COMMENT
Business Buzz
with Harry Pearson
You can have any flavour of ice cream you want – as long as it ’ s white , pink or brown !
Fancy flavours – this was as close as you ’ d get when Harry was growing up on Teesside .
Award-winning columnist Harry Pearson on the long-gone days when eating out on Teesside was certainly nothing to write home about ...
My grandad had very exacting standards when it came to catering establishments . He would never patronise a fish and chip shop that charged for scraps , or a pub that wanted extra for putting a touch of lemonade in his pint of bitter .
If we went to a café or restaurant my grandad didn ’ t like the look of , he signalled his disgust by refusing to take his cap off .
Admittedly , these are not the sort of criteria that get you a spot as a judge on MasterChef , but the latter would at least have spared us having to listen to a load of waffle about the scrumptious gooeyness of somebody ’ s caramel clafoutis .
“ Grandad ’ s hat has stayed on , so that ’ s a definite zero for the halibut poached in dandelion and burdock with deep-fried bracken ,” viewers would say .
Not that we went to many restaurants back then . Nowadays – as this issue testifies – Teesside has a fantastic and thriving food scene , with great suppliers and fabulous chefs .
This was not always the case . Asked to pick my favourite restaurant by the editor , I hummed and hah-ed for 24 hours , trying to work out an answer .
And every time I thought I had one , a
minute later I ’ d say , “ Now wait a minute , what about … that ’ s really good …”
Back in the 1970s I ’ d have had no trouble answering . In those days the food scene on Teesside was nothing to write home about , unless your parents happened to be health inspectors .
Meals began with a starter of orange juice , followed by rugged meat in the sort of municipal gravy that was so thick it was served by the slice , mashed potato with lumps the size and texture of golf balls , and vegetables so severely boiled they slopped onto the plate with a sound like waves hitting a harbour wall .
Pudding was ice cream , which came in three flavours : white , pink and brown .
Anyone with any brains avoided restaurants and went instead to the Little Pork Shop in Hill Street with its giant knife in the window and an array of buns that included spam and pease pudding , or to Colbeck ’ s for potted meat , or the Italian deli , Italcibo , on Linthorpe Road , that made its own pizzas ( such a novelty my parents were never sure if you ate them hot , or cold , like a cheese and tomato sandwich ).
When it came to eating out , there was just one place to go . The Golden Lion in Stokesley was run by a French lady of such twinkling Gallic charm that I can ’ t think of her without recalling the episode of Fawlty Towers featuring glamorous antique dealer Mme Peignoir (“ Are you a romantic , Mr Fawlty ? I think you are !”). At the Golden Lion , Madame , as I shall always think of her , presided over a restaurant that was like some English fantasy of a street corner Parisian bistro . There was escargot , coq au vin and crème caramel . Best of all was the liqueur trolley , which was laden with exotic drinks that Madame brought back from her trips home .
As I was in my early teens this should have been of no interest to me , but Madame took a dim view of the English attitude to children and alcohol – “ In France , a boy his age would have a glass of beaujolais with some water in it to accompany his meal !” – and so every visit ended for me with a small glass of crème de menthe served on crushed ice . Drinking it made me feel like James Bond and look like Little Lord Fauntleroy .
The Golden Lion was a place where my grandad always took his cap off . Mind you , the standard is so high across Teesside these days , if he was still around he could leave his hat at home altogether .
Harry Pearson ’ s latest book The Farther Corner – A Sentimental Return to North-East Football is out now .
16 | Tees Business