Hedonistic Appetites
I did my bit for diplomatic relations and ventured out with the staff from our Hedon office for their annual night out. I took the precaution of driving so as not to get too carried away on their heady influence. They don't get to see the bright lights of a city ( the rumour that they still have a municipal lamplighter is unfounded - in fact very few streetlamps, gas or otherwise, can be found anywhere within a 5 mile radius, certainly not enough to justify a salaried post) very often and I can only imagine that a similar outing many years ago, subsidised by the company's first credit card is the true root of the modern-day meaning of 'hedonism'.
It was my first visit to a casino, if you discount the time we stumbled into one on Park Lane after dancing at Stringfellows* and extortionate G&Ts in the Ritz rooftop bar to celebrate my 30th birthday where I managed to lose 20 quid on the first spin of the roulette wheel and slept in a corner until the others had emptied their pockets. I'd reluctantly agreed to go upon assurances that the food was good. It was. I wish I could say the same about the service.
There were dozens of staff, not simply waiting but scurrying about in an organised, well-drilled fashion, smart, attentive and to my trained eye, completely competent. I was horrified then, when I recognised the waitress making her way towards our table as the former manageress of a local eaterie. The one I boycotted after she casually asked, whilst fixing me the wrong sandwich despite the third time of telling, when I was about to pop, compounding the error upon receiving the explanation that I was in fact fat rather than pregnant, not by apologising and citing congenital convex corneas for her gross faux pas, but jovially pointing out that if ( not when, further suggesting the unlikely event that anyone would ever want to sleep with me) I got pregnant, I'd be able to hide it well and there'd be plenty of room for baby.
I gritted my teeth and pretended I hadn't noticed her. I'm not sure I hid it well, as she dropped 2 bread rolls and knocked a fellow diner's cutlery to the floor as she arrived at our table. I rather enjoyed that. She remained silent throughout the service and I had almost forgotten her until it came time to clear the plates. I'd had lamb shank. I'd enjoyed it and had stopped just short of licking the plate clean, a fact which clearly did not go unnoticed.
" Could you not manage the bone, love? Sure, I'll bring you some more gravy if it would help. I can tell you're a woman who likes her food."
I fixed her a steely smile and with a practiced flick of my Braun Stylesmoothed hair, I turned my back to her. She had to reach around my ample girth to collect my plate. I smiled again when she dropped the knife. I didn't leave a tip.
* it was a Charity Do, we were not there through choice
It was my first visit to a casino, if you discount the time we stumbled into one on Park Lane after dancing at Stringfellows* and extortionate G&Ts in the Ritz rooftop bar to celebrate my 30th birthday where I managed to lose 20 quid on the first spin of the roulette wheel and slept in a corner until the others had emptied their pockets. I'd reluctantly agreed to go upon assurances that the food was good. It was. I wish I could say the same about the service.
There were dozens of staff, not simply waiting but scurrying about in an organised, well-drilled fashion, smart, attentive and to my trained eye, completely competent. I was horrified then, when I recognised the waitress making her way towards our table as the former manageress of a local eaterie. The one I boycotted after she casually asked, whilst fixing me the wrong sandwich despite the third time of telling, when I was about to pop, compounding the error upon receiving the explanation that I was in fact fat rather than pregnant, not by apologising and citing congenital convex corneas for her gross faux pas, but jovially pointing out that if ( not when, further suggesting the unlikely event that anyone would ever want to sleep with me) I got pregnant, I'd be able to hide it well and there'd be plenty of room for baby.
I gritted my teeth and pretended I hadn't noticed her. I'm not sure I hid it well, as she dropped 2 bread rolls and knocked a fellow diner's cutlery to the floor as she arrived at our table. I rather enjoyed that. She remained silent throughout the service and I had almost forgotten her until it came time to clear the plates. I'd had lamb shank. I'd enjoyed it and had stopped just short of licking the plate clean, a fact which clearly did not go unnoticed.
" Could you not manage the bone, love? Sure, I'll bring you some more gravy if it would help. I can tell you're a woman who likes her food."
I fixed her a steely smile and with a practiced flick of my Braun Stylesmoothed hair, I turned my back to her. She had to reach around my ample girth to collect my plate. I smiled again when she dropped the knife. I didn't leave a tip.
* it was a Charity Do, we were not there through choice
posted by Cherrypie at 2:59 am
16 Comments:
Lovely.
Dave - You are worrying me. Where is the technical correction, theological redirection, caustic wit I have come to rely upon? I thought at the very least you would point out that corneas were already convex.
Is it perhaps a reoccurrence of the kidney grit?
What a funny anecdote!
Cherrybabe, you're a cool customer!
What a nasty, horrible waitress! Tell her there's a job for her up here... Kitchen porter! And that's too good!
BTW, we had a kitchen fire in one our restaurants last night at 7.30. Full house and all!
I'll have to post about it one day.
Sorry about that. I appear to be in a good mood today.
however, in the light of your comments about the soporiphic [sp?] nature of my preaching, I may read your post again...
'gross faux pas' Very funny.
Hilarious. I'm glad you wrote the final line so I didn't have to chastise you. (And thanks for the reminder of Stringfellow's -- I've never been but a flatmate spent a LOT of time there in a previous era.)Your clock is perfect! Enjoy the rest of your weekend...
oo
Cherry Pie, what a miserable person she is. Someone like that woman will never be able to hang on to a job here in this part of the flatlands. No one will be that rude unless they were stupid. I guess we really do take "customer service" seriously.
My word.
Well, if the rest of the staff seemed competent, perhaps the management would be interested to hear about this waitress's tableside banter. I don't suppose that there are many people who would enjoy her "humor."
Ed once asked a woman who was not pregnant when her baby was due. It is not a mistake he will be likely to ever make again, and one of those conversational pits that it is impossible to dig oneself out of. Of course, I've seen your picture, and you don't look pregnant by any stretch of the imagination -- she Does need her eyes checked.
I SO hope you are kidding.
Please tell me that this did not really happen.
cherrypie, you are all right and that miserable woman is all wrong. that's all there is to it.
and cherrypie, don't forget you are a doll, afterall.
:)
I do believe Carol went to a charity do at Stringfellows once too. Is this the only way they can get people through the door?
CP, it appears this woman is on a downward spiral. From 'manageress' to a waitress, if she keeps dropping things including her social manners I do believe she'll be asking if you want fries with that when you next cross paths.
She will make that kind of remark to the wrong woman one day and find a Rubenesque foot up her arse.
Cream - gosh! Hope your kitchen/ staff and customers are ok. Did the fire brigade come out? I wish I'd been there
Melora - I happened to be sitting next to the restaurant manager's aunt at the time. I made sure she knew ALL about it.
Joyce - it really did happen. I haven't embellished or edited it at all.
Sharon - it really is a bit cheesy. I believe only actords from eastenders and tourists go of their own free will.
Del - you have a point. I think she crossed the wrong woman when she met me. I don't take prisoners.
You have fabulous self control. She was horrible.
I've tagged you. :D
Are you dead? Was it food poisening?
I would have done the Mr Creosote scene from Monty Python's Meaning Of LIfe and mumbled
"F** OFF and GET ME A BUCKET!"
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