We were celebrating Margreet's birthday in one of our favourite restaurants where we usually start with 3 oysters each and then share a rib of beef.
After a perusal of the menu, when we enjoy a leisurely glas of the house white wine, we decided this time to have the chef's gravadlax as our first course. And excellent it was.
Ribera del Duero red wine at this restaurant is our choice, but as they were out of it when we last ate there we settled for their Cote du Rhone, which we liked so much that we ordered it again to go with our meat. We then happened to talk about beef and its smell.
It was when I did the grand tour shortly after the war in an old Ford 9 flat-backed van that, with some imagination, I converted into mobile living quarters.
I was in Spain, in this instance, at a bullfight, sitting in the sunny side of the bullring, and in great heat.
It was not the spear-piercing of the bull's body by a Spaniard on a horse, or even the barbed wands that were later jabbed into the bull's shoulders by a more elaborately dressed Spaniard that I recall so well. But it certainly was the densely perfumed air of the heavy scent worn by my male neighbours that, mixed with the smell of the bull's blood, made me feel a bit queasy.
So when our rib of beef appeared, I forgot the smell that once went with beef in Spain and tucked in with plenty of the splendid horseradish sauce that was served with it.
We were unable to eat all the meat on the dish, so I asked the French waitress if we might take what was left home with us in a doggy bag, mentioning that our dogs would be absolutely delighted with it.
When she returned with the wrapped-up meat, she enquired about the names of our dogs. "Jim and Margreet", say I. "And what breed of dogs are they?" she asked. "Human," I replied.
The answer seemed to take her by surprise as she retreated in fits of laughter.
