Another Texan Talkin' Crap

A few days ago, Gareth and I were driving through the country and we decided to stop for dinner at a gastro-pub called The Inn at Lathones. When we entered the reception area, bringing to mind a living room in a cozy French cottage, we were met with what looked like a homeless man, strewn across one of the comfortable-looking sofas and snoring like a freight train. We stopped in our tracks and looked uncertainly at one another until a flustered waiter guided us to seating around the corner and took our before-dinner drink orders. Then he scurried away and we heard him explaining to the homeless man that, although he was a guest of the inn and it went without saying that they appreciated his patronage, he couldn’t just take a nap in the middle of the four-star restaurant’s reception room. The man chuckled and gave a half-hearted apology and I immediately recognized the Texas accent.

As I finished off my Screaming Orgasm (a surprising cocktail offering for a country pub) I wondered if, at this very moment, American tourists all over the U.K. were doing things that confirmed Brits’ negative perceptions of us. The waiter would certainly enjoy telling his family and friends that apparently all Texans are socially inept buffoons, not just the U.S. president.

A few minutes later the waiter returned, apologized profusely for the napping Texan’s behavior, and took us to our table. Midway through my scallop ceviche, voices permeated a softly playing French ballad: the napper had returned to the reception area with a dinner companion.

First he told his friend about his little incident, to which the man replied, “Nah, really? Right there on the couch?” followed by a hearty laugh. Then he scrutinized the menu and announced in an even louder voice that although the roasted chestnut and herb stuffed quail looked interesting, he was astonished that the restaurant was only offering one quail and not two, since one couldn't possibly satisfy his big Texas appetite. His friend tried to console him: “You can have some o’ mine if ya want.”

The part of this exchange that intrigued me most, however was the napper’s declaration that “if a man eats one quail egg a day for thirty days, he’ll die of iodine poisonin’.” That evening, I spent a fair amount of time searching the web for evidence of his claim. Although quail eggs do contain iodine, so do chicken eggs, and apparently in similar amounts. No mention of anyone dying from a quail egg overdose.

Sounds like just another Texan talkin’ crap to me.