Tesco Larkfield – A tale of two twats.

Carpaccio notwithstanding, I feel the need to share two recent incidents at my beloved Larkfield Branch of Tesco.

The first one I actually blame on Jamie Oliver. Now I need to be careful here as in the Martin household, as with many all over Britain, young Jamie is a god. We have every book her ever published and we even have his branded crockery!

So my criticism is very specific but it did lead to a rather brilliant Tesco Moment (TM as we shall call them from now on!).

My wife is a fantastic cook and can knock something out at the drop of a hat and we have a very well stocked cupboard so that whatever the young maestro throws at us, she has.

I on the other hand am a totally crap cook and I mean crap. Just because I am a fat bloke and have a high level of expertise in eating fine food, does not mean I know how to create it. Remember, this is the bloke who, years ago thought that making a packet asparagus soup would be immeasurably improved if I replaced the 1.5 pints of cold water required with red wine.

Bright pink, asparagus tasting, thick wine, is most certainly not nice. Partly my approach to being a very bad cook comes from the theory that if one measure if something (cheese alcohol, garlic, you name it) is good for you, five must by definition be five times better.

So when I cook, I go word for word by the recipe. So I can reproduce a recipe quite well (the mayhem in the kitchen during, and the mess afterwards is another matter, but as I always clear up after I’ve cooked, who cares?).

I do try to cook once a week and it is normally from a JO book.

His latest scam is the 15 minute meals. Now even watching these on TV it is apparent that 15 minutes will not be enough, but I am fine with that as one of the assumptions of being able to cook a meal in 15 minutes (versus just heating something up) is that by definition, it’s got to be simple. Or so you’d think.

The recipe called for two ingredients that even my wife’s well stocked cupboards didn’t have.

P: Jacqueline, where’s the harissa paste, and what the fuck is it anyway.

J (very warily): Why do you want harissa paste. We’ve run out anyway, it’s on the list! (Fuck me, it was!!!!!)

P: I am making dinner tonight, Jamie’s 15 minute fish tagine.

J: Oh OK, please don’t make too much of a mess and open the doors as the fish will smell the place out!

P: Yes dear (said in that absent-minded not really paying attention kind of way). What about preserved lemons?

Silence.

So I guessed I had to buy them.

Off to Tesco then, in between Xmas and New Year and it was heaving. I found the harissa paste easily enough (a sort of quick alternative to using the ras el hanout or whatever it’s bloody well called) but I could not find the preserved lemons.

So I had to admit defeat, driven largely by the fact that my local Tesco appears to be the preferred meeting place for local chav families. Do these people never go to dinner parties at each others houses? Why, upon meeting at Tesco do they and their multiple bloody chav kids, stand blocking an aisle sharing all of their latest ways to claim benefit?

My defeat meant I had to ask a Tesco Numpty (TN).

P: Excuse me mate, but can you tell me where I will find preserved lemons?

TN (beaming in a way that made me instantly suspicious): Yes sir, follow me.

So I did.

We arrived promptly, as I rather dreaded we would, at the fresh lemon section.

TN: There you are!

P: These are fresh.

TN (still beaming like he’d just discovered the Ark): Yes sir, how many would you like.

P: No, I am sure it was me mumbling and not making myself heard above the din of the muttering chavs, but I need PRESERVED lemons.

TN: Yes sir (now looking at me like I was the idiot), here they are, how many would you like.

P: No, no no (shouted), not FRESH (shouted), PRESERVED (Shouted).

TN: Well they are all covered in wax, that preserves them, keeps them fresh for ages.

P: Oh for Christ’s sake, don’t bother!

We parted company him still beaming, me seething. Not so much at the stupidity of the TN, but at the sheer madness of JO producing, and us falling for, a series and a book that claims you can have dinner in 15 minutes.

Jamie, if you or one of your many staff are reading this, and you can find preserved lemons in the Larkfield area of Kent, have at it son, ley me know how you get on!

Now we actually have a tagine at home, so I cooked a 90 minute fish tagine, following mostly his recipe (preserved lemons apart) and it was very nice.

So rather like his 30 minute meals that took 30 minutes to prepare, 30 minutes to cook and 90 minutes to clear up afterwards, his 15 minute meal, on this occasion, took 30 minutes to prepare, 90 minutes to cook, an hour to clean up afterwards but TWO bloody hours traipsing around Kent looking for ingredients.

15 minute meals my arse!

The second incident happened yesterday and was pure Tesco. Vintage Tesco in fact.

As previously stated, the governor is a great cook and often does a curry. All herbs and spices freshly prepared, ground and cooked. But she’d run out of onions, so could I pop to Tesco and get some.

For me, the words “could you just pop to Tesco and…..” are translated in my head into “here you go silly boy, stick your dick into this mangle”, it strikes terror into my heart.

But of course as there is a curry at the end of it, and because the boss is asking/telling me, I go.

I picked up the two onions I needed and a bottle of Dry Martini.

Wandering back to the checkout I heard that most terrible of Tesco calls “Code Red, all managers to the checkout”. This is when you know your are in trouble as Tesco managers are an odd breed. Thick skinned in a way of which a rhino would be proud, unfailingly smiling (in the BA fuck you kind of way) and inept.

I joined a queue and about a minute later the checkout next to me was opened by a manager who called out next please.

I didn’t want to join it, being happy to wait in line and be scanned through by the usual surly git, but I was coerced by the general Englishness of my fellow sufferers who urged me on with plenty of: after you, no after you malarkey.

So with slumped shoulders I presented my two onions and bottle of Martini.

Tesco Manager (TM): Good afternoon.

P: Hello.

TM: Would you like help packing?

I sort of spluttered, looked at my THREE items, looked at him and them back at my THREE items and said:

P: Yes please!

He sort of spluttered, looked at my THREE items, looked at me and said:

TM: But you only have three items!

P: Yes, well spotted my man. So knowing that I only had three items, and working on the safe assumption that having made it into your bloody store, unaided, that my arms are working perfectly well today, why on earth did you offer me help with my packing? Was it a massive piss take or do I look like I need help?

TM (beaming in that slightly nervous, please don’t kill me kind of way): We offer packing help to everyone.

P: Why?

TM: Why?

P: Yes, why? Why do you offer help packing to someone who clearly does not need it. Why not just save on the waste of oxygen and the overall aggravation and say nothing?

TM: Well,

P: Don’t interrupt, you bloody well started this by offering my a pointless and as it turns out, non existent service. What next eh? This is madness!

TM: That’s £8.62 sir, do you have a Club Card?

P: Is that another rhetorical question or do you really want to know?

The exchange ended there.

The only pleasure to be had from the whole experience, the curry and Martini aside, was that I had managed to back up six people behind me, all of whom appeared to enjoy our little altercation.