?"

Feeling chuffed and obviously spurred on by my sarcastic modicum of support he persisted down the line of bad puns. "We don't have any loose lemons but there maybe a promiscuous pineapple on the corner over there."

Bugger me, is there any fucking chance!

"Okay then, eh, you take it easy." I was backing away from yer man as quick as I could before he followed up with stories of wanton watercress or lax lettuce. He was creeping me right out and I really did begin to wonder what he had been doing to the butternut squash. But the more I thought about it the more it dawned on me that it the clever fella had come up with the greatest trick for getting out of having to help a customer ever - just be weird to them! Either that or he is just weird and has a sexual attraction towards fruit and veg and what have you.

I settled for the net of lemons and in the end forgot to bloody use them whilst making the goujons.

Pfft.....

....anybody need an unopened net of lemons?

F...

F is for...

...Foodie. Oh sweet Jebus and all the other super best friends can anyone save us from foodies? There are people who go out for dinner who can tell if the meal is good or bad. Then there are people who appreciate good food and can tell the difference between sea bass and sea bream and can pronounce everything on the menu properly. Then there are the foodies. They can name the farm the meat came from. They know the captain of the boat that caught the fish. They know which fucking field the kale was grown in. Fuck they know what kale is! They talk about the scene in Tokyo or New York right now and drop names, first names, of celebrity chefs like they were personal friends. The foodie is always middle class. They have a vegetable patch in their garden that they never shut the fuck up about and no meal would be complete without them telling you about the simply gorgeous salad they made the day before. They are bores. Talk about sucking the very life out of something that should be enjoyed not made into a chemistry class. I love my food, hell given the chance I would love yours too but lets keep things in perspective. I'm sure Gordon would agree. (The only exception being Italian Foodies)

it's also for...

...FFS. For fucks sake. It's rarely said out loud unless of course you are remonstrating with a chef about whether or not they should be remaking the steak they have probably overcooked. Probably. Most often it is muttered as you walk away from a table or it's a thought rolling around your noggin as they guest decided between the fish and the other fish. It's not the only expletive in the waiters armory but it is my most used expression of frustration and annoyance.

and...

...The French. If it hadn't been for the French and their ability to cook and eat anything there would be no good food. In the old days (1950's) people would eat straight from the animal with no thought given to cleaning, cooking, rubbing it with herbs or spices. They still live like that in some parts of North Antrim. God bless the French and their wonderful ways with herbs and small animals. They even gave us the word restaurant! It's derived from the word restaurer, which means restore. Huh bet you didn't know that. The whole of the industry is littered with French words, from the kitchen to the menu to the swearing waiters. Technically I am a Serveur de restaurant. Actually I am a grumpy (hungover) angry little man. The Serveur de restaurant does a bit of everything unlike the Chef de rang who supervises a section or the Demi-chef de rang who clears plates and fills water glasses. Doesn't that sound better than buss boy? Everything sounds better in French, gravy becomes jus, chicken dunkers becomes goujon de poulet, and even Adam Sandler becomes bearable when said in a French accent. The French, and Escoffier in particular, gave us the modern restaurant as we know it and if it wasn't for them I would be a simple plate carrier but thanks to them I am a snooty plate carrier who looks down on you when you struggle with simple words like jus. Viva la France! Viva la snootiness!

and...

...Fucking. Strong word. But then again when you decide to get your end away in a bathroom stall of a restaurant I have to assume it's more about getting your jam roll than a deep and passionate love. What is wrong with people? Seriously! How can a simple meal for two turn into a fuckfest in the toilets? STOP IT! Please stop it. Someone has to clean up after you, not me obviously. But stop it!

I'm sure there are many other things that begin with F but I am fucking dying here with a mongtastic hangover. Two bottles of wine. Pathetic.