SANDY: Welcome to our bijou restaurantette.

JULIAN: So you're restaurateurs now.

JULIAN: Yes. We took it up after our success writing about mangare in the glossies.

SANDY: We're your Bona Viveur of the Sunday supp.

JULIAN: He's your sort of in-Clement Freud, and I'm a sort of germ-Carrier. We don't do it for the money, just to oblige our chums. We get a lot of telly people in.

SANDY: Reynard La Spoon, the choreographer, he's always in - likes our omi cooking.

JULIAN: Then there's Pandro Wildebeeste, the television producer - does all those tough, hard-hitting documentaries about life on the coal-face and steel-smelting in Sierra Leone. Lives in that little pink cottage round the corner.

SANDY: He's always dropping in for Jule's speciality.

JULIAN: He likes what I do with herbs, you see.

SANDY: Jules and his herbs. He can do anything with a few herbs. It's a gift.

JULIAN: Shut up.

SANDY: No, it is - don't run yourself down, Jule. He's always denigrating himself, Mr. Horne.

JULIAN: Well, don't be strange, Mr. Horne. Sit yourself down. Now, what do you fancy?

JULIAN: Well could I have a vada at your entrees?

SANDY: Oh, he's bold!

JULIAN: Here's the menu.

HORNE: Hmm. I see you've got lally of lamb on.

JULIAN: Yes, lamb's nice - or there's your jugged riah. That's palare for hare. We got it from our special charcuterie.

HORNE: Charcuterie - your butcher?

JU LIAN: You think so? Must be the way I've had me hair done

SANDY: (confidentially) Vidal likes him to show his ears. Well, if you've got them you might as well show them 'course, they stick out a bit. He daren't go out in a high wind.

JULIAN: They don't stick out.

SANDY: Oh yes they do. You lacquer them back - I've seen you at it.

JULIAN: Traitor! You swore you'd never tell

SANDY: Well, Mr. Horne, what s it to be?

HORNE: What do you suggest?

SANDY: Well, to start with - artichoke, with perhaps your mini glassette of Chablis.

JU LIAN: Then how about corn on your actual cob?

HORNE: Yes. That's not a bad idea.

SANDY: He'll want a Macon with that.


SANDY: I've seen you. You're a messy eater.

JULIAN: Then for your main course there's your scheesch kebab, Very scheesch.

SANDY: With a bottle of your Chateauneuf du Pape. That's your Pope's Newcastle. There, a meal fit for a queen.

JULIAN: Yes, I fancy it myself. Right, now you don't mind waiting, do you?

HORNE: Why - where are you going?

SANDY: Out, to eat.


SANDY: Oh, we're not eating here ducky, foods atrocious!

JULIAN: Atrocious!


SANDY: Of course, mingling with the smart set as we were, it was only a step from the restaurant in Islington to full indulgence in all the traditional sports of the English Gentleomi: shootin', fishin' poncin' and huntin'. Remember the Carnaby Hunt, Jule?

JULIAN: Do I not! It's etched on my memory's tablets, it is. Etched. Mr. Horne was there, wasn't he?

SANDY: Was he not! He'd read our ad in the Sundays - `Come trolling after the fox in specially selected groups'. And the next morning there he was, popping his head round the door.


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