OH dear, Back — again — to north Wales, the
totally non-gourmet capital of the world, where coffee still tastes like a chemistry experiment gone extremely wrong, extremely tepid and extremely beige. I'm sorry, but we do have to go every so often because, as you probably know by now, my partner is from north Wales and we have to visit the parents, otherwise they might visit us. Now, this should be avoided at all costs, not because they are unpleasant people — they are not — but because there is the question of our supposed spare room, with the bed that's missing three slats: if something goes bump in the night, it might be my mother-in-law (bump!), it might be my father-in-law (bump!), it might be both (BUMP-BLIMP!). Plus, there is the rubbish Homebase blind (it's amazing how something so cheap can look it) that will go up but not down, except in those instances when it will go down but not up. Then again, sometimes one side will shoot up while the other will stay resolutely down. Now, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking: sort it Out. Take a deep breath, go to John Lewis, get a bed, get proper curtains.. .. Yes, yes, yes. That's all very well, but we are tremendously busy people, what with Tru1y Crap Housekeeping (issue two) to get out. Thank you, by the way, for your terrific response to issue one and, in particular, the cut-out, fully illustrated guide to never ironing again — just pretend everything you wear is 100 per cent natural linen. Indeed, as Mrs B, Onkers of Shepley wrote, Thank you so much for your cut-out guide to never ironing again. I now pretend everything I wear is 100 per cent linen, including my shoes and reading glasses. I live in a very nice place, by the way, where we are allowed spoons but not knives. This, of course, saves on the washing up. My spoon may look rather crumpled, but that's because it is made of 100 per cent linen.'
Amway, our visit this time has a triple purpose: to see the parents, yes, but also to test my partner's totally mad claim that 'You can eat well in Wales, if you know where to go', and to attend the International Eisteddfod at Llangollen. My partner is into choirs. My partner sings in a London one. I am not so into choirs. But I have to keep him sweet as I've just appointed him chief feature writer on Truly Crap Housekeeping, and already his copy on 'How to make coffee by running a mug of Nescafe under the hot tap' (a particular skill of his, probably passed down through the Welsh genes) is overdue. I had not thought about my partner as chief feature writer until the day he announced he had hemmed our son's new cricket trousers. Well, this seemed so miraculous that I didn't question it further, but, come the day of our son's next match, two things became immediately apparent: 1) he had hemmed them with Sellotape; and 2) not just any old Sellotape, but some ancient Christmas stuff with little sprigs of holly and robins on it. Still, when the whole lot promptly started unravelling, sticking all over his shoes, circling the wicket, perplexing the umpire — who halted the game to investigate this improbable invasion of festive sticky tape — our son was most understanding. Indeed, as he later wrote to social services, 'Please, please take me into care, othemise I shall have no alternative but to kill myself.' He also says he still dreams about it, which is nice.
Now, where were we'? Oh yes, in Llangollen, a pretty little town on the River Dee, rather overrun with Eisteddfod visitors this Saturday evening, as well as umpteen busy touristy shops selling 'I'm Glad I'm a Welsh Boy' T-shirts. (I must say, the temptation to take out a marker and add underneath, in parenthesis, But then I thought of Michael Howard and rather changed my mind' is quite overwhelming) We'd already attended an afternoon of events, and it was all very pleasant, although I do think choral people could do with a little style advice. The lady singers, for example, all seem to wear deeprose, polyester evening dresses run up at home on a sewing machine using a Simplicity — circa 1958 — pattern. The Bulgarians, it must be said, seem to embrace this look with a particular passion. As for the chaps in the male voice choirs — average age 492 — they go for the sort of cheap, royal-blue or bottle-green blazers only previously seen on superannuated Angus Steak House waiters and holiday reps. My partner says it is vety mean of me to point out such things. Choirs don't have much money, you know. Why do I always have to sneer? I feel rightly rebuked but, still, when the Bolstersone Male Voice Choir (Sheffield) troop out, I am minded to shout, 'I'm sorry, but could you change my room, as I was promised a sea view. And, while you're about it, I'll have a rump steak with onion rings. Chop chop.'
Anyway, off we go, on my partner's quest to prove that you can eat well in north Wales, if you know where to go — ha, ha! — but, as it turns out, he hasn't a clue where to go, Now, I really would like to say that, instead, we stumbled across this darling place serving fresh local food, well-cooked and well-priced, which is all I ever really ask for, but alas I cannot. Instead, after much traipsing around and turning our noses up at most menus — yet more plaice, chips and peas, yet more gammon and pineapple, yet more scampi caught this morning in Iceland, and I don't mean the country — we settle for the River View Bistro, which at least has a more adventurous-sounding menu: roast partridge with juniper stuffing and gravy; venison bourguignon cooked in red wine, garlic, tomato, mushrooms, onion and herbs; local trout with seafood sauce.
In we go and, instantly. I feel a major sneer attack coming on. It's all so very 1950s, with heavy-legged waitresses wearing even cheaper polyester than the choirs, plus one of those big, old, condiment-bearing sideboards. The view of the river is nice, though. And the tablecloths are proper ones, at least. Starters are all £2.95, which seems OK, but the entrées appear hideously expensive. Pasta shells with pesto at £9.95? You wouldn't get away with that in Crouch End. My partner orders the fresh mushrooms in garlic butter and parsley for a starter, which he says is fine. I order the lobster bisque, or try to, but they've run out, so would I mind seafood chowder instead? I say I would not, but rather live to regret it. It turns out to be very, very beige. So beige that it makes Welsh coffee look almost brown. And it tastes of absolutely nothing, except maybe potato. It's served with the sort of cheap, dry white bap you can buy down the Spar. I can forgive a lot if the bread is good. I can forgive nothing if it's bad. People who have no interest in good bread should not, I think, be in the restaurant business. The burger-van business, yes; but the restaurant business, no.
Next, we both order the venison bourguignon at £12.95, and it's hopeless. The meat, which is stringy and overcooked, comes in a spooky mauve sauce that is utterly tasteless. The carrots and broccoli are massively overcooked, while the new potatoes are totally raw in the centre. I guess I should have sent it all back, but that would have implied hope, and by this time I've utterly run out of hope. My partner admits (hurrah! because even though we've had a crap meal it's nice to be right) that this is one of the worst meals of his life, which, as he's had to put up with my cooking all these years, is saying something. It's also absurdly overpriced. We skip coffee, needless to say, and get out as quickly as we can. We are now back home, beavering away on our growing portfolio of magazine titles which now includes So Not In Style, with it's special double-page spread on the Angel Manalov Academic Choir, Bulgaria. So the trip wasn't totally wasted, at least.
The River View Bistro, Dee Lane, Llangollen; tel: Llangollen 860133.
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