Tantalising taste of nostalgia

Meals — even bully beef and biscuits — and words have the power to take you places; to your past and to the new worlds you plan to visit

He writes a good short story, Guy Carter. It is my kind of story. His opening image is arresting. He writes: “The old man stood stiffly to attention near the town square memorial. He had a military-style moustache and there was a small metal poppy pinned to his coat lapel like an entry wound over the heart.”

My English teacher would have loved that. A memorial, a military-style moustache and those last six words: “an entry wound over the heart”.

I sank down in my chair and read the story.

Four veterans of World War 2 meet for a meal at a French restaurant somewhere in England. It is Remembrance Day. They reminisce about their exploits fighting Rommel’s forces in the desert. The protagonist orders a fabulous meal for his three fellow veterans: a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape 1994, roasted duck served with an orange sauce and a side of duchess potatoes.

Then they reminisce about how they socked it to the Germans. It is all very convivial, until one of them reminds the others of the food they used to eat. There was a groan round the table, writes Carter. “The bully beef! . . . The bully beef and biscuits!” The bully beef tasted like “damp cardboard” and the biscuits were harder to chew.

The three men tuck in, but guess what the protagonist himself, the old man mentioned at the beginning of the story, orders? Bully beef and biscuits.

You must get the story, entitled Bully Beef and Biscuits. It won the Mogford Prize for Food & Drink Writing 2015 and I found it in my room at the Old Parsonage Hotel. The ending is so surprising, so painful, it will bring tears to your eyes.

I loved it because it reminded me of my childhood, too. Corned beef was a staple of my young life, when canned food was a necessity due to the lack of electricity and refrigerators. It is an acquired taste, but after a while many of us got to regard it as quite a delicacy. That, I think, is the power of food and words. They can take you places — to your past and to new worlds. I always try to read about places I am visiting, to immerse myself in the literature, and that gives me a sense of the place.

I also like to eat, which is why I immediately went downstairs to the Old Parsonage Restaurant after reading this story.

It was a beautiful English summer evening. We sat outside. The staff at the Old Parsonage is made up of what my father-in-law called “the UN of staff” — people from all over the world, including SA. The diners were just as diverse.

We were hungry. The menu is slim yet versatile, the way I like it. I hate long menus — it is a pointer for me that the kitchen does not know what it is doing.

For starters, there were mushrooms and garlic on toast; fish soup; ham hock and rabbit terrine; artichokes with balsamic vinaigrette; and a Swiss chard, onion and dill tart.

The main selections are similarly focused. Rack of lamb with savoy cabbage and new potatoes; crab, chicory and avocado salad; rabbit, leek and sage pie; Cornish sole; fillet steak; haddock cakes with creamed leeks and spinach; and saffron courgettes with girolles (a mushroom with a distinctive orange/yellow colour), spinach and broad beans.

I had the ham hock and rabbit terrine to start, and it was delicious. I also dipped into virtually all the other dishes (we were a big party) and it was consistently fabulous. My main of Cornish sole was good, while my lovely wife’s crab salad was, she said, an outright winner.

Tell me your stories and serve me your food, I say, and I will know your soul.