The large, dirty plate sits there, mirroring my depressed sense of worth, echoing the flat boredom of my day. I notice there’s a slick of something on the edge of the plate and on the cutlery.
I continue to sit, anticipating my morning latte! My focus drifts. I’m guessing it’s tomato sauce on the plate. Sausages? I take a closer look.
There is just the merest hint of colour. Maybe not tomato, possibly a bechamel. I look across the room to the Specials board. There are lots of options -several pastas, Cauliflower Cheese, even Savoury Crepes. A white sauce would work with all of these.
I’m alone in my corner. Nearby, two elderly women are in intense discussion. Their handbags occupy most of the table, a wet dog and umbrellas dripping water liberally underneath. There is a student-type, deeply engaged with her phone and an older chap, unkempt hair, frayed collar and congealed egg down his shirt front. He is looking over towards me, but turns quickly back into his newspaper when I challenge his gaze!
I surreptitiously draw the plate closer, lean in and sniff. What is that? I am sure there’s a whiff of one of those quirky herbs. Is it tarragon – a delicious Bearnaise sauce? It’s slightly aniseed tang has my memory jingling – last week, the dinner party at Donald and Denise’s. There were six of us, their neighbours, Jackie and Paul, John and I. They presented a whole beef-fillet, cut at table; two-inch thick slabs: served rare, chat potatoes, a Bearnaise spreading out across the plate, threatening to drown the Sugarpeas. Then that big Shiraz – wonderful, but I suffered in the morning!
I open the laminated, fly-spotted menu, looking for more clues. ‘Main Meals.’ I still can’t pick a dish that will justify a tarragon sauce. I see the chicken breast, but experience says there are far less expensive, simpler options to achieve the same outcome. And really, if you consider this café, its clientele. No, it is definitely not a Bearnaise!
A blowfly circles, then lands on the dirty plate. As I watch, its hindlegs are sampling the food slick. A moment later, that telltale movement, crossed legs vigorously rubbed together; maybe in some insectable, scientific assessment; then that god-awful, low-pitched buzzing!
I take a swipe, not really a lethal effort, more just establishing my proprietorial rights to the investigation. It makes a couple of further forays, but my defensive actions win the day!
My coffee finally arrives, but I am still preoccupied with the sauce. I know it is probably unsavoury, but I run my index finger across the smear and take a surreptitious taste. My first assessment was correct: bloody tomato sauce!
The newspaper guy is looking aghast. Oh my God, he’s seen my manoeuvre. He’s approaching. I grab my mobile and vigorously punch the keyboard. It works as he breaks stride, hesitates, then heads for the door.
With the sauce identified and coffee finished, I’m reflated. I too head for the door.