Thursday, April 06, 2006

Poached chop

I'm a mumbler. For someone who loves the stage and would give anything to get back on it (do you hear that oh gods? I'll hand over me first born for another part) I can get quite tongue-tied sometimes.

I was far worse when I was younger. Never more so when it came to ordering food in a restaurant. And if the waitress was pretty, well, I'd probably sound like that famous plate of beans.

Once, about seven years ago in NYC, Patrick brought me to a Ukrainian diner for dinner. We were ravenous as only Connacht men can truly be so we decided to try pretty much everything on the menu. We ordered borsch, pierogi, stuffed-cabbage, stuffed-potato skins, stuffed-stuffing, loadsa stuff. I also ordered a pork chop. The waitress was a knock-out and of course I could hardly string a sentence together. Combine this with her dodgy English and we had a problem.

So, the beautiful Ukrainian girl brings down our food to the table and myself and Patrick start sorting out who ordered what. Everything was running smoothly except she hadn't brought me my pork chop. I was looking for it amongst all the dishes on the table when Patrick asked - did you order the poached eggs?

- Oh, says I - poached egg.

Patrick's laughing still.

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