A Meal to Remember

A Meal to Remember

Egg Cress Sandwiches and Crisps served with Strawberries and Champagne.

London in the summer. The heat was sticky, oppressive. The hotel had no air conditioning and the windows were flung open. In the background the noise of homeward bound traffic and people chattering in the street below. The nets moved slightly in the breeze. We were sat on a sofa beneath the window, David’s arm around me as he kissed the top of my head. He reached across to the table next to him. On it sat a packet of Egg Cress Sandwiches and a packet of ready salted crisps. He picked up the sandwiches and opened the packaging. The rasping sound as the film was peeled back released that unique smell that is a warm egg sandwich; slightly sulphuric, reminiscent of a volcano. Only the British could concoct such a delicacy.

David passed me a triangle of wholemeal bread, the soft texture slightly rough to the fingers, containing the creamy yellow white of a scrunched boiled egg and mayonnaise interwoven with the flecks of green cress. The sort of sandwich I had taken on school trips. I sank my teeth into the soft, warm, bread that he held before me, taking a mouthful of egg and cress. Chewing slowly, moving the food around my mouth, savouring the tastes and textures, the bread, the egg, the mayonnaise, the stringy cress. My tongue caressed the food, adoring it, savouring every mouthful. The egg and mayonnaise coated my tongue and mouth before elegantly, deliciously, slipping down my throat. My taste buds counted the mix of sweet and savoury and salty particles. My tongue and mouth and teeth worked together as I chewed and swallowed the sandwich. Each mouthful offered to me to eat as I finished the last. All surrounded by the soft conversation of Lovers.

With the sandwich eaten, David walked to the bathroom. He had a surprise. He walked back with a punnet of strawberries and a bottle shrouded in a towel. It had been kept cool in the bath.  The bottle, green, that special shape, slightly conical, of a sparkling wine, a bottle of Mumm. The film was removed from the strawberries with a seesh. The smell that wonderful sweet aroma that only a strawberry can offer overlaid the smell of egg, making the taste buds salivate in anticipation. Each berry was scarlet, dotted with tiny black seeds and topped with its crown of green leaves, the stalk. This was a meal of all the senses, David standing before me. The foil was removed from the bottle, crinkling its way off the cork, exposing the wire cage restraining the energy of those bubbles. The cage untwisted leaving the brown mushroom shaped cork naked, proud.

His fingers, long, firm, slowly prised the cork from the bottle with a gentle twist and a plop. As the gas hissed its escape and the wine rose he expertly poured a little into each glass, pausing to let the pale golden liquid settle before topping up the phials. There is no rushing good champagne.

Bringing both glasses to the sofa, David sat, our entwining arms holding the glasses. He picked up a strawberry by its green crown and dipped it into the straw coloured fizzing liquid, before offering it to my mouth.

‘To us, may this be the first of many evenings like this’ he said softly as I bit into the red black seed flecked berry.

Whispering ‘to us’ I opened my mouth and accepted his offering. I bit into the fruit. The taste exploded in my mouth. No strawberry had ever tasted like this. Sweet, warm, alcoholic. The soft fruit was silk in my mouth ensuring every taste bud was awake and screaming for more. The champagne was sipped. It was superlative. Alternating between feeding, being fed and sipping nectar, this food of the gods was consumed. The pleasure in myself only measured by the pleasure seen in David as each mouthful slid down the throat. Caressed, gently stroked, licked, nibbled, tasted. Ambrosia.

The packet of crisps? Oh that sat on the table and was left for the maid the next day. It was never opened.