Fish on Sunday
It was a Sunday. I don’t remember what I had for breakfast but I do remember that the weather was decent. Could have been overcast. It was dry. Anyway I had read about a pub that’s not too far away from my neighbourhood and does a nice Sunday Roast. So I took a long walk through some lovely streets and wound my way around to the Sunday Roast pub. I went in, walked up to the bar, ordered an ale, and did not order a roast. I wasn’t in the mood for it after all. Suddenly I needed salt and vinegar. I asked for fish and chips, took my glass to the table and sat down.
After an appropriate amount of time the fish and chips came. The guy who brought the plate to the table gave me a long look (probably heard my american accent and decided to go to town on it) and commented heavily that “You’re supposed to eat fish on Fridays. Roast on Sundays.” He then stalked back into the kitchen, having set me right.
What can I say? I wanted salty vinegar-y-ness. It hit the spot.
It’s almost definite that another Sunday will come where I am told off for ordering the wrong thing. I wonder when it will be? What will I order?
Probably more fish.