Nicolino’s Italian restaurant

The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Sidecar

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Towards the end of yesterday afternoon Jackie drove us to Emsworth to join in Ian’s birthday meal at Nicolino’s restaurant.

A month ago, I had photographed white doves in the morning light on and around the bell tower of St James’s Church. Yesterday a few remained on the roof basking in the evening light. A certain amount of interbreeding with pigeons appeared to have been going on.

Becky

and Ian were on their balcony to greet us.

We were joined in the restaurant by Ian’s friends Keith and Kirsty. The two men enjoyed reminiscing about their schooldays. The tilt of the picture behind her fiancé niggled Becky so much that he was required to straighten it.

I haven’t traditionally been over-keen on Italian food. Nicolino’s, in serving quite the best I have ever tasted, has provided the exception that proves the rule. I can’t remember what my starter was called, but, like all the others, it was a meal in itself.

The calzone that followed was a fresh, firm, parcel with succulent contents.

I didn’t really have room for this splendid summer pudding, but I forced myself.

My wine was Le Focaie sangiovese Maremma Toscana 2012. It didn’t come by the glass, so I brought half a bottle home. I suppose if I stretched my brains I would be able to name some of what the others consumed, but I really can’t be bothered.

Jackie drove us home on the M27 afterwards as she had done on the outward journey. This had been when our curiosity was aroused by the unusual sidecar passenger of a vintage motorcycle.

We just had to overhaul the biker.

Who was the intriguing little chap,

gradually coming into view,

looking this way and that?

Could it be?

Surely not?

Yes. A dog. Strapped in a seatbelt. I do hope the motorcyclist saw the thumbs up sign and the camera lens I poked out of the window as we passed.

My title pays homage to Mark Haddon’s superb little novel, required reading for anyone involved with autism, ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime’.

P.S. My thanks are due to Barrie Haynes who put this on a Facebook comment: ‘This is a nine year old retro Triumph Bonneville (Yankie type with high bars.) It is still in production and named after the Utah Salt Flats where the company had some success. Those panniers would have set him back a pretty penny and, according to the signs, the sheepdog is Scottish! There is an urbane myth about why this section of the M27 was originally laid in concrete sections? They say that it was because of the ‘Oil Crisis’ around that time. Hope this is of help.’

The White Doves Of St James’s

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Before we set off for Emsworth yesterday afternoon, we watered every plant container in the garden. This took some time. Just as we passed Brockenhurst on the way to Becky’s birthday celebration, I realised I had left my wallet at home. Returning home for it added 45 minutes to our journey.

Assembled at the North Road flat were Matthew;

Tess, seen here with Jackie;

Becky’s friend, Naomi

and her son, Louis;

Ian;

Becky, seen here expressing surprised pleasure at our present of a Jutta Manser wood engraving;

and, of course, Poppy, here taking one of Flo’s teddies for a walk in her grown-up cousin’s toy pushchair;

trying on a Princess crown she had made herself,

changing into a suitable outfit to match that of another teddy;

rolling around the floor;

and bouncing a balloon.

Across the road at Nicolino’s restaurant our granddaughter polished off two bowls of olives before the starters arrived,

then enthusiastically joined in the toast.

I sat diagonally across from the other gentlemen.

Jackie, opposite me, photographed the ladies. Matthew was also engrossed in the story Becky was relating. Poppy, twisting her noodles, seemed a little concerned that her Grannie had grown a flashing object on her face.

Eventually the menu was studied for a choice of desserts.

Tess’s sunglasses were passed around.

Here is Becky looking none the worse towards the end of the evening,

and Poppy as lively as ever.

This could hardly be said of me when Tess came over to photograph my rather daunting Eton Mess, before which I had consumed a fine minestrone soup with chunks of white bread, followed by an appetising fish risotto. Naomi and I shared the best part of a bottle of Bardolino. As you can see, I was past caring what anyone else had enjoyed.

We stayed the night at Becky and Ian’s and returned home soon after 8 a.m.

Before this I photographed some rooftops from the balcony. Visible in this third picture are

the white doves that live in and around the belfry of St James’s church.

Periodically the birds would take off,

wings glinting, fly over the houses,

and return home to roost.

This evening we dined on flaky smoked haddock, piquant cauliflower cheese, boiled potatoes and carrots, with bright green spinach. I drank Cru de la Vallée du Rhone Chateauneuf du Paps 2015.

Before And After: The Dead End Path

Becky’s August Birthday meal was twice postponed through illness, as was Ian’s earlier in October. Everyone was fit for Ian’s daughter Heather’s recent one. That is why we drove to Emsworth last night. As far as Becky was concerned, she was just going to Nicolino’s Italian restaurant across the road from their flat with Heather and her husband, Chris. She was open-mouthed when the other four arrived in the restaurant to see Jackie and me sitting there. We enjoyed a very pleasant evening with excellent food and service. My choice was minestrone soup followed by spaghetti Al Pescatore. I had no room for dessert. Valpolicella was my beverage.

Today was a very wet one. I began by making my final selection of three prints for The First Gallery Christmas exhibition. We need to take them to Paul for framing, and will do that in the next day or two to meet the submissions deadline.

These images have all appeared in previous posts. I have chosen them for variety. The first is of Quay Street, Lymington, this July. The walkers are Danni and Andy. The next, a stump, was from our garden on 24th January this year. Finally, we have a portrait of Jackie in July 1967, heavily cropped and converted to black and white

I continued with the production of the next sequence for the garden progress album. This is The Dead End Path.

This shot of the garden on 7th May 2014, shows why the path has its name. Behind the blue painted Butler sink is a low wall separating the path from the patio. In the bottom left hand corner, incidentally can be seen the start of a collection of rubbish from inside the house. This was destined for the dump.

The above-mentioned sink had two companions on the path leading from the brick path behind it. We moved them on 17th May. I had to empty them before being able to move them at all. A couple of thyme plants therein now thrive on the patio.

I managed to shift them as far as the low wall, but definitely needed the assistance of Jackie and a lever to lift them onto the wall.

What on earth do you do with two hefty lumps of white stoneware covered in peeling blue paint? Disguise seemed the only option.

By 16th June, all three of the sinks were suitably clad, at least on the patio side. It is the Gazebo Path that trails away on the left hand side of the photograph.

The new planting was established by 18th September 2015, but the Dead End Path side still exposes its peeling paint. The Compassion rose to the left has benefited from clearing out the undergrowth which had choked it.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s superb sausage casserole, mashed potato and swede, piquant cauliflower cheese, and boiled carrots, cabbage, and mange touts. She drank sparkling water, and i quaffed Castilo San Lorenzo rioja reserva 2010.

Since When Is A Balcony A Garden?

It may have occurred to my readers that Italian would not be my first choice of restaurant. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, I don’t like them much. Admittedly I reduce my options because I am reluctant to eat veal on account of how it is produced. I learned this on honeymoon with Vivien in Cornwall in 1963. We stayed at a farmhouse. One day the farmer rushed into the sitting room and asked me to help him get his bullocks in. Naturally obliging, and attracted by the sense of adventure, I dashed out to assist. We rounded up these poor creatures and ushered them into a darkened shed. Their owner’s reply to my questioning why they were kept there, was that they were used for that necessarily pale delicacy, in my experience being the staple of Italian menus.

Nicolino’s, however, has changed my view entirely. This establishment, which can be seen from Becky,Ian, Flo, and especially Scooby’s balcony, was chosen by Ian for his fiancee’s birthday meal. The service was warm, friendly, and efficient. The staff recognised the family as neighbours, and were attentive without being intrusive. The menu was extensive. Operatic arias were played quietly on the music system, and there are guest singers on specific dates. The cooking was superb, and the meals so huge that Ian had to take some of his home, and I couldn’t face a sweet. Still less eat it. Three of us drank Peroni and Becky had a carafe of pink wine.

The balcony, incidentally, is another example of estate agents’ capacity for deception. This had appeared on the brochure as ‘garden’. So unlike one was it that the representative who showed the prospective tenants round needed, in answer to Becky’s question, to telephone the office to ask where it was. Even she expressed surprise as she passed on the answer. There is room for a washing line, but I don’t think that justifies the small triangular space high above the street being described as a garden.

Having, yesterday, given Flo, who had been using it in her jewellery and wand-making workshop, my electric drill and set of bits, I possessed no tools with which to fix our newly-acquired mirror to the wall. Fortuitously, severe delays on the M27 on our return home this morning, caused us to divert around Wickham and Hedge End where we passed a B & Q at which we stopped to purchase replacements.

The check-out queue, where Val was the only non-robot on duty, snaked across the store. All the other payment stations were self-service ones, of which we have a phobia. Most of those who joined Val’s queue were patently of a certain age. She patiently persuaded us all to trot, in turn, over to the supervisor’s kiosk, and fill in a form entitling us to membership of the over sixties club and a discount of 10% on Wednesdays, of which today is one. We deduced that would be a tidy reduction, so we complied.

Early this evening, Elizabeth arrived for her stay with us. After a coffee and an Earl Grey tea, my sister and I watered the pots and hanging baskets while Jackie cooked splendid spare ribs with her trademark savoury rice (recipe). A Post House Pud was to follow. Jackie finished the Cimarosa, and Elizabeth and I shared a bottle of Bourgogne de Calonnaise 2012.