The air in the hotel dining room hummed with the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of holidaymakers. “At least here I can eat proper food, not your slop,” hissed the man by the buffet. But my silent reply, served on his plate, drained the colour from his face.
Those long-married know: husbands come in two varieties. Some devour whatever you cook, even thanking you. Others, like my Bernard, treat every meal as an invitation for critique.
For thirty years of shared life, I heard only one refrain: “Soup’s oversalted again,” “Potatoes undercooked,” “Mother’s meatballs were light as clouds, not like your shoe leather.” A right treasure, his temperament!
Truth be told, I’d begun to think my hands grew from the wrong place. I tried, girls—oh, how I tried! Bought cookbooks, binge-watched cooking shows. Prepared coq au vin in cocottes, roasted duck with apples at Christmas, simmered beef stew for hours. In return? A perpetual scowl and comparisons to his sainted late mother.
Lately, another problem arose. Bernard’s weight brought dire health warnings: soaring blood pressure, cholesterol off the charts. The GP, a stern old fellow, told him bluntly: “One more episode, Mr. Higgins, and you might not recover. No fried, no fatty, no salt. Diet, or else.” And who d’you think enforced it? Me.
Steamed vegetables, oil-free roasts, salt sprinkled at the table. His grumbles followed: “Starving me,” “Feeding me rabbit food.” The patience of a saint, I’d need!
When we booked an all-inclusive getaway, I sighed relief. A holiday from the stove—and his complaints. Let him eat out, see restaurant fare isn’t always better. How wrong I was.
From day one, it became a culinary nightmare. Bernard lost his mind at the buffet, prowling like a seagull at a chip shop. His plate? A greasy masterpiece: buttered mash beneath kebabs, mayo-slathered salads, topped with a wedge of pepperoni pizza.
I ventured gently, “Bernie, remember the doctor… your blood pressure last month?”
He waved me off. “Give over, woman! I’m on holiday! Paid my quid—I’ll eat what I like! At least here I get a break from your gruel!”
So there he sat, chewing loud enough for the whole dining room to hear, while I picked at lettuce, feeling like a nursemaid to a corpse that hadn’t the decency to lie still. Tragic, really.
Days passed. He ate; I bit my tongue. He praised the chefs; I seethed. Told our son over the phone how he was “making up for years of starvation,” while I ground my teeth. But one evening, the dam burst.
I’d taken modest portions: grilled chicken, steamed veg. Bernard returned with a mountain of food that turned my stomach just to look at. Savouring greasy lamb, he rolled his eyes. “Now this is proper grub! Rich, flavourful, real! Not like your tasteless slop!”
Girls, I nearly dropped my fork. Thirty years at the stove—for this? “Slop”?
Every insult rose like bile. “Oh, you want ‘proper’ food?” I thought. “You’ll get it. A meal you’ll never forget.”
Next evening, I entered the dining room smiling, a predator at hunt. Oblivious, Bernard piled his plate. I touched his arm. “Sit, love. Let me treat you tonight. My dear husband deserves spoiling.”
Baffled, he obeyed. I seized the largest plate. Three fatty ribs, charred crisp. A heap of chips. Mayo-drenched coleslaw, glazed carrots, buffalo wings, sausage rolls. Crowned with lashings of ketchup, cheese sauce, and English mustard.
The chef gaped as if I meant to feed a regiment.
Like Lady Bountiful, I bore this greasy monument to our table. “Eat up, darling! Only the best for you. Wanted proper food? Here it is. Bon appétit, my love!”
I said it loud. Heads turned. A woman nodded sympathetically. Bernard paled, then flushed. In my eyes, he saw not care, but ice.
“You—what’re you playing at?” he whispered.
“What’s wrong, pet? Not to your taste?” I cooed. “This is ‘proper food,’ your very words. Eat. I made an effort.”
He sat thunderstruck. No scene could he make—not when I’d “doted” on him publicly. To eat it? Suicide. A trap of his own making.
Five minutes he wavered. Then, meekly, pushed the plate away. The rest of the holiday, he ate only grilled chicken and greens. And watched me like a spooked hare.
Well, loves? Thumbs up if it struck a chord—and do share in the comments: ever been in such a pickle?
