Food, Round One: A slight diversion

This post is for Owen, who was the first to ask me, not without a note of irony in his voice, How is the food?

I'm not sure what prompted me to order the steak and mushroom pie for lunch. It may have been the weather--the description on the forecast says 'periods of rain' which turns out to mean bone-shattering cold, showers that come down as if someone above is being playful with the on and off taps, and whipping winds. The day's productivity is somewhat hampered by the need to seek heat by any means possible. Although I know it won't,

 still it wouldn't entirely surprise me if it snowed.

I'm also at about the end of my rope with Indian takeaway or warmed-over prepared meals, which is the only food I am able to prepare in my little room except for the rare foray into scrambled eggs on the cooker. Last night I had a cold pasta salad from the Super-Valu. Two nights ago I went to the Trim Hotel for dinner, an act of pure desperation that resulted in an edible pasta bake and a very long one-sided conversation (his) with an American therapist here on a photographic vacation.

Today I headed back to Watson's, the first place I ate when I arrived in Trim. This was my third visit: my ordering at the other two was cautious: first, a plain omelette on the all-day breakfast menu, with brown bread toast. 'Sure you don't want chips with that?' the waitress asked. I'm fairly certain I am the only person who ever ate at Watson's who didn't order the chips. The second time  I ordered a chicken sandwich with salad, which means here a big mayonnaisey concoction that may or may not have something green in it.

 When I arrived the waitress, who recognizes me now, directed me toward the small balcony dining area; she gestured at the spot I sat in the other two times and said, it's freezing there. Maybe it was that friendly gesture that made me decide to order some real Irish food. 'I'll have the steak and mushroom pie, please.' 'Do you want chips or veg with that?' Veg, please, I answered. 'But you do want potatoes, yeah?' Sensing only one correct answer to this question, I said, Fine. The waitress looked a bit more satisfied at my response this time and went off to place the order.

The plate was enormous, easily the size of a small serving platter and nothing like the lunch plates I dine off at home. The wedge of pie must have been four inches wide at its widest point. Beside it were some boiled carrots,several stalks of boiled cauliflower, and one piece of broccoli. The rest of the plate was filled with potatoes, not one but three scoops of good Irish mashed. And everywhere there was gravy. Only the broccoli had escaped, or nearly escaped, being coated with it.

I peeled back the top crust of the pie and dug into the beef and mushrooms, both of which were delicious. Even gravy-drenched, the vegetables were not bad. As for the potatoes, I took a couple of bites but mostly pushed them around on the plate to disguise the fact that I wasn't eating them for the waitress' sake. 

At the table next to mine, four men polished off similar platters of food, then ordered dessert: huge slabs of chocolate cake with fist-sized globs of cream to accompany them.

Tonight I'll eat the leftover pilau rice from my last Indian takeaway. Tomorrow, in my new apartment, I'll cook a real dinner.