Tec and Toots taking time out

"GOD bless the child, that's got his name that's got his name," the distinct voice of Lady Day echoed around Tec Towers.

It was gonna be one of those lazy Saturday nights when lights were dimmed, TV off and Toots .....

"Tec," her dulcet tones boomed through the room, drowning out Ms Holiday and sending a shiver, or was it a shudder, down my spine.

"I have a hunger and it needs to be fed."

The drumming blood red talons were a big enough clue that the Moll wasn't jesting.

The gleam in her eye said it all - it was now or never.

But the problem was the usual. Tec was skint, the proverbial barrasic, and there was no glimmer of a buck or two on the horizon.

It was one of those moments when the only idea spinning through my noggin was to head north.

With a fur trailing behind her and towering heels on her pins the Moll teetered down the stairs and into the waiting Buick.

With the engine revving we headed off to colder climes, leaving the balmy Glasgow temperatures in our exhaust fumes.

We'd hardly settled back and we pulled into the parking lot of the Craigmarloch Lodge.

It's quaint lines spoke of traditional fare and this gumshoe and his gal couldn't afford to be disappointed.

"Oh Tec it reminds me of those times when we found cosy, romantic corners and you whispered sweet nothings," the love of my life said.

And then we opened the door ...

The wall of sound took me back to those days of wine and roses and my youth.

Even the Moll took a step back, but she was being driven by something greater than peace and quiet.

With stomachs rumbling we were shown a table, away from the bar but part way between the wide screen and its speaker and with footie the only game in town there was nothing to do but sit and gaze at Toots.

With peepers scanning the scran list we quickly jumped at the hardy annual garlic bread and its younger upstart cheesy variety.

At the same time we put in orders for beef lasagne with chianti and an 8oz sirloin steak.

If the smells that were wafting through the room were anything to judge, we wouldn't be disappointed.

And sure as eggs is eggs, as soon as the food started to arrive, the taste buds started to tingle.

Piping hot bread, dripping garlic hit the spot and we polished if off.

But the Moll was just hitting her stride and casting an eye for the mains.

At the same time I did a quick eyeball of the locale. And while the noise level was hard on the lugs, the place was heaving - in the bar and the seated area.

And everyone seemed to be having a great time. Food was disappearing at a rate of knots, prompting rapid eye lash batting in the corner.

Almost as if someone up there had realised the food arrived on the table, steaming, aromatic and plenty of it.

Moll devoured the steak, lapped up the chunks smeared in peppercorn sauce and snaffled the chips.

The lasagne was full of flavour with a crisp salad that added to its moreishness.

It was almost an indecent proposal to mention a pud but my sweetness and light could no resist a sugary treat and an order for lemon meringue pie was despatched.

Coupled with my order of chocolate smeared vanilla ice cream, they wrapped up a satisfying tightener.

Add in a glass of the vino collapso of the rouge variety and a non-alcoholic pint for the driver and we were well satisfied.

All in all, with no major dent in my wallet, it was stomach-loading night out, just a pity about the volume.