Here's the post. Enjoy.
‘Second Cheapest on the Menu’ was one of the many books I
never finished back in my twenties. It was (ill) conceived as an autobiographical
celebration of holiday food. Here’s its story.
I was ten when we went abroad as a family for the first
time. I remember my mum carefully cutting the rind off a camembert at an
autoroute service station. (“Is it meant to be like that?” we asked, staring
open-mouthed as she prodded it dubiously.)
I guess my parents got wise to France pretty quickly,
though. We went every year from then on. After each day’s driving, they took
turns unfolding the big map and colouring in the roads we’d travelled on. By
the time I was fifteen, the map was full, and every time we went out to eat,
we’d choose the ripest roqueforts we could find just to prove we were seasoned
explorers.
The family’s eating out rule was an unspoken one, but
studiously observed. You could have anything on the menu, as long as it was the cheapest, or second cheapest, in its category.
So dad could begin the meal by opening the menus and saying, with a flourish,
“Choose whatever you want boys!”
A few seconds later he’d be selecting himself the onion soup
and the poulet frites, and the message was as clear as if he’d communicated it
using a series of handy flags. We chose cheap.
The second-cheapest-on-the-menu rule lasted five years.
Then, one night, our world collapsed.
We were in a bistro near a campsite. It was a cool little
place with red-and-white chequered table cloths; candles jammed in wine
bottles; wall-mounted plates, carafes of local booze, lots of noise. The five
of us sat and dad said, “Choose anything you want boys!” whilst, naturally,
semaphoring his expectation that we’d go for the salad and the goats’ cheese
and bacon tart. The waiter came over. I was eldest so I chose first. I went for
the salad and the tart.
Then it happened. My brother smacked his lips, placed the
menu carefully on the table, fixed the waiter with an innocent gaze, and
ordered a steak, medium rare, with mushroom sauce and frites on the side. There
was a terrified silence. Everyone looked at dad.
He nodded, and with that gesture, the world changed.
When my brother’s steak arrived, we stared at it. My tart
was suddenly rendered as colourless and unappetising as a photocopy. Jon
offered the meat around in carefully
sliced morsels.
It was heavenly.
Anyway. Imagine if you will ‘Second Cheapest on the Menu’ by
Fletcher Moss, a combination of childhood memoir and comic road-movie in which
I travel those autoroutes again, paying homage to the family rule and only
choosing the cheapest meals available in bistros and cafes up and down France.
It’s got ‘hit’ written all over it, folks.
Or something close to ‘hit’, anyway.
