We prefer not to be dependent on restaurants. They serve too much, they cost too much, and they simply are not convenient. Sunday night we got to the Bee at Burnham about half past five. The kitchen was closed. Sundays and holidays do tend to be a problem; we nearly starved to death in Paris on Easter weekend 2002. The Bee suggested the Red Lion just down the High Street. Their stove also was cold. The next reccomendation was Chinese and Indian, both only a few steps away. The Indian restaurant was closed. The China Garden was almost open but empty. Waiting seemed sensible.
As we perused the menu we recognized the perennial restaurant problem: portion size. We opted for take-out instead: six Crispy Mini Spring Rolls; Mongolian Crispy Lamb served with iceberg lettuce and plum sauce; Prawns with Seasonal Vegetables; and Plain Soft Noodles. Oh, and we asked for chopsticks. The proprietors tossed in an immense sack of whitish disks that I think might have been rice cakes. Back at Grovefield House we made tea and laid out a feast quite unlike what we get at the Chinese buffet back home. The springrolls were indeed crispy and light instead of dense with stuffing. The noodles were richly flavored even if “plain.” The prawns were good and the hands-down winner was the lamb. It was scented with mint–just a hint, hardly noticeable–shredded and cooked so that the fat was crunchy sweetness. Technically what we had ordered was a single order. We were unable to finish it all and saved part of the lamb in the little plastic box in which it had come. Note to self: always keep little plastic boxes.
On Monday, following the parking debacle at Windsor Castle (see “An English Wedding 9), those cold bits of lamb were added to the bacon sandwich preserved from breakfast for a meaty and utterly delicious snack.
Hampton Court Palace from the Rose Garden
Today’s excursion to Hampton Court Palace began with an inspection of wallets. As our resources had dwindled, we gave Serena the adress of a Barclay’s Bank near Hampton Court. Despite her uncanny ability to get us where we need to go, Serena is only as good as her data. We arrived at the checkered flag with which she marks the destination. No bank. We asked her for another branch and went there. There had once been a Barclay’s there—faint grime from letters long removed from the building façade was evidence of that. Two nice men suggested a location in a third place.
The color of late September
Finally—success! While I was extracting money, my Dear One was smiling at the girls in the bake shop next to our parking space. The blonde, when I asked, admitted that she had smiled at him, too. An apple turnover and a fruit flapjack (oats, golden syrup and currants, sort of a gooey oatmeal cookie) later, we were finally at the gates of Hampton Court.
We roamed the halls haunted by Henry VIII and his wives, William and Mary, Anne, and the Georges. We rested and enjoyed a proper cream tea then went into gardens green under the cloudy sky. The flowers were somewhat past their prime but there was color enough and fountains danced and ghosts across the century wandered past.
Beggars at King Henry's Court
The pastries came back to Grovefield House with us. They joined a bacon sandwich saved from breakfast and the sausage, mashed potatoes and gravy brought away in that plastic box from last night’s dinner at the Bee at Burnham. Vodka, tonic and lime from the Sainsbury’s around the corner and a glass of ice from the bar downstairs set us up with drinks. We boiled a kettle and brewed tea.
Cocktails in bathroom glasses, then hot tea and leftovers shared, and reruns of The Monarch of the Glen on television? Pure indulgence.