Another bad restaurant dream (decide for yourself which noun “bad” belongs with). Spouse and I were in The Hague with a male friend (don’t know which friend it was, though it was one who exists in waking life as well) looking for a place to eat. Many places were closed, whether because it was a feast day or the wrong day of the week or the wrong season didn’t become clear, but eventually we found a rather posh-looking restaurant. The chef there appeared to know me and gave me his rolling pin to try. It was some special brand or model, unlike the simple wooden rolling pin in my kitchen drawer. This one was made of wood too, but it had detachable handles and I think it came apart in the middle as well. But in the dream I had one of those myself, too, and was in fact carrying it.
We sat down at a table and tried to get something to eat. As a starter, I got a big ball of dough, a wooden board, a pot of boiling water and a chafing dish to cook my own food! Also a variant of the rolling pin, one end a small roller, the other a wooden spoon. I put the whole lot of dough in the chafing dish and poked it with the spoon, not knowing that I was supposed to make my own fresh pasta with the dough and cook it in the boiling water! Then the chef came and demonstrated it, but the other two had finished their starters already (I think Spouse had a small meat pasty) so a waiter took all my stuff away. While he was doing it I said, “I didn’t have any starter and I don’t think I got the chance to order a main course, either!” but when I looked at the menu again there was literally nothing on it that I wanted.
Meanwhile Spouse had cornered the waiter or a different waiter and was so angry with him that it almost came to blows. I said, “please don’t do that, let’s go away” and we did, and I woke up shaken and hungry.
It was only 3:30, though, so I went back to sleep and dreamed something that might be a sequel because the same people were in it, though not the same surroundings: a library or bookshop where I was looking for the works of someone called A—– F—– (no nineteenth-century obfuscation but honest ignorance) who had written books about both philosophy and childcare. (Not in the same book, but several of each). I had some kind of glittery dust that I could spread to lead others to those books, but I didn’t find any except one very abstruse philosophy book.
When I woke again it was 6:45 and I was still hungry, so I got up and made tea and ate kulich with pascha.