Making a meal of Macleay Valley rabbit and two raisins

BY JOE BENNETT

OPINION: Just as you would have done, I chose the terrine of Macleay Valley rabbit served with Waldorf salad, celeriac (what else?) and raisins.

And just as you would have done, I said to the waiter, "Can you promise me that it is indeed Macleay Valley rabbit, and not rabbit from some inferior valley".

The waiter was a not-quite-young man in tight trousers and trendily distressed hair and he seemed as capable of smiling as I am of doing a standing back somersault. All of which made me think that we might not get on.

He said, "Sir?"

"Well," I longed to say, "the tang of a Macleay Valley rabbit is so distinctive that should you attempt to foist some other rabbit on my discerning palate, I guarantee I will pull a face as tight as your trousers, and feel obliged to return the plate. Which would be an unfortunate way to begin my dining experience in this splendid, though admittedly expensive, establishment."

But I didn't say that. I said: "I will follow the terrine with braised wagyu beef cheek with oven-roasted wagyu bavette, heirloom carrots and horseradish cream." And I am proud to say that I got through the whole of that order without laughing.

"Sir," said the waiter. It was clearly his standby line and it didn't mean sir.

Its tone tempted me to enquire what ways of roasting a bavette there were that didn't involve an oven. Or whether I could replace the bavette with a full-sized bave, because I was not only hungry, but also confident that the meal, when it arrived, would consist of too little food on too much plate. But I didn't. The needle on the barometer of our relationship was already nudging towards stormy weather, and besides I had company.

It consisted of three clever and delightful women from a publishing house who felt obliged to entertain me in an upmarket manner but with whom I was too little acquainted to say, frankly, I'd rather go to a pub.

Several nearby tables were occupied, some by loving couples, others by groups of women. The women talked incessantly, laughed a lot, touched each other's arms and seemed happy. The couples sat in silence. Or discussed, unconvincingly, the food. Thus confirming once again that women have more fun with women than with men. And men, mutatis mutandis, ditto.

Nevertheless, I had a lovely time with the publishing women who felt professionally obliged to ask questions about me, a subject on which I have a great deal of gripping material.

I was engaged on a chunk of this and the women were listening in something close to rapture, when I noticed the waiter had not left. He reached forward, took my napkin from the table, flicked it open and made a dive for my crotch.

"Oh, no you don't, buster. I know your game. Laying a napkin on my lap has nothing to do with performing a service, and everything to do with intimidation. It's an invasive gesture designed to daunt. It announces that this pretentious little eatery isn't a restaurant, a place for that most ordinary and splendid of activities which is eating in company, but rather a temple of food, a temple where you, buster, are the high priest who runs things and I am a mere member of the congregation whose duty it is to be overawed and to shut up. Well, phooey to that, my tight- trousered friend. Me customer, you servant. Get that into your horribly gelled skull and keep it there at least for the remainder of the time I happen to be here.

"Don't you realise that only the lonely, the deluded and the dismal go to a restaurant for the food? Everyone else goes for the company, for the pleasure of being with people they like on neutral territory and with no need afterwards to do the washing up. It isn't, as the wise man once said, rocket surgery. Even the Bible gets it right: "Better a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." And hatred, you supercilious dupe, is what I feel when you try to lay a napkin on my lap, a service that was last performed for me when I was in a high chair, aged 4. Do you hear me now?'

He didn't, of course, because I didn't say it. And I didn't say it because I was in company. But boy, did I think it. I thought it very hard.

Nevertheless, we managed to have a lovely evening, the proof of which was that I barely noticed what I ate. Though, I did absent-mindedly count the raisins that came with my terrine. There were two of them.

- © Fairfax NZ News