‘I have a feeling,’ said my father, ‘that this evening is not going to go well.’
We were sitting in the bar of a local fish restaurant near my parents’ home having pre-dinner drinks, and I was throwing a wobbly because my tomato juice wasn’t right.
I had arrived at the table after putting my order in as I went off to park the car, only to find a drink in a bottle called Big Tom sitting on the table. You know the drill, it’s the little things that get me.
I immediately went into one because I cannot understand why asking a bartender to make a tomato juice from scratch is considered beyond the call of duty these days. What is so arduous about opening two little bottles of Britvic, emptying them into a glass with some ice, adding a good splash of Lea and Perrins and Tabasco and stirring? Perhaps garnishing with a nice slice or two of crisp celery? Hmm?
But, no, that’s way too much trouble. They have to buy in pre-made stuff that they promise has spice already in but you can’t taste the spice. Of course you can’t. And though you try, you can’t taste the tomatoes either. All you can taste is generic red-flavoured mush.
‘Why!’ I gasped, as I slumped in front of the mush.
‘Oh lord,’ said dad.
The Builder Boyfriend turned to my father and the two of them exchanged woeful glances.
My mother didn’t flinch. ‘It’s ridiculous,’ she agreed. ‘Not being able to make a simple tomato juice properly. What is wrong with people?’
‘Exactly.’ I said. Clearly, I would need to post this trauma on Facebook. It was the only way to deal with it. I got out my iPhone but there was no reception.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to a passing waiter. ‘Do you have Wi-Fi?’
‘White wine?’ he said, passing me a wine list.
‘Wi-Fi,’ I said.
‘White wine,’ he said, pointing to the list.
‘WI…FI!’ I shouted.
My father murmured ‘Oh lord’ again. He’s an atheist but he often prays when I’m around.
‘WHIIITE WIIINE!’ the waiter shouted back, and stabbed his finger at the list.
‘WIIII-yuh! FIIII-yuh!’
‘Oh,’ he said. It turned out they hadn’t.
So sans tomato juice, sans Wi-Fi, I brooded as we ordered our food and then trooped to our table.
It was one of those chain restaurants where there is a set spiel for everything, so a waitress appeared as we sat down and said chirpily: ‘I will be your waitress for the evening!’
I felt like saying: ‘Thank heavens you told us, because I thought you were going to strip and do us a lap dance while we ate our sea bream!’ But I didn’t. She worried me. She was too chirpy. Her chirpiness had a vicious edge, as if it was ready to burst at any moment and reveal something that was the opposite of chirpy underneath.
When our starters came, it was obvious what her game plan was. My mother had asked for no grapefruit in her crab salad and I had requested crevettes on ice. Four crevettes on a huge pile of ice came, and a crab salad that was almost entirely a mound of chopped-up red chilli peppers. My mother took a mouthful and promptly started choking.
I called the waitress over. She ignored me and walked the other way. Then dad and The Builder realised they hadn’t got their bottle of ‘WHIIITE WIIINE!’ So I walked over to her as she was talking happily to customers at another table and said, very politely: ‘When you’ve got a minute, could we have a word?’
She ignored us for another five minutes then grudgingly appeared. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said, obnoxiously.
I was direct: ‘This starter is inedible and we haven’t got our wine.’
She was more direct: ‘What’s wrong with it?’
My mother took over. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but I really can’t eat all this chilli. Would you mind taking it away?’
‘What do you mean?’ she barked. ‘You asked for no grapefruit. It’s what you wanted.’
Dad and The Builder groaned because they knew the game was up, so far as my behaving myself was concerned.
‘Have you sampled this dish?’ I said.
‘There’s no need to be rude!’ she exclaimed.
‘I’m simply saying, if you haven’t tried it, with or without grapefruit, you can’t argue.’
‘That’s it!’ she squawked. ‘I’m going to get the manager!’ And she flounced off.
The four of us sat in silence like naughty schoolchildren. ‘I’ve done it now, haven’t I?’ I said. ‘We’re going to be thrown out.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said The Builder, drawing himself up. ‘If the manager gets here and takes her side, I will throw this table in the air.’
‘Oh lord,’ said my dad.
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