13 May 2012
531
R. Linda:
That night back at our castle, we all had dinner at a different hour. Everyone was tired and so some took naps but Tonya and I opted to eat at the first sitting. While we awaited our appetiser I noticed (because they were a bit pretentiously loud) the three ladies and the one gent sitting just behind us. One looked like the deaf woman from a Fawlty Towers episode, one looked like a lovely but hard-arse old lady with short white hair who was pining for her corgi, and the other woman had dark hair and reminded me of Dawn French (The Vicar of Dibley). The gent had turned around to summon a waiter and I got a look at him. He looked like a modern-day St. Patrick. Yes, he did, white hair and beard, very distinguished, but little fella.
Just by their accents, I noticed they were English, well dressed, upper crust, had dogs in dog shows, owned stables, had candlelight suppers, picnicked on the continent, sailed about the world on cruises, and winter in Majorica or Tenerife (which one said the last so passé now "no one in the know goes there"). Ah yes, the good life I be sure and here they were dining in a manor house with what they thought was the likes of themselves who could afford to as well.
It seemed a right competition or more a challenge to the rest of the diners to a comeuppance of all they had to talk and brag about. The rest were conservative types, elegant, definitely not the "farm" types as they probably saw these four. In the UK there has been for centuries this class thing among the rich, and while you may have money, and be it old money at that if you live in the "country" you are never considered socially accepted by those who would go to places like London or Bath for the season. If you stayed on the country estate, well . . . you were out of the social loop. This mindset still exists to an extent. I thought perhaps these four were trying a wee bit too hard to fit in or fit the rest out as the case may have been.
So as our appetiser came the conversation at the other table had been on "coursing" this is where a live hare is thrown out and the greyhounds (of which Ireland is famous) take off after it and if they catch it, well it becomes dinner. Tonya and I had not been speaking, we were knackered and not in the mood, so this conversation drifted into our hearing. Me wife was making faces at the thought and she was facing me, and away from the other table mouthing "Bloodsport? Why? We are eating." I realised the entire dining room had stopped talking and this awful discourse was dominating everyone's hearing. I was waiting for someone to complain to the wait staff, but no one did, instead they all looked disagreeably at their plates. Stiff upper lip and all that I suppose.
I sighed and muttered witticisms under me breath to try to divert the wife's attention from so ghastly a topic. You know Tonya, if she be thinking something a wrong she will get right in your face about it. I could just see it unfolding, me American wife confronting snobby Brits in the middle of a somewhat crowded and hoity-toity dining room. I did me best to keep her occupied. Then the subject turned to fox hunting and this DID get me attention because they were all talking about their favourite mounts, giving little stories about each one and there I was thinking that only St. Patrick would look good on a horse, he might, because of his diminutive size, he had the look of an ancient steeplechase jockey, however, the three ladies looked a bit old to be galloping about the countryside and the size of two of them, well R. Linda, were their rides shire horses? I shook me head trying to get the disturbing images out of me head when their dessert arrived and our main course was served. This I think saved us from what was becoming a discussion on the "royal set" being against using real foxes for the hunt and how overpopulated the English countryside was with the red critters.
We hadn't had two bites before a very loud "THIS is NOT Orange custard! WAITER! WAITER! OVER HERE IF YOU PLEASE. THIS," the dark-haired woman held up her dessert plate, "IS NOT Orange custard! What are you going to do about it?"
"Madame, I am very sorry, let me take it back to the chef." The waiter said and off he went as she muttered to her companions about the trend of every chef in creation fancying himself a Chef Ramsey.
The maitre'd came over shortly after and asked what the problem with her dessert was and she went back into the fact it was not ORANGE custard.
Now an aside here, I looked at the dessert menu as I always do (being a sugar-holic) and there it said a slice of Moro blood orange custard. Now if you've ever had blood orange, you know it tastes nothing like a normal orange. The colour is red though. It tastes like a tart raspberry to me, and I don't particularly care for the bitter taste of it. Therefore, I would not order it.
It seemed our lady had no clue what a blood orange was especially the bitter Moro variety. Thus, the loud complaining to the entire dining room. Well maitre'd left and came back with the waiter, who came back with the offending dessert which he put down in front of her.
"I DO NOT WANT IT." Said she with disdain on her face, a fat finger pointing at the offending piece of custard.
"Chef says it IS blood orange custard." Maitre'd informed her. "It IS what you ordered."
"I COOK GOURMET. I KNOW WHEN SOMETHING HAS ORANGE IN IT AND WHEN IT DOES NOT! THIS ..," she jutted her jaw out, "does not!"
I wondered why Chef wasn't out there. Usually, the chef makes an appearance with another dessert but instead, the maitre'd and waiter were at her assistance. Well, this carried on with her loudly declaring that what was on the plate wasn't orange custard and the two surrogates of the chef quietly telling her it was. I did notice that she had eaten 3/4 of the custard before proclaiming to the entire dining room it wasn't correct.
After a bit, the two men left her with the dessert and that was that. She sat there complaining to her table mates what fools the wait staff were and how batty the chef was to think he could pass off a funny-tasting custard as orange. Oh boy.
Here's a picture that is very close to what the offending dessert looked like.
It took all of five minutes before the lady who looked like she was the one from Fawlty Towers leaned toward her friend from the other end of the table, and with a theatrical whisper said, "Dori, you really shouldn't pay for THAT if it isn't what it said it was."
'Dori' looked around for the waiter for one more tirade, but he saw her and flew into the kitchen. Within seconds (long enough for the waiter to tell chef she was at it again), there was a commotion of what sounded like pots and pans being flung and a barrage of garbled words that probably were curses in French that came from deep inside the bowels of the kitchen. Everyone stopped eating, forks hung in mid-air and Dori's eyes grew very wide and the expression on her face was of fear. She was so unnerved she began to eat the rest of the blood-orange custard! I don't think she did it to appease chef but out of sheer nerves and unthinkingly consumed the offending dessert until suddenly, at the last bite she realised what she had done and her table mates stared at her in amazement.
Well, I thought that was the last of it. What could she do now? She couldn't refuse to pay for it, because she had eaten all of it and this she must have known. The bill came and she didn't say a word. We all covertly watched as she got out a credit card. She gave the waiter her card and he put it through his machine and then informed her she had insufficient funds. Yes, he did, proclaiming the fact somewhat loudly so the entire dining room heard him. This got me attention and everyone else's right off quite naturally.
"Try it again please, there is nothing wrong with THAT card."
Zip it went through and same thing. Had she another? Oh dear, well yes she had, she pulled out another one and handed it to him looking like her feathers were indeed ruffled. Zip again and guess what? Surprise, surprise THAT one didn't go through either. How embarrassing. Meanwhile, her table said not a word, but all looked uncomfortable and a wee bit embarrassed for her, BUT no one offered to pay. I was amused.
"Can you see them washing dishes?" I whispered to an equally amused Tonya.
"Have you another?" Says the persistent waiter.
"Oh wait, here I KNOW this one is good. I just used it and I have an £8000 BALANCE ON IT." She laughed nervously, looking around to make sure the entire room heard her.
ZIP OH NO that one didn't work either!
Well, if it were me I'd be suspicious by this time, but she was too embarrassed and her mind was all over the place in confusion. She pulled out a slip of paper and shoved it at the waiter.
"Read THAT young man, the balance is £8000! Something is wrong with your machine!"
"Here let me run it one more time," says he and Viola! It worked. He got her to put her pin in and she was all set.
The whole dining room was aware of the bad credit by the time the transaction was finally paid and complete. I thought to meself THERE was a lesson in that you don't complain about the food in this place OR your card will be declined enough times you won't come back and show your face ever again. So much for being the mistress of a country estate and owning all those dogs, horses, acres, etc.
I tell ya!
Gabe
Copyright © 2012 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
That night back at our castle, we all had dinner at a different hour. Everyone was tired and so some took naps but Tonya and I opted to eat at the first sitting. While we awaited our appetiser I noticed (because they were a bit pretentiously loud) the three ladies and the one gent sitting just behind us. One looked like the deaf woman from a Fawlty Towers episode, one looked like a lovely but hard-arse old lady with short white hair who was pining for her corgi, and the other woman had dark hair and reminded me of Dawn French (The Vicar of Dibley). The gent had turned around to summon a waiter and I got a look at him. He looked like a modern-day St. Patrick. Yes, he did, white hair and beard, very distinguished, but little fella.
Just by their accents, I noticed they were English, well dressed, upper crust, had dogs in dog shows, owned stables, had candlelight suppers, picnicked on the continent, sailed about the world on cruises, and winter in Majorica or Tenerife (which one said the last so passé now "no one in the know goes there"). Ah yes, the good life I be sure and here they were dining in a manor house with what they thought was the likes of themselves who could afford to as well.
It seemed a right competition or more a challenge to the rest of the diners to a comeuppance of all they had to talk and brag about. The rest were conservative types, elegant, definitely not the "farm" types as they probably saw these four. In the UK there has been for centuries this class thing among the rich, and while you may have money, and be it old money at that if you live in the "country" you are never considered socially accepted by those who would go to places like London or Bath for the season. If you stayed on the country estate, well . . . you were out of the social loop. This mindset still exists to an extent. I thought perhaps these four were trying a wee bit too hard to fit in or fit the rest out as the case may have been.
So as our appetiser came the conversation at the other table had been on "coursing" this is where a live hare is thrown out and the greyhounds (of which Ireland is famous) take off after it and if they catch it, well it becomes dinner. Tonya and I had not been speaking, we were knackered and not in the mood, so this conversation drifted into our hearing. Me wife was making faces at the thought and she was facing me, and away from the other table mouthing "Bloodsport? Why? We are eating." I realised the entire dining room had stopped talking and this awful discourse was dominating everyone's hearing. I was waiting for someone to complain to the wait staff, but no one did, instead they all looked disagreeably at their plates. Stiff upper lip and all that I suppose.
I sighed and muttered witticisms under me breath to try to divert the wife's attention from so ghastly a topic. You know Tonya, if she be thinking something a wrong she will get right in your face about it. I could just see it unfolding, me American wife confronting snobby Brits in the middle of a somewhat crowded and hoity-toity dining room. I did me best to keep her occupied. Then the subject turned to fox hunting and this DID get me attention because they were all talking about their favourite mounts, giving little stories about each one and there I was thinking that only St. Patrick would look good on a horse, he might, because of his diminutive size, he had the look of an ancient steeplechase jockey, however, the three ladies looked a bit old to be galloping about the countryside and the size of two of them, well R. Linda, were their rides shire horses? I shook me head trying to get the disturbing images out of me head when their dessert arrived and our main course was served. This I think saved us from what was becoming a discussion on the "royal set" being against using real foxes for the hunt and how overpopulated the English countryside was with the red critters.
We hadn't had two bites before a very loud "THIS is NOT Orange custard! WAITER! WAITER! OVER HERE IF YOU PLEASE. THIS," the dark-haired woman held up her dessert plate, "IS NOT Orange custard! What are you going to do about it?"
"Madame, I am very sorry, let me take it back to the chef." The waiter said and off he went as she muttered to her companions about the trend of every chef in creation fancying himself a Chef Ramsey.
The maitre'd came over shortly after and asked what the problem with her dessert was and she went back into the fact it was not ORANGE custard.
Now an aside here, I looked at the dessert menu as I always do (being a sugar-holic) and there it said a slice of Moro blood orange custard. Now if you've ever had blood orange, you know it tastes nothing like a normal orange. The colour is red though. It tastes like a tart raspberry to me, and I don't particularly care for the bitter taste of it. Therefore, I would not order it.
It seemed our lady had no clue what a blood orange was especially the bitter Moro variety. Thus, the loud complaining to the entire dining room. Well maitre'd left and came back with the waiter, who came back with the offending dessert which he put down in front of her.
"I DO NOT WANT IT." Said she with disdain on her face, a fat finger pointing at the offending piece of custard.
"Chef says it IS blood orange custard." Maitre'd informed her. "It IS what you ordered."
"I COOK GOURMET. I KNOW WHEN SOMETHING HAS ORANGE IN IT AND WHEN IT DOES NOT! THIS ..," she jutted her jaw out, "does not!"
I wondered why Chef wasn't out there. Usually, the chef makes an appearance with another dessert but instead, the maitre'd and waiter were at her assistance. Well, this carried on with her loudly declaring that what was on the plate wasn't orange custard and the two surrogates of the chef quietly telling her it was. I did notice that she had eaten 3/4 of the custard before proclaiming to the entire dining room it wasn't correct.
After a bit, the two men left her with the dessert and that was that. She sat there complaining to her table mates what fools the wait staff were and how batty the chef was to think he could pass off a funny-tasting custard as orange. Oh boy.
Here's a picture that is very close to what the offending dessert looked like.
It took all of five minutes before the lady who looked like she was the one from Fawlty Towers leaned toward her friend from the other end of the table, and with a theatrical whisper said, "Dori, you really shouldn't pay for THAT if it isn't what it said it was."
'Dori' looked around for the waiter for one more tirade, but he saw her and flew into the kitchen. Within seconds (long enough for the waiter to tell chef she was at it again), there was a commotion of what sounded like pots and pans being flung and a barrage of garbled words that probably were curses in French that came from deep inside the bowels of the kitchen. Everyone stopped eating, forks hung in mid-air and Dori's eyes grew very wide and the expression on her face was of fear. She was so unnerved she began to eat the rest of the blood-orange custard! I don't think she did it to appease chef but out of sheer nerves and unthinkingly consumed the offending dessert until suddenly, at the last bite she realised what she had done and her table mates stared at her in amazement.
Well, I thought that was the last of it. What could she do now? She couldn't refuse to pay for it, because she had eaten all of it and this she must have known. The bill came and she didn't say a word. We all covertly watched as she got out a credit card. She gave the waiter her card and he put it through his machine and then informed her she had insufficient funds. Yes, he did, proclaiming the fact somewhat loudly so the entire dining room heard him. This got me attention and everyone else's right off quite naturally.
"Try it again please, there is nothing wrong with THAT card."
Zip it went through and same thing. Had she another? Oh dear, well yes she had, she pulled out another one and handed it to him looking like her feathers were indeed ruffled. Zip again and guess what? Surprise, surprise THAT one didn't go through either. How embarrassing. Meanwhile, her table said not a word, but all looked uncomfortable and a wee bit embarrassed for her, BUT no one offered to pay. I was amused.
"Can you see them washing dishes?" I whispered to an equally amused Tonya.
"Have you another?" Says the persistent waiter.
"Oh wait, here I KNOW this one is good. I just used it and I have an £8000 BALANCE ON IT." She laughed nervously, looking around to make sure the entire room heard her.
ZIP OH NO that one didn't work either!
Well, if it were me I'd be suspicious by this time, but she was too embarrassed and her mind was all over the place in confusion. She pulled out a slip of paper and shoved it at the waiter.
"Read THAT young man, the balance is £8000! Something is wrong with your machine!"
"Here let me run it one more time," says he and Viola! It worked. He got her to put her pin in and she was all set.
The whole dining room was aware of the bad credit by the time the transaction was finally paid and complete. I thought to meself THERE was a lesson in that you don't complain about the food in this place OR your card will be declined enough times you won't come back and show your face ever again. So much for being the mistress of a country estate and owning all those dogs, horses, acres, etc.
I tell ya!
Gabe
Copyright © 2012 All rights reserved
3 comments:
my husband is a chef and I told him to read this. he got a laugh out of it and said it happens a lot more than people realize. he said new food items and the uneducated palate can be a frustrating combination for a waitstaff. thank you for writing it up. when you told me about it I thought it too good a story not to blog!
LMAO
I thought that only happened here! In DINERS!
Amusing, but unfortunately that sort of thing happens quite a lot. I commend you for keeping your composure and not bursting out laughing. That was fun to read, I know people like that .... unfortunately.
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