Almost, but not quite, entirely unlike food

Twice now, in as many weeks, I've been wrong footed by a seemingly innocent foodstuff. The first of these occasions was during my recent trip to London, when during a night out with some friends the choice of eatery fell to me, who seemed best acquainted with the area despite my nine month absence from the city. In slightly adventurous mood, I picked a Persian restaurant by the the slightly punnish name of Simurgh, located next to the Garrick only a short way distant from Covent Garden. It's a place I'd passed by often enough during my time in London, but never before ventured into and I was keen to sate my curiousity. My dining companions acquiesced and we soon found ourselves with the interior, whose ambiance seemed authentic enough, enhanced perhaps by the manager ensconced in one corner smoking a hookah.

Alas, whilst I enjoyed my meal well enough, dining up okra for the first time, my companions fared less well. I fear their impression of the meal will be forever tainted by their choice of beverage. Both ordered the same drink from the menu. The item in question was named "doogh" and was identified as a mint flavoured yogurt drink. Expecting a sweet lassi type mixture, my friends both seemed taken aback to discover that the drinks placed before them, though perhaps sharing a distant ancestor in common with the lassi, were alas of a very different concoction. I realised this much from the expressions on their faces as both took their first sip. Suffice it to say that neither looked best pleased with their decision. Curious, I asked for a sip, and soon discovered the cause of their displeasure. Doogh, I found upon taking a taste is best described as salted, carbonated yogurt. It may indeed be a fine sort of drink if you set out in search of salted, carbonated yogurt, but it's less pleasant if you're expecting something else altogether. Even duly forewarned I nearly choked, and had to resist a very strong urge to spit it out.

Secondly, Kerry, my sister in law has been feeling a touch poorly in recently weeks, and has lately been put on a restricted diet. Much to her dismay, she now has to avoid products laden with wheat, an unfortunate situation given her love of bread. An an attempt to find a suitable substitute for her, my brother returned from the supermarket with a number of suitably gluten free alternatives, including some bread-like rolls. Kerry baked the rolls tonight in order to gauge their resemblance to bread proper, and it has to be said the resemblance is impressive. In appearance at least. Unfortunately, though pleasing to look at, it must be said that the resulting bread roll was somewhat lacking in taste. No, I tell a lie. The end product was far from tasteless - in fact it had, like doogh, a most unique and memorable taste. A bad taste true - quite awful I'd be tempted to say - but unforgettable nevertheless.

And the moral of these stories? It might be assumed that the moral is to avoid those foods whose tastes distress us. But on the other hand such experiences have reminded me that, even outside of a food fight, there's tremendous comedy value to be had from a bad meal. Especially if it's not your meal.