Don't have a cow

Down in Norfolkland last week, we had a lovely pudding; something made with rhubarb and polenta and yoghurt (blame Nigella). It was delish. Trump decided she'd make it for our Sunday tea (no main course - straight to the pud), so I was sent on an errand to buy provisions from the supermarket. "Get custard and bio yoghurt". Those were the instructions.

I was in an unfamiliar supermarket (Morrison's in Rochdale) and, not knowing where anything was, or whether the natives were hostile, I felt a little flustered. I finally found the custard, or what I thought was custard - the shelf edge label said "creme anglaise", but the main product logo was obscured by a sticker, but in the trolley it went, along with the other provisions.

We've just had our tea and I was a little disappointed with my expensive, creamy, vanilla custard. Investigating, I removed the "Try me free" sticker that had been obscuring the name on the pot and I read it. It dawned on me that we'd been hoodwinked into buying "Nomoo", a dairy-free alternative to custard. Try me free, I wouldn't have tried you at all had I known.

FUCKERS!

How dare they call it "Nice vanilla custard" advertise it as creme anglaise, cover up its real name with a fucking sticker and pretend to be high quality custard when it is in fact, crank food for flip flop-wearing Guardianistas, with the information relating to its crankiness being in the tiniest of shitty writing.

Bastards, ruining my tea. I can feel an e-mail coming on. Morrison's and NoMoo watch out.



Leave it on the table
I love eating out. We went into Manchester yesterday afternoon. It was quite late when we went in and, since it was approaching teatime and since I'd been starving after finishing my lunch, we decided to eat at Croma in the City Centre.

Croma is lovely; with a simple menu of unassuming appetisers, salads, pizzas and pastas. You know what you're getting when you go to a Croma, and it's always great quality and a nice environment.

Yesterday was no different, but when my starter arrived, my hunt around the table for the salt pot led me to realise that none of the tables had either salt or pepper. What? Why the hell not? Just put a salt pot and a black pepper grinder on each table, then you don't have to yell at the busy waiters to get their attention so they can bring them over.

Just put salt and pepper on the bloody table, for fuck's sake.

And when he brought it over it was a salt mill, not a salt pot. A salt mill with one setting: coarse. Coarse to the point where they might as well have brought the packet of rock salt to the table.

So, to repeat: table salt in a salt shaker; white pepper in a pepper pot; black pepper in a mill.

And dairy products in my fucking custard!