WHO: @marisolsshine WHERE: a pub somewhere in London WHEN: evening
In Charley's opinion, traditional music sessions are one of the greatest things about Ireland and the UK. One of the worst things are the pub meals that go with them.
He has nothing against beef or potatoes or vegetables, but everything against whoever'd decided the best way to cook them was boiling out any chance of flavor. Tonight the "broth," if he has to call it that, is like barely-salted, slightly-brown water, and the carrots and celery and whatever else they'd put in all taste almost the same.
But Charley's prepared for situations like this. Opening his guitar case, he takes a small kit from the compartment inside. Inside, he's got tiny bottles of all kinds of sauces and seasonings: hot sauce from his Texas grandparents, ground chiles from Santa Fe, Kansas City and Carolina vinegar barbecue sauces, garlic powder, dry mustard, whatever he's come across on his travels or been sent from back home. Adding them at the table isn't as good as if the food had been properly seasoned to begin with, but it's better than nothing.
Most of the people in the pub are digging in with apparent relish, but there's a woman at the next table who isn't. "Here," Charley offers, passing the spice kit across to her. "This makes it a little better."
