Saturday January 31st – The First Rule of Pudding Club

You know that I am a glass half empty kind of girl.  You know this.

I will attempt however, to start with some of the positive things about our brief foray with freedom.

• We managed about twelve hours without any children around.  By this I mean any at all, not just not ours.  There were no children of any description in our immediate environs during the whole of our sojourn.
• The hotel, rather than being an hour and a half away, and then add a lot for travelling through the Cotswolds in Friday night rush hour traffic, was actually an hour away and the roads were clear.  I have no idea why.  I just thank Cheezus for small blessings.
• We got an upgrade from a room to a suite for twenty extra of your English pounds.  The suite was WAAY nicer than the room had been.
• We spent a convivial evening with our friends, all of whom were nice, and despite indulging heavily in gin, did not fall out with each other, or us.
• We were back in our suite by ten thirty so that we could be entirely alone, alone without friends OR children.
• We had a clear run back home this morning.
• I got a lovely copy of The Times, and unlike in other hotels what I have known, nobody had stolen the supplements, which to my  mind are the best bit of a weekend newspaper.
• There was no mobile phone reception at all in the hotel.  Nobody could contact us.

So.  You see.  I am not always a miserable cow.  Oh no.

Just most of the time.

Here are my miserable cow moments.  You knew things were going too well didn’t you?

• My parents were a bit late getting to us.  This meant quite a lot of anxiety on the way there, although it luckily turned out to be nearer than we thought.
• The hotel, like Tallulah and her friend Linus, cared more about what you thought of them when you came in, than it did about what you thought of them when you were trapped inside it.  The outside was gorgeous.  The vestibule was a delight.  Things got rather ropier from there on in.
• We upgraded because our double room put a Travelodge to shame.  Although it was clean and reasonably neat, the bed was the size of a pocket handkerchief, the bathroom was a symphony in beige plastic and we faced the carpark and one of the main roads through the village.  I tried to be brave.  I was brave.  I was very impressed it was Jason who cracked first, shortly after he found a copy of the Gideons Bible in a melamine drawer.  And there was no Corby trouser press.  Heavens.
• Our suite was very nice, although I am not a fan of wall to wall pale blue Toile de Jouy with matching scatter cushions.  It was large and had a fabulous bathroom and a Bose stereo.  Unfortunately it had a bed that seemed to be made of  the hardest material in the world, but which was strangely giving at the same time.  Thus I woke up numerous times in the night finding that I had not only rolled underneath Jason, but that I was aching like mad and felt like I had been battered with a baseball bat.  I spent the rest of the night trying to climb back up to my side of the  bed.
• The pillows were rather odd, albeit feather.  One was enormously over stuffed, one was limp and pathetic.  The large one was too large, unless one has a neck like a swan, which I don’t.  The limp one was too limp.  I ended up rolling my cardigan up and using it as a kind of cashmere neck brace.  Which I really don’t think is going to catch on either as a practical aid or fashion accessory.
• The beds were made with sheets and blankets.  Some people like this and find it to be the height of sophistication and olde worlde charm.  I am not one of those people.  I hate the way you have to wrench the covers from under the mattress unless you want to resemble Flat Stanley.  I hate the way you spend all night long wrestling over bits of the blanket that slither off between the sheet sandwich.  I pine for duvets.  I know. I know.  I am a peasant.  I cannot help it.
• The room was in the loft space.  It was rather chilly.  There was an air conditioning unit.  It was supposed to provide heat in winter as well as coolth in summer.  Jason tried it, and after half an hour of blowing icy gusts down my neck no matter which button he pressed, we gave up.  There was also an electric storage heater.  It was the size of a small attache case.  It pinged and banged until we turned it off in desperation.  I spent all night being crushed and frozen, which was nice.
• The breakfast was mediocre unless you have a thing about stewed apricots. The croissants were solid. There was no strawberry jam and they didn’t give you a choice with toast. You just got toast.

So.  That’s the rooms.  Now you know I have saved the best till last.  But what of the famous puddings I hear you cry.  You have not mentioned the puddings yet. 

Oh no.

It must be bad.

It was.

It is.

Get ready.

The puddings were, in a word, shit.  It was one of the most anticlimactic, piss poor dining experiences of my life.  I was gutted. Gutted I tell you.

Here’s the thing.  In fact, here are several things.  You may want to have a wee and make some tea first.

You assemble in the lounge at 7.30 p.m. to dine at 8.00 p.m.  You are told there will be drinks and a short talk on The Pudding Club.  You think that this will be o.k.  It is not.

First, the drinks are Elderflower Presse.  Served in champagne glasses to fool the unwary.  Who the hell except teetotal maniacs drinks Elderflower presse at a time like this?  I hardly drink and I wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole.  I was hoping for champagne.  Even if they aren’t doing alcohol surely you should offer water, or orange juice.  No. No. No. Elderflower presse.  Take it or leave it.

While I am reeling from the evil taste of elderflowers, a man dressed as a waiter plonks a wine list into my hands and demands that I tell him what our party will be drinking.  I explain that there are nine of us.  Only two of us are present.  One of us doesn’t drink at all, and one of us hardly drinks.  I feel it would be presumptuous of me to make choices for the other seven, all of whom are drinking gin upstairs.

He sniffs, gives me a withering look and stalks off.

I sit down to peruse the wine list.  I think I might have some champagne.  I like champagne.  I see they have Yellow Label Veuve Cliquot.  I like this one very much.  I think I will have a glass.  You cannot order it by the glass.  You must have a bottle.  A bottle is £49.  I know they have a mark up, but I also know how much this costs in the shop as I have a bottle under the sink at home for emergencies.  They are making over 100% mark up.  Fuck that noise.  You cannot order any champagne by the glass.  I decide I will have a glass of a rather nice looking Australian Cabernet Sauvignon instead.

The others come down and start looking at the wine list.  They do not drink red.  I do not drink white or pink.  I particularly do not do pink.  They decide on a bottle of pink.  I stick with my ideals.

The wine waiter comes over to take our order.  He is unbelievably rude about the fact that the rest of our party only want one bottle of Zinfandel.  They explain that they may want something different afterwards and they don’t want to make their choices now, partly because they have no idea what there is going to be for dinner.  He turns his back on them.  He goes to walk off.  I call him back.  He returns very grudgingly.  I say: ‘Could I also order a glass of the Cabernet Sauvignon please?’  He looks at me blankly and then snarls: ‘They have numbers on them.  You will have to tell me the number of the thing you want.  I don’t know what the wines are.’  I oblige, thunderstruck.  He stalks away once more.  I feel like I am trapped in a hellish wine version of a Chinese takeaway.

He has not asked if we want aperitifs.  Apparently elderflower must suffice.  I remind myself not to make him my sommelier when I start my boutique hotel.  I may not drink often, but I do know how it is supposed to go.  I did have years of practice under my belt at one stage.

We are still reeling from this when their version of the Maitre D’ or Master of Ceremonies of the Grand High Pooh Bar of the Pudding Club arrives.  He is clutching a rolling pin.  My heart sinks.

He bangs his rolling pin on the table.  He starts to talk about the wonders of his establishment, the wonders of him, the wonders of puddings, the wonders of being on television and being a pudding superstar.  Every time someone breathes loudly he bangs his rolling pin on the table.

We are in the naughty corner.  We are going to hell.  At the very least we are in detention for the rest of our lives.  We get evil looks.  We get told off.  If we keep this up we will be eating puddings in the car park.  My friend Nicky has that look in her eye.  That look that says: ‘I have drunk the best part of a bottle of gin, and if you don’t stop banging that fucking rolling pin, I am going to stick it so far up your anal hole you will be able to pull it out your ear.  Now give me dinner and shut the fuck up.’

He stops talking about what a burden it is to be being constantly on the television and what a nice man Chris Kelly was back in the day, and how Gary Rhodes was only saying to him the other day, how much nicer their sticky toffee pudding is to his sticky toffee pudding.  I am glad.

He then tells us about our dinner.  Apparently we do not get a choice of breads.  We do not get a choice of starters.  This is because there will be no bread or starters at all.  We will be grudgingly allowed a choice of three main courses.  He indicates that these will be:

1. Beef stroganoff
2. Chicken with caraway seeds and peppers.
3. Fusili with tomato sauce

Apparently we will be given miniscule portions of these because too much would interfere with our puddings.  He then makes us put our hands in the air to let him know who wants what.

I look around. There isn’t a person in the place under thirty years old.  Surely we are old enough to know if we can manage starters and puddings, or be able to say no to a bread roll?  Apparently not.  It seems we are all eight, and at some kind of hellish private boarding school.  I wait for him to announce that after our tea Matron is going to give us a dose of cod liver oil and rub our chests with goose grease.  I contemplate killing myself with one of the curtain swags before it is too late.

We then get on to the puddings, for which he has a blackboard.  A blackboard for Nathan’s sake?!  Soon we will be doing long division.  I am desperate to eat.  I cannot get the vile taste of elderflower out of my mouth, and it is freezing.  I am too depressed to think of suicide now.

There will be seven puddings.  He announces the names of each with great fanfare.  Apparently there are rules about puddings too, but we are too stupid to know them know.  He is going to tell us about the pudding rules later.  I weep gently into a potted palm.

He brandishes his rolling pin and throws open the doors of the room in which we are to dine.  I would say ‘the dining room’, except that it is more like Church hall circa 1953.  The tables are long and uniform.  The chairs have been borrowed from the local hospital.  They look positively orthoepaedic.  It is, if possible, even colder in here than it was outside. 

I finally get my drink after another interminable wait.  It turns out when he asked us to stick our hand up for our choice of dinner it was just some kind of bonding exercise.  He didn’t actually write it down.  They have to take the order again.  Jason asks for Coca Cola.  He is dying of thirst.  They are horrified.  They loot about in the back cupboard and someone finds the smallest bottle of Coca Cola in the world.  They do not ask him if he wants a glass or ice and lemon.  They take the top off the bottle and put it in front of him.  He would have been better off pouring it into a thimble.  I expect Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca to scuttle out of the skirting boards and steal it.  We all stare at it in rapt amazement.  It is a miniature work of art.

The dinner comes out.  I have ordered beef stroganoff.  I like beef stroganoff.  It has mushrooms and exotic Eastern European flavours.  It has caramelised onions.  If you are lucky you might  get toasted caraway seeds and sour cream.  I dream of this.

They plonk the plate in front of me.  I have four cubes of beef which look like they have been lifted directly from a Fray Bentos Steak and Kidney Pie.  It is surrounded by thin, orange gravy.  This is my dinner.  We are allowed swede, cauliflower, green beans, baby carrots and potatoes with it.  The dishes are the size of kidney dishes.  All the veg is piled into them.  Between nine of us we have two dishes.  Even the pasta comes with potatoes and swede.

They slap two glass jugs of finest Cotswold tap water in front of us.  No ice.  No frills.  It tastes like that pink water you get at the dentists.

The best I can say about the actual taste of my dinner was that the veg wasn’t over cooked and the meat wasn’t too bouncy.  It tasted like no stroganoff I have ever had.  Nor would I care to have it again.  I am so hungry I lick the plate clean.  I think this is what the management are banking on.  I wonder if they have taken tips on running a hotel from Mein Kampf. 

Before we are allowed to get at the puddings we have to listen to the rolling pin wallah droning on about the rules.  I want to shout:

‘The first rule of the Pudding Club is, There is no Pudding Club!’

and smash this man’s face into the giant bowl of custard which is slowly solidifying at his elbow.  I absolutely will if he mentions fucking Gary Rhodes one more time.

First things first.  The custard is Birds custard.  It is not home made custard! It is tinned custard.  Tinned custard. Tinned. Custard.

Apparently this is because people like this better.  Not because they are too tight to make it properly then? No.  Gary Rhodes loves it.

Secondly we have to come up to the serving hatch for our pudding, in single file, table by table.  Yes headmaster. Yes.  Shall I wear my cardigan as well?

Thirdly. We only have one bowl and one spoon each.  We must hang on to it for grim death.  We cannot have another one.  God forbid they should actually have to do any work on our behalf.  I wait for him to say we must come back to the kitchen afterwards and wash it up.

Fourthly.  We are not allowed to have another pudding until we have finished all of the pudding currently in our possession.  This is where the red mist starts to descend for me.  What if I don’t like his bloody puddings?  I spy a handy wine cooler into which I have plans to deposit my leftovers.

This is all.

Thank fuck for that.

We go first.  We have choices.  We can have; sticky toffee stick it up your arse Gary pudding; jam roly poly; chocolate steamed pudding; golden syrup pudding; bread and butter pudding; Lord Randall’s pudding (steamed pudding with apricot, nuts and marmalade) or banana, walnut and maple syrup pudding (this is also steamed).  To go with this we can have shop bought custard, chocolate sauce or sticky toffee sauce.

I choose chocolate pudding as the best of a bad bunch.  I am really depressed.  I wanted a little bit more variety.  The serving hatch has been reinforced due to the sheer weight of suet on display.  I like a good steamed pudding, but apart from jam roly poly and bread and butter pudding, everything else is steaming away, sagging at the seams.  It would have been nice to have something a teeny bit lighter.  I worry that if I eat them I may well fall through one of the stair treads on the way back to the suite.

The chocolate pudding is utterly blah.  It has no sweetness.  It tastes earthy and dark and spongy.  The chocolate sauce is nice.  It redeems it.  I expect this too is shop bought.  Jason has jam roly poly.  He loves jam roly poly.  It is his favourite.  He is so disappointed in this one I think he might cry.  It is dry.  There is not much jam.  He tells me that Aunt Bessies 99p from Tesco is way better. 

Next I have golden syrup sponge.  I love syrup sponge.  It is one of my ultimate comfort foods.  This one is vile.  The pudding is top heavy.  The syrup has caught slightly and tastes bitter.  The top of the pudding is soaked. The bottom of the pudding tastes like a dried out sea sponge.  Custard does not help.  Jason has bread and butter pudding.  There is no cinnamon or all spice.  There are no sultanas.  It is bland.  It is dreary. 

I try one more.  I go for the banana, maple syrup and walnut.  I love banana bread.  I adore maple syrup.  I expect this to be rich and moist and full of flavour.  It is as dry as the driest bone.  You cannot taste the banana or the syrup.  It tastes of walnuts and the earth of the grave that I want to open up in front of me and take me away.

By this point I am absolutely parched.  There has been no waiter near nor by for hours.  There is nothing left to drink.  Even the dentist water has gone.  My friend sitting next to me suggests coffee.   I think this is a brilliant idea.  We have both given up on the desserts completely.

We hunt someone down for coffee.  He says: ‘No!’  No! He says: ‘You cannot have coffee until after dinner.  Those are the rules.’ Luckily my friend steps in before I punch his teeth out.  She says: ‘We are paying for this.  If we want coffee you should be able to provide it.’  She has that glint in her eye.  He goes off to investigate and comes back with a cafetiere and two cups.  He slaps them down, says not a word, and departs.  We fall on it gratefully.  It has not been laced with cyanide.

The consensus from our party was that the sticky toffee pudding was the best of a bad bunch, but no better than you could get almost anywhere.  We wonder if the rolling pin wallah was talking about a Gary Rhodes impersonator.  We cannot believe he liked these puddings.  We particularly hated the banana walnut pudding.  The Lord Randall pudding which mostly tasted of suet and hot marmalade came a close second for our scorn.   We will not be coming back.

I say to Jason that I think this evening is so popular because it appeals to rich people who went to public schools and expect to pay a lot of money for freezing cold rooms, terrible service, punishing lectures and dreadful food.  It reminds them of the good old days.  I expect for an extra fee you can ask to be spanked with a cane in your room afterwards.  We decide to forgo this pleasure.

Remember kids.  I go there so you don’t have to.

It’s not that I’m a snob.  Although I freely admit I am.  I don’t mind doing things on the cheap.  When Andrea and I went to London we stayed in Southwark Travelodge.  It was clean, it was functional.  It did what it said on the tin and it was worth the money. I was satisfied. What I hate are these places that are all fur coat and no knickers.  You pay a fortune.  You get treated like shit.  It is like they’re doing you a favour and they expect you to smile while they shaft you with that rolling pin.  No thanks.  I’m waiting for the revolution.  They’ll be first against the wall.