Page 41 of Be More Capybara

‘No, I love a roaring fire. Though with only one log “roaring” might be stretching it a bit.’

The menu was more sophisticated than Nigel remembered it. ‘What happened to chicken in a basket?’

Helen smiled. ‘I think you’ll find that’s the free-range chicken in spicy panko breadcrumbs, served with triple-cooked beef dripping chips and a homemade wild garlic aioli. No plastic basket in sight.’

Nigel carried on reading through the menu. He’d eaten at some pretty fancy restaurants in his time, but none of them had menus as confusing as this one. Not ones whose menus were written in English, anyway.

‘You’ll be safe with the lasagne,’ Helen said.

‘Where’s that?’

‘At the bottom. The layered artisanal pasta bake made with slow-braised Herefordshire beef. You could have it with a symphony of hand-picked heritage leaves if you want to be healthier?’

‘Could I? How have you worked all this stuff out?’

‘Because I spent a lot of time in gastropubs while you were away. Angus used to love a heritage beef and stout reduction en croute.’

‘A what?’

‘A steak and ale pie.’

‘It’s like trying to solve a cryptic crossword.’

Helen laughed. ‘You used to enjoy a challenge.’

‘Not when I’m hungry, and I just want something to eat. I was looking forward to scampi and chips. I haven’t eaten that for years. Is that lurking anywhere on here?’

Helen shook her head and closed her menu. ‘Let’s go to the Kingfisher.’

‘The pub near the Grange?’

‘Yes, that’s firmly stuck in 1999.’

The Kingfisher menu was written on a chalkboard on the wall. Nigel had a choice of two sizes of scampi and chips - a light bite or a full plate.

‘How many pieces of scampi do I get with the light bite option?’ he asked the barman.

‘Not enough. Only tourists buy that when they’re attempting to do some sort of English tapas.’ He rolled his eyes.

‘I’ll go with the full plate then.’

‘So that’s one full scampi and chips, and one lasagne. Side salad or chips with the lasagne?’’

‘I forgot to ask.’ Nigel looked over at Helen, who was sitting by a considerably more generous fire than the Fox’s minimalist one-log effort. ‘Hel, do you want a side salad or chips?’

‘Sod it. I’ll have chips.’

‘That’s lucky for you,’ the barman said.

‘Why?’

‘She won’t be nicking yours. My wife always says she doesn’t want chips, then eats half of mine. Same with onion rings.’

Nigel laughed. Helen had form for nicking his chips on a regular basis when they were teenagers, so much so that he started buying her her own portion.

The barman rang the order through the till, and handed Nigel the card machine. ‘Help yourself to cutlery and sauces. They’re by the serving hatch.’

Nigel walked across the sticky carpet with the ridiculously complicated colourful design. This felt more like the pubs of his youth than the pristine, polished floor of the Fox.