A safe landing at The Twig

Last Tuesday evening it was like a jumbo jet-load had unexpectedly parachuted in. It should at once be said that the young waitress, fleeing round solo, coped tremendously.

The lad on the next table was at the airport fire fighting school and talking flame-retardant trousers to his parents; the quartet nearby worked at a nursing home and were ardently discussing incontinence; behind us the talk turned to the awful cost of plastic shrouds. Though it transpired that they were covers for bus seats, it is sometimes possible to understand why recalcitrant readers urge us to stick to the main menu.

At the Twig it's the size of a small novel - "huge" boasts one of the pub's adverts. Though big is by no means always best, the front page not only insists that everything is freshly-made but that customers should demand to see the weekly meat bill.

Food's served both in the lounge and in Marina's Restaurant at the back - candle-lit and cosy enough, though with a bit of a slipstream from somewhere.

The bar is sadly without real ale, though does stock something called Aftershock which may defy post-traumatic probability by tasting worse than it looks. The restaurant, says a plaque in the foyer, is dedicated to the life of Nicola Marina Constantine.

We began with smoked salmon rosette, wrapped round Greenland prawns. Chefs talk of Greenland prawns as if it gives them a certain cachet - as a French Canadian winkle might say - though it's hard to understand the perception that they are upper crustacean. Greenwich prawns are probably just as classy. The dish itself was all right, though smoking may rather have damaged the poor salmon's health.

The Boss began with the whitebait - "a bit niggardly" she said - and had hoped to follow with the stuffed courgette dish, also named after Marina. Since the courgettes had all gone at lunchtime, she had the vegetable curry, with a tump of rice and a veritable mountain of very good chips.

Since French dishes are said to be "authentic", we ordered chicken au jambon - that is to say, wrapped in bacon and fried in a mustard sauce. As might be expected from someone who once went out with a girl who'd spent two weeks in Paris, we tried quite hard to pronounce "jambon" as in France. It had to be repeated. "One jam-bon," said the waitress - as, almost, in jam butty. The sauce was well considered, the meat a bit tasteless, the vegetables sort of seven out of tennish.

The thickness of the main volume notwithstanding, the pudding list came separately. Lots of old favourites included spotted dick with good hot custard and an orange and amaretto sorbet, much enjoyed.

Still folk kept turning up, like it was the arrivals lounge, the splendid waitress well meriting a couple of bob in her hand. By evening's end she'd probably have been worn to a frazzle; Twiggy, if ever.

T'OTHER end of Middleton St George, almost coincidentally, last week's column was enthusiastic about the born again Fighting Cocks. Trevor Alderson and his wife took up the recommendation two days later - "as good, if not better, than ever," he writes. Trevor's long-dead maiden aunt, incidentally, always knew the pub as the Quarrelling Fowls. Someone may know why pub and locality are Fighting Cocks in the first place.

THERE were only two quibbles with the mushroom soup: it wasn't mushroom and it certainly wasn't soup.

Rather it resembled second-hand wallpaper paste - poor, pallid, offensive to the eye and tormented to the taste. Apart from that, Mrs Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?

This was the new Acorn Caf in Yarm Road, Darlington, an arboreal offshoot of the Royal Oak public house. It's cheap, cheerful, offers free delivery - even on sandwiches - and served a perfectly decent corned beef pie, £2.40 with chips and peas.

It's true, of course, that from tiny acorns damn great oak trees grow - but if you've got to start somewhere, for heaven's sake don't start with the soup.

WOLFING in sheep's clothing, last week's column wondered if a kind reader might be able to come up with the words to The Ballad of Bethnal Green, sung and written by a 1950s troubadour called Paddy Roberts.

Those who believe that the Eating Owt column should solely be concerned with the cost of cabbage should therefore look away now. Others have truly surpassed themselves.

Not only have we the words but a cassette, a CD, the sheet music and a theory from retired polliss Jim Jennings in Durham - "I thought everyone knew the words to the Ballad of Bethnal Green" he says - that Paddy Roberts was simply an alter-ego of Giles Brandreth. "Either him or his dad," adds Jim. "Giles and Paddy sound absolutely identical."

Nelson Wallace from Yarm would have loaned the 1959 LP, too, but we no longer have the table on which at all the threes to turn it.

The LP - probably teasing, even in the kiss curl age of innocence - was called Strictly For Adults. Its titles, says Mr Wallace - who is 90 and until five years ago was climbing mountains in his native Scotland - include Lavender Cowboy, Love In a Mist, The Architect and Don't Upset the Little Kiddywinks (which seems vaguely familiar.)

Jim Jennings also enclosed the Ballad of Barking Creek, which is where the heroine ended up, but that's what might be termed a non-contributary.

This all began, it may be recalled, because Spiro's restaurant in Redcar - ebulliently run, warmly recommended - is owned by Spiros Pandis and his English wife, Jan. Three small Cokes had prompted a shamelessly public rendition of the only three lines of The Ballad of Bethnal Green which the column had ever been able to remember:

In a fit of pique

She married the Greek

And now she's dressed in mink.

Temptation urges a complete re-print; practicality overrules it. The first verse must set the scene, the chorus - which has caused a little difficulty - may help refine adult humour in 1959.

I tell a tale of a jealous male and a maid of sweet 16

She was blonde and dumb and she lived with her mum

On the fringe of Bethnal Green.

She worked all week for a rich old Greek, 'cos her dad was on the dole

And her one delight was a Friday night, when she had a little rock and roll.

Chorus: To my rit-fal-lal, to my titty fal-lal,

To my itty-bitty fal-lal day.

Thanks also to Connie Sinclair in Barnard Castle for the sheet music and to Bryan Hart in Darlington, Sue Heath in Scotton, Dr John Little in Walworth and Marjorie Nicholson on Stanley Hill Top for taking such trouble to reprise the words. The complete works to readers on request.

Since we have been wholly unable to discover whatever happened to old Paddy, there may be more Bethnal Greenery, if not the cost of cabbage, next week.

ANOTHER little ditty has arrived in response to our plea for information on how the Hole in the Wall in Darlington came by its name. Sadly, though "holy grail" almost rhymes with "well kept ale", it lacks a little of the lyricism of Paddy Roberts's efforts.

I've gone in one day and left the next

Still no Hole, oh, it leaves me vexed

...may require a little more perspiration.

The author begs anonymity. Others, on or off the record, may more plausibly be able to fill us in on the Hole.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you call a mushroom who stands drinks all round.

A fungi to be with.

Published: Tuesday, March 27, 2001