A Square Meal

Prawns and something resembling chocolate

The starter for the masses were prawns looking like they were trying to conceal themselves under some greenery. Another food of the Prince of Darkness in my opinion, but light was restored to my place setting with a bowl of delicious soup. Its exact specification is unknown, but I suspect a tomato and red pepper marriage. Whatever their domestic arrangements, they seemed very happy together, as did I.

The main course was roast beef with all the trimmings and some very nice roast potatoes. Unfortunately, it also came with a completely useless Yorkshire pudding. I couldn’t even give mine away.

Pudding was a slice of chocolate cake with a dollop of ice cream. This prompted an investigation. Some people can simply eat dessert. I need to open a public inquiry.

Chocolate doesn’t taste quite right to me these days. I suspect the accountants have got into the recipe. Somewhere in their secret boardroom meetings, the original premise of “How can we make this delicious?” appears to have become “How little chocolate can we put in before somebody notices?” Cocoa butter is what gives chocolate its mojo. Start fiddling with that and you risk producing something with the texture of a candle and considerably less romance.

I appreciate that ingredients cost money, but I would prefer my chocolate to taste of chocolate rather than a successful procurement meeting. Then there’s the corporate language. “Supply chain optimisation” sounds reassuring until you realise you’re the one at the end of the chain, chewing the cheap and nasty optimisation. I don’t want a confectionery product with improved margins. I want a chocolate bar that I can enjoy.

As a lifelong chocoholic I consider myself an expert on the brown stuff, and it cannot be blamed for the quadruple heart by-pass I encountered last year. That was just a coincidence.

Forest Villages Lodge dine at the BMC

We began with a traditional starter of pâté and accompaniments. Mercifully, there wasn’t a trace of aspic jelly which avoided any unpleasantness. A few greens were provided for those with rabbit tendencies, and for the rest of us to move about on our plate until it looked as though we’d eaten some.

The main course was roast pork with all the trimmings. The pork was tender and tasty. The crackling was rather more committed to remaining intact. Apparently, the heat of roasting transforms the tough, fatty skin into a crispy, salty delicacy. “Delicacy” is an interesting word for something that appears to require a lump hammer before you can break into it. Watching the collective diners struggle to engage with the crackling reminded me of Albert Steptoe trying to remove his false teeth. I gave mine away. The crackling, that is.
Interesting Fact. People often think that Wilfrid Brambell, who played Albert Steptoe was a Freemason. He wasn’t, but his Steptoe and Son co-star, Harry H. Corbett, was a well-known Freemason and an active member of Chevin Lodge No. 6848 in Otley, West Yorkshire.

When one dark day you are banished below to The Pit of Despair, you may be forced to do unspeakable acts and eat bread and butter pudding, but until then – why would you? Well, someone chose it for dessert last night. Fortunately, my personal despair was relieved by a delightful plate of strawberries and ice cream.

A mysterious pie and a curious machine

I would describe the starter as a terrine-style pâté, which is the sort of phrase that makes it sound considerably more sophisticated than it looked. Traditionally, it’s a seasoned mixture of minced or coarsely ground meat, liver, fat, herbs and spices, pressed into a loaf-shaped dish, baked, chilled and sliced for serving. In this case, “sliced” may be overstating the structural integrity.

The main course was a pie. Its ingredients remain classified. I managed to identify a couple of lumps of chicken, but the rest resembled something recovered from the set of Silent Witness after the forensic team had gone home. Chicken and brain pie, perhaps? An unusual combination, but probably very popular with masonic zombies. A generous dusting of pepper and a tsunami of gravy might have helped. Unfortunately, the Viscosity Machine in the kitchen is still not working properly, so the gravy arrived thin. For those who think I’ve invented the machine, I managed to sneak a photograph of it. Have a look under the diary entry. It’s the big machine with the warning light and the faint smell of despair.

Could pudding save the day? Almost. It was a treacly sponge thing with custard, and it was actually rather tasty. Sadly, the custard lacked sufficient warmth. “Room temperature” would be generous; it seemed to have been shown a picture of a radiator and asked to imagine the rest.

A consecration meal at the Botley Masonic Centre

A slightly different day. At lunchtime we were provided with sandwiches and crisps, a combination I’ve never quite understood. One is lunch; the other is something you eat while wondering how long it is until lunch. Still, I don’t drink pints of beer either, so my qualifications as an authority on British catering are distinctly suspect.

We dined late in the afternoon, beginning with Smoked Haddock Fishcakes. At least, that was what the menu promised. By the time they reached the table, they had evolved into pâté and toast. I’m accustomed to dishes arriving cold, but this was the first time one had arrived as an entirely different species. Another masonic mystery, no doubt.

Cookery Class: I’m not a fan of the jelly attached to each slab of pâté. Apparently, it protects against oxygen and light, prevents spoilage, and stops the surface drying out or cracking. All very useful, though I had hoped to eat the pâté, not preserve it for future generations. Made with seasoned broth or consommé, sometimes with herbs, wine or brandy, the jelly can also add savoury richness. It is called aspic—a name which, regrettably, does nothing to improve its chances with me and we shouldn’t discuss further.

The main course was lasagne with chips and salad, and rather tasty it was too. Pasta and potatoes: clearly the kitchen wasn’t prepared to risk anyone leaving with a carbohydrate deficiency. The salad provided a small but reassuring alibi, even when avoided.

For pudding we were served spotted dick and custard, but in order to maintain my heterosexual reputation I thought it best to avoid – especially as everyone now has a camera phone – so I plumped for a dish of fruit and ice cream instead.

The science of soup...

The starter was mushroom soup, and that’s my usually favourite and a rare treat from masonic caterers. Unfortunately, there seemed to be a problem with an item of catering equipment. The Viscosity Machine must have been inadvertently turned to the lowest setting, as the soup was thinner than water.
Time for science. There are common liquids that are thinner than water, meaning they have a lower viscosity (resistance to flow). Water has a viscosity of about 0.89 mPa·s at room temperature whereas Chloroform has a viscosity of about 0.54 mPa·s. Let’s not go there.

The main course was a pie, slightly lumpy mash with peas and carrots. I gave it a good helping of gravy and pepper and ate half of it.

Its all Cobblers apparently

The main course was described as ‘BBQ Pork on a Bed of Peppered Mash’. They appear to have omitted the word ‘lumpy’ from the description of the potatoes. A small sprig of rocket had also been placed adjacent, presumably to add colour, and perhaps to reassure us that something healthy had been seen in the kitchen. To be fair, it didn’t taste bad.

Pudding was listed as ‘Mixed Fruit Cobbler’. Google describes a cobbler as “a warm, baked dessert featuring a bubbling, sweet fruit filling topped with a layer of biscuit dough, batter, or pie-like dumplings.” Almost. What arrived was a fiercely hot bowl of what appeared to be boiled fruit, upon which someone had dropped a scone - possibly from a safe distance.

A Tasty supper

The starter was a soup probably best described as ‘orange’. It could have been butternut squash which I had to investigate further. The butternut tree, which is also called ‘white walnut’, belongs to the walnut family and, looking at the peculiarly shaped fruit, I can’t think of anything else to do to them other than squash them.

The main course was Hunters Chicken, with chips and coleslaw. Those of you that frequent ‘pubs’ will know of its popularity. It’s a chicken breast wrapped in bacon, covered in barbecue sauce, and topped with melted cheese. Luckily, I saw the plates in the kitchen being preloaded with additional green stuff, so I managed to avoid one of those.

Pudding was a dreamy choice between fresh fruit salad, or chocolate brownie. An almost impossible decision to make, but I surprised myself by choosing the healthy option. The brownie can best be summed up by a certain W. Bro. Rob Doe who said’ ‘Its bloody lovely mate’. Praise indeed.

Office stationary and hot sauce

Our favourite chef, Becky, was missing last evening, apparently away on a relaxing cruise, enjoying the rare luxury of letting someone else do the cooking. In her absence, we were very well looked after by her stand-in, Sam, ably assisted by Amy.

The starter was an attractive, personally engraved place mat, presumably provided to guide us back to our proper positions should anyone leave the room and become disoriented. A thoughtful touch, and considerably easier to follow than some of the ritual.

The main course was a familiar Masonic staple: not, as some might ponder, a plate of Rexel No. 10’s, but a substantial slab of gammon crowned with the ceremonial pineapple ring and accompanied by chips and peas. Knowing of my long-standing diplomatic dispute with gammon, the kitchen kindly supplied a pasty instead. Its contents remained classified, but Brother Henry had smuggled a bottle of fiery hot sauce into the dining room, and after a generous application all questions of identification became academic.

Pudding was Becky’s delicious fresh fruit salad, served with a dollop of ice cream - proof that even while cruising serenely elsewhere, her influence still reaches the dining table. Either that, or she had wisely made it before she left.

The evening meal at Albion Plsce

We began with a plate of sliced melon, accompanied by an additional slice of orange and a mysterious orange splodge that tasted faintly of ginger. It was not unpleasant, although my melon still had enough tough edging to qualify as protective packaging.

It is said that there is nothing quite like British fish and chips. Sadly, this was nothing quite like British fish and chips. The fish had slightly grey innards and the air of something avoiding eye contact, while the chips were merely present. Vinegar helped. A communal dish of lonely mushy peas sat in the middle of the table, to be avoided in my opinion.

Pudding, however, saved the day, or at least negotiated a respectable settlement for the evening. It was a fruit crumble with custard. I was unable to identify the fruit, but by then anonymity seemed a sensible precaution. Whatever it was, it tasted good.

Cheese and biscuits followed, but I declined. I still suffer from night terrors, and cheese has never shown much respect for a restraining order.

Beer and Missing dinners

With over 60 seated, the dining started well. The starter was mozzarella and tomato with a balsamic dribble, which was surprisingly tasty. Then the whole operation collapsed with the efficiency of a badly rehearsed ritual.

My meal was apparently presented to some Masonic usurper at another table. The Dining Steward (who shall remain nameless, although for the purposes of this account we shall call him W. Bro. Sean) had performed a little pre-dinner juggling with the seating plan. The revised arrangements were conveyed to the kitchen staff, but somewhere between Lodge and ladle they were lost in translation.

I was therefore presented with a plate of coleslaw and “potato wedges”—the quotation marks being essential. It was not the most appetising of combinations but matters improved with the arrival of a bowl of soup. Its identity could not be established without extensive forensic analysis, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

Pudding consisted of an individual plate of cheese and biscuits. This contributed greatly to the restless night I later spent pondering two of life’s enduring mysteries: what exactly had been in the soup, and why I had been unable to play the closing hymn.

The tale of a Yorkshire pudding

The starter was farmhouse pâté with toast—or possibly a Ryvita that had wandered in by mistake. Sadly, the pâté was edged with jelly, which gave it the appearance of having been professionally sealed against leakage. Not to my taste. I did enjoy the severed tomato, though.

The main course was roast beef, revived by a generous dose of horseradish sauce hot enough to restore circulation. The cauliflower was insipid, and I suspect the potatoes had begun life in a bag. A thorough drowning in gravy, followed by a light dusting of pepper, helped disguise the evidence.

A Yorkshire pudding sat proudly atop the plate. I’ve never understood its purpose, so I gave mine away. In hindsight, this was a tactical error, as there wasn’t any pudding. There was cheese and biscuits, but eating cheese at night surely increases the risk of night terrors - and the meal had already supplied enough material.

All around the world...

This had all the promise of a truly international dinner! Scotland provided the starter, Cumbria supplied the main course, and Australia the pudding—although, judging by the results, the recent failure at Air Traffic Control may have caused several ingredients to have missed their connecting flights.

The starter was Cock-a-leekie soup, a traditional Scottish dish of leeks and peppered chicken broth. Ours appeared to have been introduced to pepper only briefly, so additional vigorous lashings of the hot condiment were required.

The main course was Cumberland sausage, the traditional, highly seasoned English pork sausage originating in the historic county of Cumberland, now part of Cumbria. It is usually made as one very long continuous sausage. Mine was neither especially seasoned nor especially cooperative: it was tough enough to qualify as light resistance training. It arrived with self-service helpings of Smash and processed peas, and some sort of gravy.

Perhaps pudding would save the day? Peach Melba is a favourite of Masonic caterers and is traditionally made with poached peaches, vanilla ice cream and a bright raspberry sauce. I believe the raspberry sauce is what earns it the name “Melba”. There wasn’t any, so technically we were served peaches and ice-cream, followed by a brief but moving silence for Melba, who presumably remained hidden in the kitchen.

I suppose the opposite of being used to good meals is that sometimes you get one that’s not so good…

The starter was pâté with some salad and toasted white bread. OK so far.

The main course was a curious pie with boiled potatoes and some vegetable things. I think the pie was chicken, but that might be doing the poor deceased fowl a disservice.

The pudding was a fruit salad. Possibly the laws in Portsmouth prohibit even chefs from carrying knives - hence, perhaps, the skin remaining on the apples. I did find a couple of severed grapes and a minuscule piece of strawberry, which I enjoyed.

It did make me look forward to going home for a plain chocolate Magnum before bed!

After all the excitement in the lodge, it was a relief to sit down to dinner and let our heart rates return to something the NHS might approve of.

The starter was pâté with a lump of French stick substantial enough to be registered as a blunt instrument - or it could have been a section of baguette. I've never understood foreign food. This came with a communal bowl of creamy butter—or possibly Utterly Butterly.

The main course was gammon and pineapple, a combination I’ve never entirely trusted. As I’m not a fan of gammon, our lovely chef made me an omelette instead. I hadn’t asked for one, but it was duly served with chips and peas, and I ate the lot.

Pudding was Becky’s regular triumph: fresh fruit salad adorned with a lump of vanilla ice cream, thus ensuring that anything dangerously healthy was swiftly brought under control.

Special!

Hampshire and Isle of Wight meeting at Southampton Novotel

How does a hotel cope when they have to feed a large number of hungry masons descend on it for lunch? With military precision they managed, let’s find out how.

We began with ‘Buffalo mozzarella, heritage tomato caprese with a balsamic glaze’. Or, as in plain speak, cheese and tomato with a fancy drizzle. I then discovered that buffalo mozzarella is made from the milk of the Italian Mediterranean buffalo. Sadly, the cheese itself had less flavour than a piece of a hotel bathroom soap - though, to be fair, probably fewer bubbles.

Thankfully, the main course arrived to restore gastronomic relations: ‘Slow cooked blade of beef, wholegrain mustard mashed potato, thyme roasted root vegetables with a red wine jus’. In other words, beef, mash and posh gravy. And very tasty it was too.

Pudding was ‘Vanilla cheesecake smeared with fruits of the forest compote’. ‘Smeared’ may not actually have appeared on the menu, but the cheesecake was excellent and vanished with impressive speed.

So, in summary, the meal was a triumph - apart from the contribution made by the innards of the Mediterranean buffalo. Full marks to the Novotel for feeding more than 150 people under such demanding conditions.

The reason so many of us Masons are shaking hands with obesity is quite simple: we eat too much. A 3 or 4 course meal late in the evening is enough to send most nutritionists into a cold sweat and have the local cardiologist warming up the defibrillator. So, now and again, it is rather refreshing to be presented with just 2 courses - practically a fasting meal by Masonic standards.

Dinner was a generous plate of lasagne and chips—the chips probably courtesy of McCain, although nobody was counting, least of all the brother asking for seconds. For the healthy contingent, coleslaw and lettuce were added. As a firmly non-rabbit-related person, I treated the green stuff with the suspicion it deserved.

Pudding was fresh fruit salad and ice cream—non-Jimmy Lewis, I suspect, though in the interests of harmony no formal investigation was launched.

The food at the Brockenhurst Masonic Centre is always excellent and, as usual, Becky and her team did not disappoint.

Lyndhurst Lodge dine out at The Totton Masonic Hall

Starter - A deceased poppadum lay supine on the plate, apparently the victim of a tragic incident involving gravity, overconfidence, and possibly a hot lamp. It was tastefully adorned with two small samosas, accompanied by a tomato and onion garnish.
There was also a slice of chapati whose texture called to mind an old lodge warrant written on extremely ancient parchment — the sort of document one imagines being discovered in a locked drawer, guarded by a gnarled and musty retired secretary with a suspicious moustache.

Main - A tasty chicken curry and rice followed. The chicken was tender, the sauce was lively, and the rice served the dish well.

Pudding - A delightful bowl of peach melba arrived to complete the feast. The famous French chef Auguste Escoffier invented the dish around 1892 at the Savoy Hotel in London, naming it in honour of Dame Nellie Melba, the celebrated Australian opera soprano. On the evidence of the dessert, he either had a soft spot for her or was conducting the most elaborate flirtation in culinary history.