Dinner with the teenage in-laws was always such a delight.

New, exotic food

and none of your beans on toast pish,

it was chicken kievs all 'round.

But, on this day

it was different.

You see, whilst Mrs E was slaving in the kitchen

I was thinking of another chef

I just couldn't remember his name.

I tried

I tried

I tried!

I just could not remember his soddin' name.

I'd been trying for days to recall it

and I'll be honest

I'd lost sleep.

A bounty of crinkle-cut chips lays before me, with a beautiful girlfriend by my side and...

enjoyment is not on my plate.

The first mouthful, I taste a thought,

"Gordon Ramsey? No".

"Rick Stein? No".

"Pink Floyd? Keith Floyd? No".

The chips have gone and I burst the garlic buttered kiev...

an epiphany!

A revelation!

It's not a chef, it's not a cook.

What is he?

He's a food critic!

Still

I do not know his name and I must know his name.

What's his name?

What's his soddin' name?

I'm not creating a good impression here. This is the girl I love and I need the parents to know that I'm the kind of man that can look after their daughter. To love her and care for her, to treat their little princess in exactly the way she deserves to be treated. To appreciate when they serve me posh grub in such a wonderful way.

And what am I doing?

Silently contemplating, unbeknownst to them,

the name of a food critic.

And then

With Green Giant sweet corn

in my mouth,

from my mouth - completely out of the blue for all concerned,

but I

“Egon Ronay! It’s Egon Ronay!”

Anyway...

We broke up not long after that,

I think

For completely unrelated reasons.

But

I had my moment.