PART TWENTY EIGHT:
CONTINUED FROM PART 27. . . .
The first part of our Tea is delivered and the pots of tea are prepared tableside. I believe my Mad Hatter tea consists of black tea with other herbs and flavorings, although the description does not specifically mention tea so Im not sure. The description ends with the phase:
Perfect with decadent desserts and companions. Think about that. What are they saying? Decadent companions? Do they mean Lowell? I watch the tea straining and steeping process, still mulling over that question.
The waitress finishes preparing my tea and moves on to Lowells.
His tea is definitely an herbal blend and has a wonderful wine red coloring. Unlike mine, his is prepared using the pressed pot method, much like the Kona coffee well have tomorrow at the Kona Café. I have never seen tea made this way. After the mixture of herbs and fruits has steeped sufficiently, the waitress presses down on the filter mechanism so that all the chopped ingredients remain at the bottom, and the clear liquid rises to the top.
The foods that come with Lowells Prince Edward tea are completely different than mine.
The marinated berries look wonderful. Ive tried Stilton cheese once or twice and found it agreeable. But I am wary when it comes to pate. Ive always deemed pate to be scary stuff that looks suspiciously like Alpo. It consists of unidentifiable finely ground meat, and for all I know, is blended with unspeakably gross ingredients, that should you know exactly what you were eating, you would spit it out into your napkin while gagging and making a spectacle of yourself.
I have no idea where or when I developed this pate phobia.
I watch with greater than normal interest as Lowell samples his food, nearly forgetting my own comparatively innocuous tea sandwiches. He tries the berries first, predictably, satisfying his sweet tooth before moving on to the cheese. He says both are delicious. Now for the pate. I find myself leaning forward, anxiously awaiting his reaction. He tries the first one and gives no sign that it is objectionable. Based on the a la carte menu description of the pates I believe he is sampling the duck with cherry terrine. I cant help but think of the ducks at the Lodge and wonder if any of their companions have suddenly gone missing.
Lowell confirms that the first pate is good and tries the next. His two remaining selections are chicken & pork roulade, and country pate en croute. I believe the roulade is the one he is tasting now. That one also passes the taste test.
Now for the country pate which, of the three, most raises my Pate Alarm. What the heck is Country Pate, and what is it made of? Are the ingredients too disgusting to name? Is that why the concoction is called by a harmless euphemism like Country Pate? I have the same reaction to cat foods with names like Super Supper or Mixed Grill. Just what is in the can that you dont want us to know about? The other flavors say plainly whats inside: Tuna and Egg, Shredded Beef with Gravy, Turkey and Giblets. What, pray tell, is Super Supper? I have a sneaking suspicion its the ground remains of various parts of the animal better left nameless. I feel a similar foreboding when contemplating Country Pate.
I watch the fork of Country Pate approach and disappear into Lowells mouth. His every movement becomes laboriously distinct and pronounced like the frames of a slow motion film. He looks at me. He chews the pate. Time slows as I wait for his determination. I fight the urge to move aside in case at any moment he spits out the pate and it sprays all over me. A full minute seems to pass before I receive the verdict.
It tastes good.
I let out my breath in a rush, not aware until that moment that I had been holding my breath. It tastes good, he says. Go figure. Maybe that explains why Tornado likes Super Supper and the equally mysterious Mixed Grill.
Its time to try my own food, which should prove somewhat less of an adventure. I have sandwiches and an onion tart. The worst I can say of mine is that I read somewhere that one of the sandwiches contains a cucumber filling. And you know how I love cucumber. But cucumber was a popular Victorian sandwich material, so I suppose I can endure a few bites for the sake of authenticity.
All my sandwiches taste good. Theyre so small that sharing will be difficult. I continue to struggle with the food-swapping issue. Some methods are more acceptable than others, but as I noted while replying to reader comments, Lowell and I dont always employ the most dignified methods. Most people would probably transfer a piece of food to the recipients plate. The problem is, usually our plates are so full theres no place to set the sample down without getting other foods all over it. Now and then a bread plate is available but, more often than not, the bread plate is covered with cucumbers picked off our salads or some other offensive meal debris. Consequently, we resort to the open the hanger, here comes the plane method of serving a forkful of food across the table. Failing that, we do what I was reprimanded for by a complete stranger last Friday, which is to reach over to the other persons plate and saw off or stab a bite of whatever looks good.
Regardless of the method, there is no doubt I must try Lowells pate.
Trade you a taste of my sandwiches for a little of your pate? I ask, opening the negotiations.
Sure, he says, then pauses If you throw in a bite of jam tart, too.
Deal.
I glance around to see if anyone is looking, then slice off a tiny sample of each microscopic tea sandwich. Lowell reaches across the table to receive the subatomic particles. Im not sure the pieces are big enough for him to taste anything. Jam tarts and scones come in the second course, and I hope the jam tart will be big enough to share.
Lowells pate samples arrive more or less discreetly on my sandwich plate just as the hostess heads our way with an older couple in tow. She seats them next to us at the table by the window. Our table along the back wall is no longer private.
I turn my attention to my plate and discover after sampling each pate that I dont detect any gross ingredients. Not even in the Country Pate. Ive been deceived all these years by pates suspicious appearance. Shocking! Whats next? Will I learn that Alpo is tasty? Pate will never be on my list of favorite foods, but it isnt gross.
Lowell contentedly grazes through the remainder of his pate, cheese and berries. I only give him the evil eye once for elbows on the table. While the waitress stands beside the next table, blocking the view on that side, Lowell pushes his plate close enough for me to make a brief raid on his berries. They are very good.
The waitress turns to us when she finishes taking our neighbors order and removes our empty plates. In a few moments she returns with my jam tarts and scones and Lowells portion of scones with Devonshire cream.
Lowell claims his bite of my jam tarts immediately, seeing they are very small and therefore in danger of disappearing in a couple bites. His fears are justified. I eat the jam tarts first and am well into my first scone when my head jerks up and I look at him in horror.
Whats wrong? he demands.
I forgot to take a picture, I say through a mouthful of scone.
I wish we could have taken all the pictures before our neighbors arrived. I feel a bit silly photographing my food, but I remind myself that silly people have more fun. If they give us the evil eye or ask why were taking pictures of our food, Ill tell them that we just returned from the mission field, from a country with such abject poverty that we lived on bugs and tree bark for three years. It was far worse than our previous missions to, umm, Banglastan. Or Afganadesh.
Bugs and bark.
Three meals a day.
It was appalling.
We take the pictures. The couple pays no attention; they are too busy talking, so I dont need to deliver my wildly creative if untruthful explanation.
The room has filled since our arrival. Once again I make a mental note that its wise to request an early ADR if you like to avoid crowds.
The longer we spend here, the more relaxed I become. We havent been 100% proper but the groups at each table seem too self-absorbed to pay much attention to us. I would not recommend standing up and singing Im a Little Teapot, however appropriate the subject matter might seem for the occasion, but short of that, a small lapse of manners is not a problem.
At this point it may be fair to confess that while I am the proponent in the family for good manners, I am often the instigator of bad ones. Without knowing good manners you have no benchmark for proper behavior. Furthermore, bad manners arent funny if you dont know youre doing something wrong. What I am trying to say is, the better your manners, the funnier it is when you or someone else misbehaves.
I used to get a huge kick out of Victorian etiquette books which in the most formal and flowery of prose lectured readers about such abominations as eating food off ones knife, tilting the soup bowl to get the last spoonfuls, and scratching ones head or picking ones teeth at the table. Unfortunately the bad manners I laughed at and promoted were far worse. For example, early in our marriage, noticing that Lowell had a bad habit of burping loudly, I told him that as a teenager I had a group of friends who prided themselves on being able to say various names while burping. Short burps were Bob. Longer burps were Ralph. The boys frequently had Ralphing contests to see who could produce the most impressive burp and draw the name out the longest: Raaaaaaaaaaaaallllpphhh.
I should never have told Lowell that story.
Especially in front of his three children.
I remember another example of bad manners that his kids thought remarkably funny. His father, who caught me in the act, found it much less amusing. I can still recall his fathers astonished look. I wont say what I did. That comes a bit later.
After Lowell and I complete our scones, his meal is nearly finished but mine is not. Lowell has only a glass of port coming. Ive never tried port, so of course I must have a taste. Im still due a choice of dessert which, according to the menu, is fresh strawberries and cream, or a selection of freshly baked pastries. No matter which I select, Lowell will want some.
The waitress returns with Lowells port and offers me a choice of the aforementioned desserts, but adds to the list a new item: trifle. My brain pounces on that name and in its dusty recesses quickly retrieves a reference to the word trifle. People on the DIS boards were in raptures over trifle and pronounced it one of the best things they had ever eaten in their entire lives. I have no idea what trifle is. No clue whatsoever. I know it is a dessert. It does not contain pate. Or cucumbers. That is enough.
I will have the trifle, I announce decisively.
This proves to be a good decision, since while I am waiting for my trifle, the woman at the next table orders her dessert and chooses the pastries. The waitress returns with a three tiered plate of pastries and tells the woman that she may have her choice of any two. The items are attractively decorated and look tasty, but they are not much larger than petite fours. For her sake, I hope she is not obliged to share. With the aid of a magnifying glass she eventually makes her selections. The waitress takes a pair of tweezers, er umm tongs, and lays the pastries on the womans plate, but I cant say which two pathetic morsels she chose because Im trying not to stare. Or laugh. Or blurt out, Loser!
But I dont need to point out her error because in a moment my trifle arrives and her mistake is patently obvious. Her jaw drops when she sees the huge, honking mountain of luscious dessert in front of me: layers of sponge cake, fruits, custard and mounds of whipped cream. Even Lowell is amazed at how much there is of it, and makes the womans painful mistake all the more heart-rending by going on and on about how big my trifle is and how delicious it looks. I kick him under the table to silence him because Im afraid that at any moment she will leap from her chair and fall across our table, panting and slavering over my trifle. Im prepared to grab a spare chair, if necessary, to fend her off.
Trifle becomes our undoing.
Its every bit as good as it looks, and when Lowell sees the rapture on my face, theres no holding him back. He sweeps everything on the table aside, yanks my dish toward him, and we both fall upon the dish with spoons flying, no doubt grunting and slurping like two hogs over a trough. I dont know or care if people watch. Im too intent on getting my share. After all, this is MY dessert. I would stop eating long enough to point this out, but that would require precious seconds better spent devouring trifle. Fortunately, Lowell must have read my mind, because in a moment he withdraws from the contest and sits back in his chair. The rest of the trifle is MINE!
I finally have the presence of mind to snap a picture of whats left.
This dessert was worth the price of my entire meal. I am giddy with delight at the prospect of eating the rest of it, and grateful that I didnt choose the pathetic pastries instead.
Suddenly I cant resist doing the silly ill-bred thing that so amused Lowells children and shocked his father. I catch Lowells eye, then take a big mouthful of custard and whipped cream, smile broadly, and squish it through my teeth.
This was the final blow. The contest is over.
Miss Manners slinks away, conceding defeat to Miss Behaving.
************
Next up: In the upcoming short episode I will include a number of photos taken around the Grand Floridian, then well go back to the Lodge to hunt for the hidden waterslide camera, go for a swim, and watch for pool hoppers. After that, were off to Hoop-De-Doo Revue.
Thus far, it sounds as if Lowell is behaving, whew!
SunKat: After you read the upcoming episode youll be craving tea and scones and something else special , which must remain nameless at the moment. 
Thanks for the kind words. If you enjoyed the last chapter, I know youll enjoy this next one. 
What a perfect ending!
I had a genuine room key with my name on it.
