Six days a week Rosie cooked for everyone including those in the staff house. On Sundays, Ethan needed to fend for himself. The tarted up menu he held offered old-fashioned fare. The recipes would never lose demand, and the quality was always excellent. Flavoursome, hot, decent-sized portions, discount for two courses, though Ethan chose not to pre-order dessert. The sweet taste might spoil the treacle-heavy specialty ale the pub served on tap. Ethan had braved the London orbital, the dreaded M25, to make his way out to a pub more country than bistro.
“Sausage, mash, and gravy.” The waitress jotted down Ethan’s order as she walked away, leaving him on his lonesome. Typical—he appeared to be the only diner with a spare chair at his table. At least the pub’s casual code meant few glanced ov
