Lunch With My Uncle
by David Ainley

 

A few years ago, on the first day of my annual visit to England to see my Uncle Walter, then age eighty-seven and not able to cook for himself, I took him for lunch in the neighbouring town of Brighouse* . It was after 1 p.m. by the time we got there and my uncle, who had a most impressive appetite for his age, was beginning to get very crotchety because of the lack of food. Given his usual two slices of jam bread for breakfast nearly five hours ago, this was hardly surprising.

We struck a blank at the first pub we entered but were directed across the road to the Black Bull, which served all sorts of food. My uncle’s mood brightened visibly. He quickly decided that fish was his choice and ordered a ‘Moby Dick.’ Service was mercifully swift at this time and had he been given a white whale it would have stood no chance.

Conversation was pretty well non-existent as uncle Walter concentrated his full attention on the food, which he forked in slowly, methodically, and relentlessly. I chewed on a piece of Chicken Kiev, which bore no resemblance to its gourmet namesake and watched my uncle’s appetite with admiration. “Have you finished luv?” a passing waitress asked him, ready to take his plate. “No “ snapped my uncle, quickly returned his total attention to the eight green peas and a small piece of potato remaining on his otherwise immaculate plate. These were quickly polished off with remarkable dexterity. Two peas attempted to escape but it was a vain effort. Finally, he turned to me with a smile, “Thank you David, that was grand. What’s for supper?”

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