Perverted anthropologist with plaid fetish = not me
Two observations this evening:
1. in this hotel room, whenever the mini-fridge activates, the table lamp dims. And vice versa, when the fridgette shudders to a halt, the lamp returns to its full effulgence.
2. before dinner, in the laughable local “fine dining” joint:
me: I’ll have a half litre of the house red please.
waitress: what’s that?
me: the house red, it’s wine.
waitress: red wine?
me: yes.
and after the first course:
waitress: are you done?
me: yeah, thanks [my plate is empty]
waitress: would you like to keep your knife and fork?
me: —
waitress: [puts knife and fork back down on table, walks off]
me: why don’t I keep the plate too?
Minutes later she’s back for my companion’s plate - but not his knife and fork. This time she’s half way back to the kitchen, bearing the full set of mess kit, when she stops, turns round, returns to our table, and deposits the greasy cutlery. What I don’t understand is that there’s nothing in this for her: the restaurant saves no money by not putting a knife and fork into the dishwasher with everything else. So she must be doing it because she thinks, as “fine diners”, we either expect it, or will be charmed by this innovation in the table service, and leave magnanimous tips as a result. Where did she get this idea? Did she grow up in a fucking army camp, or what?
Now I don’t want to live anywhere but Vancouver, don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kind of perverted anthropologist with a plaid fetish, but small town Canada: I bloody love it.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 31st, 2006 at 8:18 PM and filed under New stuff. Trackbacks are closed.
Although I can’t speak for the Canadian military in the UK we have to sort our own cutlery out, there doesn’t tend to be a waitress to hand (so to speak).
Posted on 01-Nov-06 at 5:19 am | PermalinkMy point exactly. She is not familiar with the idea of removing other people’s cutlery.
Posted on 01-Nov-06 at 7:56 pm | PermalinkThat reminds me of a couple I chatted to over breakfast in the cavernous dining room at The Albion Hotel in Brighton, in August. They’d arrived late the night before and decided to eat at the hotel. Apparently they were the only people to do so, sitting in solitary splendour in the dimly-lit, echoing restaurant. The food, they said, was as bad as you might imagine. But what tickled them most was the aghast expression on the spotty face of their juvenile waiter ‘But … but … nobody has EVER asked to see the wine list here!’.
Posted on 03-Nov-06 at 3:17 am | PermalinkBrighton has no excuse! It is supposed to hip!
Posted on 07-Nov-06 at 8:43 am | PermalinkAah, but the Albion is a relic - slightly seedy and run-down now, but massive and echoing. Coach parties of elderly people turn up for tea in the dining room on Sunday afternoons.
Posted on 08-Nov-06 at 2:57 am | PermalinkI love it.