Cheers to the winners in the North East Chef and Restaurant of the Year competition.
Since eatooteries are my favourite hobby, I’ll be visiting them a’ soon.
Meanwhile, comedian James Corden has made a clown of himsellie. A restaurant owner banned him after accusing the London loon of bullying and abusive behaviour towards staff, when his wife found a bittie white in her egg-yolk omelette. No joke. The ban was lifted when the Gavin and Stacey star apologised.
Just goes to show what some folk in the catering industry have to put up with. I’ve seen it from both sides. When things go wrong, it’s all a matter of how you complain and how you apologise.
As a teenager, I was probably the waitress from hell. Never fully mastering the devilish art of French service, at a wedding in the Royal Hotel, I cowped a tray of roast beef gravy doon the pink-jacketed back of the bride’s mother.
At a coach-parties hotel on Loch Lomond, when the new folk took their seats for dinner, me and the kirn of other daft quines sussed oot who would be the biggest tippers, then tanked to get to their tables. One morning, while serving dozens of time-limited breakfasts, I contrived to slither a peer mannie’s soft-poached egg slap onto his spaver. Ordering me to the kitchen, the humiliated heid waiter executed the messy removal.
No gourmets we, on a romantic weekend in Paris, my first hubby and I foolishly dared this extortionate and utterly parfait Montmartre cafe. Him a hyper-fussy eater and the entire menu written in deepest French, I chose the lamb for both, since “agneau” was the only word I understood.
Anticipating a juicy rack or shank, the plates put in front of us; big, white, rutted, creamy dome, swimming in milky sauce. I protested, parroting “agneau” to the mystified garcon. Then he pointed to the word I hadn’t understood on the menu: “cerveau”. Mon dieu. Lamb indeed – its brain.
Am I the diner from hell?
With age has come my being super picky – well, that’s what friends and family tell me. I’m fussy about the table. If I don’t like somewhere, I indicate where I want to be, usually much to the embarrassment of my companions. But, they don’t complain when, instead of being scrunched awa’ in a pokey corner near the lavvie, we’re by a window in the main drag.
My quine hisses with horror when I signal for attention. Sez I’m soo rude. Tough
OK, hands up, I get impatient if the service is slow. Show me to my seat, then come straight back for our drinks order, please. Don’t leave me missing the conversation because I’m so intent on flagging doon a passing server.
My quine hisses with horror when I signal for attention. Sez I’m soo rude. Tough. That’s just me making my eating oot experience perfection. Or am I… the diner from hell?
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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