First impressions

imagine living with that.....
......let alone having to serve it for two hours.

"Hi, how are you?" asked the cheeky chappie waiter with no hint of the sarcasm or weariness that normally envelopes such a question.

No really! My mood was good.

"Fine....this your menu is it?" replied the stern looking man wearing a purple polo shirt with tan coloured blazer and what could only be described as matching tan hued Farrah-esque slacks. Rodney Dangerfield minus the humour. He was rifling through the carefully stacked and tidy menus like he was was searching for a shirt in his size. He could have just lifted the one on top, like any normal person would do.

Idiot.

I couldn't cope with working in a clothes shop. All that rifling and flinging would have me beside myself with anger, my developing OCD/anal retentiveness wouldn't be able to cope.

I handed him a copy of the menu saying,

"Yes sir that is indeed our menu." I resisted the urge to tell him it was actually a menu shaped goat, "Look here's it little goaty beard you buffoon." As I get older I realise my capacity to deal with moronic questions is becoming less and less.

He glanced at it without any sign of emotion or sign of approval. I wasn't looking for any "whoopdy doo's" or anything like that but most people make some sort of facial expression when they see something they like.

"Right, table for two" he barked with more than a hint of 'chop chop' to it.

I didn't like this guy. I didn't like the way he was dressed, apart from golfers and Coco the bloody Clown who would have? I didn't like his manner or demeanor. I am quick to judge, yes, but I'm almost always right. He was a tool, a finger snapper, an "expert", a gruff old fucker with too much time on his hands but not enough patience.

"Fuck you." I thought

"And do we have reservations this evening sir?" I asked knowing full well he didn't.

"Reservations? No good grief do we really need them." This reply only furthered my belief that was indeed a tool.

"No, no I think I have a table left, let me see. Ah yes just here sir." And pointed at the one table remaining, with a charming view of both the toilets and the door. A wonderful little table for sure.

Ha!

"Here? Beside the toilets? Have you nothing else?"

"Nope......all reserved sir."

Ha!

"Right then." He huffed, I smirked.

"And maybe sir would like a drink whilst you are waiting for your friend?"

"She's not my friend, she's my wife."

Charmer.

"Indeed sir, so a drink then?"

"No, no drink....yet."

And off I popped. Ludicrously dressed gruff old men - 0, waiters with full reservation books - 1. The exchange had been witness by one of the chefs who was busying himself by getting a cup of tea and generally hanging about the restaurant floor.

"Looks like fun" he whispered at me.

"Oh fuck hell yes" I replied "He's gonna complain about something, mark my words."

"I'll tell the rest" and off he went to warn the rest of the kitchen. Within moments there was a buffet of chefs (see what I did there?) hanging round the coffee machine all pretending to get tea whilst sizing up the problem child. Each arrived at the same impression as the first, "Looks like a cunt".

Indeed.

His wife was lovely, well dressed, pleasant, every inch the perfect guest. I watched them as they perused the menu. She pointed out this and that, he whinged and shook his head. She was trying hard to make the best of their night out. He was trying. Very trying.


I took their order in the cheeriest manner I could muster. Both her and I were really trying to compensate for his petulant behaviour. "Don't want that. Don't like that. Why haven't you got...blah blah fucking blah."

A short while later I served their starters. I watched them, she did everything but rub her tummy and go, "Yummy". He picked and pushed and grumped. I wanted to slap the big jelly faced sourpuss.

"So did we enjoy those?" I asked with baited breath.

"Oh mine was just lovely." Replied the lovely lady.

Nothing from bizarro Dangerfield. I asked again, as much to rile him as to satisfy my curiosity.

"It was dry, that's all, just too dry."

"The bread and oils were too dry sir? Ooooooookay then I'll let chef know."

Add oil to bread, it ain't that hard dilbag.

Main course served. Again I watched. Again she made lovely noises and smiled and looked frightfully happy. And again he moaned. He was, "disappointed" over all but couldn't say specifically why. I pushed him a little further.

"Well if you really must know....."

I must.

"....not enough ginger. You must tell the chefs to use real ginger not...[pause]...not fake ginger."

"Fake ginger sir?"

"Fake ginger" he insisted.

What the fuck was fake ginger? Was it made by the same people who make fake DKNY Handbags and what have you? Was there really a black market in counterfeit herbs and spices and that sort of thing? I went to see chef forthwith! The chef replied...

Well I cant really write what chef replied, this is a family blog and there maybe kids reading. But suffice to say there were threats, including advice were Bizarro Dangerfield could put, or rather, shove his fake ginger. And there was swearing, oh so much swearing.

I returned to the table armed only with sweet menus and minus the box of ginger that chef "suggested" I bring to the table.

"Now, would we like some sweets this evening?" I was really enjoying myself!

"I will..." said the lovely lady "....he'll probably just bloody complain." And with that she lifted her bag and went out for a smoke!

Fantastic! Take that daddy-o!

What was left of the meal was conducted in silence save for me and her chatting about tourists and other nonsense. The more we spoke the more he huffed. After a while I brought the bill.

"Give it to him, he's bloody paying."

"Yes madam, certainly!" I was grinning like a cat on speed.

"Oh and leave a damn good tip, he deserves it for the way you carried on tonight."

"You were lovely, thank you!" She held my hand, and her cigarettes, as she got up to leave. And in almost the same breath she turned to Bizzaro Dangerfield and said,

"Hurry up you....." but politeness took over and she just pursed her lips at him. I wonder what she was about to call him.....

First impressions eh, normally right.