Eddie’s Dining Irritations: When All the Dishes Are on the Table at Lightning Speed
Adeline loves food, lots of it and often, both at home and out. Usually that goes well, but sometimes it doesn’t. In the series Eddie’s Dining Irritations, she shares her observations. This week she needs to get something off her chest about those restaurants where you’re back outside within an hour.
Dining out is one of my main hobbies. One person joins a knitting club, another enjoys cycling; I’m into dining out. I’m already delighted during the preparations. First, I read all the reviews from beginning to end and, naturally, back again. Then I subject the menus to a comparative consumer survey. Burrata, no burrata, ooooh, a mousse of this or that. I scroll through Instagram to check what kind of chairs they have and then, of course, the real work. Calling to reserve a nice table.
No, dining out isn’t just about spooning something into my mouth. It’s a process. That’s why I find it im-pen-e-tra-ble that some people manage to get me back outside within the hour.
No, ma’am
I look forward to such a visit for days. I weigh the options on the menu against each other. I try to find the wine list online. It’s basically a bit like stalking the restaurant in question in advance. So it’s extremely disappointing when I’m rushed outside at breakneck speed. I’d much rather spend an hour or two, and sometimes even three, practising my hobby. But no, there are restaurants that want to shoo you back onto the street at lightning speed.
Have you made your choice?
You already know it’s going wrong when someone comes to ask within a nanosecond whether you’ve been able to make a choice, while the menu hasn’t even been opened yet. Not that this is necessary, because naturally I already know what to eat thanks to all my research, but still. When the bread is on the table before the order, that’s a second sign. The kitchen is stepping on the gas. This is the point at which I like to sabotage things by ordering only a starter first, but they often don’t fall for that. “No, ma’am, that’s not how we do things here.”
Damn. Then you know: within five minutes they’ll slide the starter under my nose. After they clear the plates, you try to slow them down just a little by murmuring that they can certainly wait a good fifteen minutes before serving the main course. But no one can temper the chef’s pace. And within an hour, with the last bite of chocolate mousse still lodged in your molar, you’re already standing forlornly outside again.
Old hag with a hobby
Why? Why? It’s just like those crappy shifts; they ruin your entire evening out. There’s someone standing next to your chair again, tapping their foot as they wait to take your place. Just give me that old-fashioned evening out again, where they only mop you out the door around midnight. Or am I becoming a sentimental old hag with a hobby?
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