Lessons in lunch

ALL those years ago, when shorthand was long suffering and the English constitution as formless as it was robust, they sent us to Darlington College to discover the joys of journalism.

It was the College of Technology in those days, a faintly fearsome title for someone unsure how to change a torch battery.

Despite the technological trauma, I finished top of the class, summoned alongside the scientists and the mathematicians, the new-heights plumbers and the mortar board brickies, to receive an award at presentation night.

Had there been a citation it would have said: "He never ends a sentence with a preposition."

The prize was a £2 book token, which in the days that Catcher in the Rye was considered salacious - it was by Shildon lads, anyway - bought 16 Penguin paperbacks at half-a-crown a time. That's how long ago it was.

It's not immodesty which stirs the recollection, of course, rather that Darlington College has recently moved to posh new premises and that we ate Christmas lunch in the training restaurant with our old friend Carl Les - owner of The Lodge, alongside the A1 at Leeming Bar.

Carl usually appears in the column around Christmas, because for the past 21 years he's staged thoroughly enjoyable "pantomime lunches" each Sunday in December in which his staff dress up accordingly.

The curious thing is that Carl's never taken a part himself, and it's only now that we learn the reason. After asking one of his managers why he hadn't been given a role in the first one, he was told he could be Baron Hardup. Thereafter he only took the huff.

The new college, off Haughton Road, is fronted by a huge, circular auditorium which an engine cleaner would call a roundhouse and an architect might call an atrium.

The canteen's part of front-of-house, the restaurant through a door at the side. First impressions aren't promising.

The reception area is so small and so badly designed that there's a permanent danger of the clothes rack toppling onto an unfortunate diner, causing death by a thousand coats.

Carl's also a North Yorkshire county councillor - so assiduous that if his surname were Hall he'd change the first to County - and a corporate board member at the college

.What would he do, we ask, if that restaurant foyer were his. "I'd fix it," he says, laconically.

Thereafter things quickly improve. The college gained a first-class reputation for catering training under Peter Bell, now retired, and is set to continue it under Stephen Mannock.

Everything's done in-house, from butchery to bakery, everything's closely supervised by professionals, the training restaurant is inexpensive and open to the public.

On this day the trainees are first years, and thus fallible. While some would appreciate a party hat on the sideplate, it doesn't taste particularly good with soup and shouldn't be at the expense of the bread. Mostly they do very well indeed.There are crackers, too, with jokes like the one about what happened to the cowboy who wore paper trousers. (He was arrested for rustling.)

On the other side are warnings that the crackers are for adult use only and on no account should be pulled by under-fives. The warning's inside the cracker.

Carl's particularly taken with a bright young thing who seems to regard waiting at table as an extension of a conversation - a thoroughly legitimate approach - contemplates making a six-figure transfer bid but, remembering his Baron Hardup hanger, eventually decides against.

It's all set up for Christmas, the conversation and the company convivial, though there's a lively discussion over whether it's politically correct to describe a senior college staff member (shall we say) as a pretty little thing.

There are also attempts to remember the name of the town clerk in Dads' Army, a debate ultimately resolved - as are so many more these days - by texting Answers.

It was the way we found out how Garibaldi biscuits got their name and that a post-war Pope really did die of hiccups. Within two minutes we not only know that Walmington's town clerk was Mr Gordon, but that he appeared in six episodes.

A three course Christmas lunch, more trimmings than Santa's best top-coat, is £10. There's no doubting the quality, just one or two question marks about the temperature.

Four starters include crisp bacon and camembert salad, a very tasty carrot and coriander soup and a melon platter with winter fruits. Main courses embrace the first turkey of Christmas, envelope of salmon filled with avocado and tomato and served with a cream sauce and vegetable olives with a light Mornay sauce and garlic bread.

Two of us end with Christmas pudding, and with proof of its excellence, others with meringue nests with a chocolate mousse and fresh fruit salad.

After the bill arrives, there's another debate over whether it's the done thing to leave a tip for trainees. It's resolved, uncompromisingly and ungrudgingly, in their favour. Merry Christmas.

* Darlington College training restaurant, officially in Central Park, is open most lunchtimes during College terms and usually by booking only in the evening. Lunch £10, dinner £15. Reservations on 01325-503192.

IF there's a way of deflating the festive spirit, it arrives in an e-mail from the Lancashire Cheese Board (or some such). National Cheese on Toast Day, it announces, is to be on April 17 next year. Shop early.

... and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what happened when the cat swallowed a ten bob bit.

There was money in the kitty.