Canna wait for Aberdeen to stage its eighth Restaurant Week next month.
Since retiring, visiting various eatooteries has become my indulgent passion. However, I know I’m not the perfect diner because I want everything to be as-close-as-dammit-perfect.
Like the table. Last week, out with two equally ancient pals to a place I booked yonks ago and was deserted when I got there. The gadgie led me to the table closest to the constantly opening and closing door (draughty) right by the waiters’ station and on the path to the kitchen.
I asked to be moved to one of the cosy-looking ones at the back. Although the place was virtually empty, he said they’d all been booked. I said I’d also booked. Ah, but, sez he, I hadn’t specified a table. So he just gave me the worst?
To add insult to my high-dudgeonry, when we left some of those tables at the back were still vacant. Ye winna be seein’ us again, sunshine.
One of my mates is horrified and gies me a right old lug-bashing when I try to attract the attention of a waiter by putting my arm up and waving. She reckons that’s the height of bad manners. Fit does she dee? Tries to catch their eye.
So, we sit there while the hairs sprout on my chin, unable to have any conversation, as she stares incessantly roon the room, raising her eyebrows and grimacing like she’s got serious constipation.
Thousands of diners will be able to try new dishes, cuisines, and venues as part of Aberdeen Restaurant Week which returns later this year for 12 days.https://t.co/vIy8k5ERml
— Evening Express (@EveningExpress) February 14, 2022
The art of complaining about food and getting some justice is all to do with timing. If you wait until you’ve polished off most of the dish, you’ve zero chunce. Speak up after the first few mouthfuls and usually you’ll get the unsuitable food righted or something else offered.
Mind you, a few weeks back at the Dutch Mill, all my rules went oot the window. The young waitress noticed I’d left most of the beef in my stroganoff. I said the sauce was divine but the meat too tough for my poor teeth. She swiped the whole dish off the bill. Now that’s what I ca’ first-class service. The girl’s a star.
A high-steaks dinner
Ah, but then that restaurant in France where I fell victim to the chef from hell. Charming place in the country, the owner was chef, waiter and washer-upper.
About 10 minutes later, Le Miserable returned bearing three obviously bloody, rare platefuls
No menu, Monsieur served what he fancied on the night. This evening it was thick rump steak with dauphinoise potatoes. Because of my blood phobia, I committed the ultimate sin of asking for mine well-done.
Judging by his wild expression when I indicated my preference, I feared this hefty heidbanger was going to nut me. Around the table you could hear the sharp intakes of: “Sssssacre…” – shock and disapproval. Off he sped.
About 10 minutes later, Le Miserable returned bearing three obviously bloody, rare platefuls. Thanks-be, he was cooking mine for longer.
Back he darted and, with what appeared to be a flourish, laid his proud platter before me. Readers, if the other steaks were rare, mine was still gamblin’ aboot on the meadows. Blood seepin’ a’wye, the white sauce from my dauphinoise blush pink.
I was cowkin’ after a couple of bouche-fuls and had to barrel ootside to spewy-lewy behind un arbre.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of The Press & Journal and started her journalism career in 1970
