I have been eating out again. It did not go well. I wish my friends did not insist on eating out.
It’s fine to catch up, but I’d rather go for a hike with them in the open air, or just sit in the park together, with sandwiches if the weather is clement.
This was not in my home city but, when away like this, it’s comforting to see a Greggs or similar, as these institutions unite us and make us feel we are one, more than any political or religious movement might manage.
It’s just strange
But strange restaurants in strange cities only add to the feeling of, well, strangeness. They make a fellow feel uncomfortable.
Still, at least if I got thrown out, I could hightail it out of Dodge afterwards and put it all behind me.
On this occasion, I was not thrown out. I was tolerated. The first problem was that the place was packed. I am not fond of crowds, particularly indoors.
But, associated with this, was the ambient hubbub, which means I cannot clearly hear what people closer to me are saying.
It’s all right with mates. You can just say “Eh?” all the time. But, with waiters, who always seem impatient, you have to be on the ball and snappy with your answers.
You cannot just say “yes”, in the vain hope that it’s the right thing. “Would you like me to vomit in your food, sir?” “Oh, yes please!”
“Don’t know” doesn’t cut it either. “Are you Mr McNeil?” “I don’t know.”
Still, somehow we got through it, after the chappie shimmied off to fetch a loudhailer.
A sea-creature with shells on
The food was all foreign, and I opted for a fish stew as the least likely to corrupt decent ratepayers. I was reliably informed that it did not come with mushy peas.
What it did come with, unfortunately, was some sort of sea-creature with shells on. I’ve always been suspicious of this sort of thing, believing it the sort of pabulum only desperate people would eat.
Still, I forced myself to forage through it, while feeling I’d rather have a sausage roll.
I should say, too, that eating this dish might have been easier had I not dropped my spoon on the floor.
I pretended not to notice and struggled through the thick soupy goo with a fork and knife.
It didn’t get better
As always happens, I looked up at one point to find another diner smirking at me. This was some time after the spoon incident, so I don’t know what his problem was.
True, I had spilled some food down my front, as per, but surely that is normal?
To cap it all, after we’d left the joint – to great relief on my part – I found that I’d lost my glasses, and so had to go back in and force the staff to search for them, before discovering them in a fleece pocket underneath my executive-style anorak.
I apologised profusely. I was sorry I had come. They were, I’m sure, not sorry to see the back of me.
In the meantime, I am not sorry to say that my favourite restaurant remains my car, where I can eat a corned beef sandwich or sausage roll in peace without palaver.
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