On Sunday, after showering Dad with the usual Fathers Day gifts, we headed out to meet relos for lunch.
The venue of choice (not mine - for the record) was in Frankston, which I was prepared to overlook seeing it was the most convenient mid-point for all parties. The most important fact remained that as Pop's first Fathers Day without Nana, we made the effort to get together and buoy his spirits.
Lunch turned out to be oddly entertaining. A rather conservative aunty ended up sitting at the 'naughty' end (aka the White's end) of the table, and was privy to all the gory details of Kacey's prep class excursion to the zoo. Watching my aunt's face as Kacey told a particularly graphic tale involving 'monkey jizz' (her words, not mine) was one of the funniest things I've ever seen.
It was then revealed that the bar/restaurant we were at (which shall remain nameless) was the old stomping ground of both my parents, in their heyday. We listened to a number of stories from Dad which he was quick to point out 'were PR of course' - being pre-Rosie. The image of Dad chasing skirt at the bar was actually trumped by the thought of Mum sneakily downing voddys in the corner, no doubt looking as guilty as she did underage.
On a more appetising note, the seafood platter Mum and I shared was delicious and what good fortune for me that Mum didn't fancy her share of the oysters...
Fast forward 12 hours... and as I lay shaking and moaning on the bathroom floor, the oysters seemed considerably less fortuitous. I can assure you, there's something really disconcerting about seeing yourself turn the same shade as freshly poured concrete. Only now, having slept for two days, has my appetite / will to live returned...
Despite knowing I couldn't prove my oyster theory, I called the restaurant today - just to provide a friendly heads up that their Fathers Day special was in fact so special, it ALMOST KILLED ME. To their credit they accepted my detailed report with dignity, assuring me that 'kitchen staff maintain the highest possible standards' blah blah and should I wish to return the meal would, of course, be complimentary.
Well, thanks for the memories Frankston... but it's safe to say that your sucky town, and oysters, are off the menu for good.
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