|Leafing troubles behind – diving into a mojito|
Once upon a time it was a summer evening in Glasgow. The people strolled ‘neath the fresh green foliage of the dear green trees.
There was laughter, painted toens in sandals and the sound of people relaxing in the warm, dappled, dropping evening sun.
A day later it would rain and the people would hurry by hunched up and saying: “Ah well that was summer for this year.”
But such an evening happened yesterday and, by happy coincidence, it was the day the baby-sitter was in charge, the friends organised and the table at Jamie Oliver’s Italian restaurant on Glasgow’s George Square booked.
Inside it was busy – buzzing even, but never jostly or too noisy to talk.
There wasn’t even too much Jamie in evidence, hardly any large photos of his mugging grin. Mercifully. There wasn’t even too much ‘Jamie-ness’ on the menu. By this I mean not his choice of food, but the way his uses language. Have you notice how on telly and even in some of his books he suggests adding a ‘lug’ of some liquid or other to a dish? Presumably he means ‘glug’ or, at a push, slug. But not lug. No.
Anyhow, our meal was lovely, perfect and fresh. The company was good and the walk to the station afterwards was warm and dry.
Of course, today it’s piddling down and I have cooked supper for children who clearly would rather be at McDonald’s and the Panther who claims I’ve got a “blind spot about seasoning”. Then I loaded the dishwasher and cleared up the kitchen.
But that’s what makes nights like last night so good, isn’t it?