“Provinder,” he whispered, drawing near to the Inn. “Cold sirlion for choice. And nut-brown brew and wheaten bread.”
Madame has pointed out that there is a major historical error at the Potwell Inn, inasmuch as there are no pickled eggs lurking darkly at the back of the bar – and therefore she is not able to indulge her favourite passion for consuming them, lurking like reproachful sheep’s eyes, at the bottom of a packet of crisps. I pointed out that the Inn is trying to move with the 20th century and may well introduce “Chicken in a Basket” at some point, and in any case Alfred Polly suffered terribly with indigestion and so pickled eggs were not his ‘thing’ as it were. Furthermore I could find no reference to them anywhere in the novel.
However a happy landlady is a happy pub, and so I have bowed to her pressure and produced a jar for her exclusive use. We always treasure our customer feedback. I must clean behind the cooker at some point!