Time was when the British never complained about a meal. Now we’re in danger of turning it into a particularly grotesque art form
The other evening at a very good restaurant in the north of England – I won’t be more specific, the better to protect the identities of all involved – a woman at a table near ours, having finished her main course, decided to make a complaint. Her waitress asked her if everything had been all right, and she took this, perfectly properly, as her cue. Off she went.
Her complaints were various, each one quite distinct from the other. They were also groundless (she was sitting behind me, out of sight, but I was fully tuned in, having carefully deployed my bat-like hearing at the first sign of trouble). For one thing – I twisted round to take a quick look – she’d made a good job of eating almost everything on her plate. It was like that Woody Allen joke from Annie Hall in which two elderly women at a Catskill resort discuss the food (when one says how awful it is, the other replies: “Yeah, I know – and such small portions”). For another, it’s idiotic to complain about the “cheap, fatty cut of meat” you’ve been forced to eat, when said cut of meat was “belly pork”. Restaurant goers! If it’s filet mignon you’re after, my strong advice is to order it.
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