A Square Meal

Beer and Missing dinners

With over 60 seated, the dining started well. The starter was mozzarella and tomato with a balsamic dribble, which was surprisingly tasty. Then the whole operation collapsed with the efficiency of a badly rehearsed ritual.

My meal was apparently presented to some Masonic usurper at another table. The Dining Steward (who shall remain nameless, although for the purposes of this account we shall call him W. Bro. Sean) had performed a little pre-dinner juggling with the seating plan. The revised arrangements were conveyed to the kitchen staff, but somewhere between Lodge and ladle they were lost in translation.

I was therefore presented with a plate of coleslaw and “potato wedges”—the quotation marks being essential. It was not the most appetising of combinations but matters improved with the arrival of a bowl of soup. Its identity could not be established without extensive forensic analysis, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

Pudding consisted of an individual plate of cheese and biscuits. This contributed greatly to the restless night I later spent pondering two of life’s enduring mysteries: what exactly had been in the soup, and why I had been unable to play the closing hymn.

The tale of a Yorkshire pudding

The starter was farmhouse pâté with toast—or possibly a Ryvita that had wandered in by mistake. Sadly, the pâté was edged with jelly, which gave it the appearance of having been professionally sealed against leakage. Not to my taste. I did enjoy the severed tomato, though.

The main course was roast beef, revived by a generous dose of horseradish sauce hot enough to restore circulation. The cauliflower was insipid, and I suspect the potatoes had begun life in a bag. A thorough drowning in gravy, followed by a light dusting of pepper, helped disguise the evidence.

A Yorkshire pudding sat proudly atop the plate. I’ve never understood its purpose, so I gave mine away. In hindsight, this was a tactical error, as there wasn’t any pudding. There was cheese and biscuits, but eating cheese at night surely increases the risk of night terrors - and the meal had already supplied enough material.

All around the world...

This had all the promise of a truly international dinner! Scotland provided the starter, Cumbria supplied the main course, and Australia the pudding—although, judging by the results, the recent failure at Air Traffic Control may have caused several ingredients to have missed their connecting flights.

The starter was Cock-a-leekie soup, a traditional Scottish dish of leeks and peppered chicken broth. Ours appeared to have been introduced to pepper only briefly, so additional vigorous lashings of the hot condiment were required.

The main course was Cumberland sausage, the traditional, highly seasoned English pork sausage originating in the historic county of Cumberland, now part of Cumbria. It is usually made as one very long continuous sausage. Mine was neither especially seasoned nor especially cooperative: it was tough enough to qualify as light resistance training. It arrived with self-service helpings of Smash and processed peas, and some sort of gravy.

Perhaps pudding would save the day? Peach Melba is a favourite of Masonic caterers and is traditionally made with poached peaches, vanilla ice cream and a bright raspberry sauce. I believe the raspberry sauce is what earns it the name “Melba”. There wasn’t any, so technically we were served peaches and ice-cream, followed by a brief but moving silence for Melba, who presumably remained hidden in the kitchen.

I suppose the opposite of being used to good meals is that sometimes you get one that’s not so good…

The starter was pâté with some salad and toasted white bread. OK so far.

The main course was a curious pie with boiled potatoes and some vegetable things. I think the pie was chicken, but that might be doing the poor deceased fowl a disservice.

The pudding was a fruit salad. Possibly the laws in Portsmouth prohibit even chefs from carrying knives - hence, perhaps, the skin remaining on the apples. I did find a couple of severed grapes and a minuscule piece of strawberry, which I enjoyed.

It did make me look forward to going home for a plain chocolate Magnum before bed!

After all the excitement in the lodge, it was a relief to sit down to dinner and let our heart rates return to something the NHS might approve of.

The starter was pâté with a lump of French stick substantial enough to be registered as a blunt instrument - or it could have been a section of baguette. I've never understood foreign food. This came with a communal bowl of creamy butter—or possibly Utterly Butterly.

The main course was gammon and pineapple, a combination I’ve never entirely trusted. As I’m not a fan of gammon, our lovely chef made me an omelette instead. I hadn’t asked for one, but it was duly served with chips and peas, and I ate the lot.

Pudding was Becky’s regular triumph: fresh fruit salad adorned with a lump of vanilla ice cream, thus ensuring that anything dangerously healthy was swiftly brought under control.

Special!

Hampshire and Isle of Wight meeting at Southampton Novotel

How does a hotel cope when they have to feed a large number of hungry masons descend on it for lunch? With military precision they managed, let’s find out how.

We began with ‘Buffalo mozzarella, heritage tomato caprese with a balsamic glaze’. Or, as in plain speak, cheese and tomato with a fancy drizzle. I then discovered that buffalo mozzarella is made from the milk of the Italian Mediterranean buffalo. Sadly, the cheese itself had less flavour than a piece of a hotel bathroom soap - though, to be fair, probably fewer bubbles.

Thankfully, the main course arrived to restore gastronomic relations: ‘Slow cooked blade of beef, wholegrain mustard mashed potato, thyme roasted root vegetables with a red wine jus’. In other words, beef, mash and posh gravy. And very tasty it was too.

Pudding was ‘Vanilla cheesecake smeared with fruits of the forest compote’. ‘Smeared’ may not actually have appeared on the menu, but the cheesecake was excellent and vanished with impressive speed.

So, in summary, the meal was a triumph - apart from the contribution made by the innards of the Mediterranean buffalo. Full marks to the Novotel for feeding more than 150 people under such demanding conditions.

The reason so many of us Masons are shaking hands with obesity is quite simple: we eat too much. A 3 or 4 course meal late in the evening is enough to send most nutritionists into a cold sweat and have the local cardiologist warming up the defibrillator. So, now and again, it is rather refreshing to be presented with just 2 courses - practically a fasting meal by Masonic standards.

Dinner was a generous plate of lasagne and chips—the chips probably courtesy of McCain, although nobody was counting, least of all the brother asking for seconds. For the healthy contingent, coleslaw and lettuce were added. As a firmly non-rabbit-related person, I treated the green stuff with the suspicion it deserved.

Pudding was fresh fruit salad and ice cream—non-Jimmy Lewis, I suspect, though in the interests of harmony no formal investigation was launched.

The food at the Brockenhurst Masonic Centre is always excellent and, as usual, Becky and her team did not disappoint.

Lyndhurst Lodge dine out at The Totton Masonic Hall

Starter - A deceased poppadum lay supine on the plate, apparently the victim of a tragic incident involving gravity, overconfidence, and possibly a hot lamp. It was tastefully adorned with two small samosas, accompanied by a tomato and onion garnish. There was also a slice of chapati whose texture called to mind an old lodge warrant written on extremely ancient parchment — the sort of document one imagines being discovered in a locked drawer, guarded by a gnarled and musty retired secretary with a suspicious moustache.

Main - A tasty chicken curry and rice followed. The chicken was tender, the sauce was lively, and the rice served the dish well.

Pudding - A delightful bowl of peach melba arrived to complete the feast. The famous French chef Auguste Escoffier invented the dish around 1892 at the Savoy Hotel in London, naming it in honour of Dame Nellie Melba, the celebrated Australian opera soprano. On the evidence of the dessert, he either had a soft spot for her or was conducting the most elaborate flirtation in culinary history.