A Lactic Lacrimosa

I feel the cows are out to get me. At least, something is trying to punish me for my anti-milk outburst on Tuesday.

Last night Mik and I went for dinner to the Old Aberlady Inn (that's an old inn in Aberlady). I ordered moules marinieres to start. Anticipation was building as the big black metal pot arrived. Off with the lid.

'They look good,' I thought. But what's that whitish stuff? Can't be butter. And what's that unsettling smell?

I ate one mussel which tasted fresh and delicious, then shuffled his brothers and sisters about. And there, horror of horrors, was a thick white sludge at the bottom of the pot.

'I think that is cream,' said Mik, tentatively, feeling the prospect of a relaxing evening slipping away.

And so I was off, in search of the waiter. 'Yes it is cream,' he confessed. 'It's the sauce we use.'

I was graciously offered an alternative dish but this meant I had to sit and watch Mik eat her starter, then she had to sit and watch me eat my starter. Still, we weren't in a hurry. We were out to enjoy ourselves.

'Moules marinieres shouldn't involve cream,' was the essence of much of my repartee throughout the rest of the meal, and on the way home; and when I got there it was straight to the bookcase where Elizabeth David, Jane Grigson and several other shellfish sages told me I, of course, was right.

Cream should not be allowed within a nautical mile of moules marinieres.

Let the bivalves remain unbasted!

But now I'm all suspicion. I intend to have the full Scottish breakfast in Edinburgh on Monday morning (yes, my arteries are fine, thank you). But I'll be nervously poking around under the bacon and black pudding, searching in trepidation for more of that awful white stuff.

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