Published The Advocate, April 2, 2005
THIS is not a restaurant review. More of a rant. I took a couple of people to Sunday lunch at a Coastal restaurant, which had been recommended by a colleague who, from the size of him, looked as if he might know a thing or two about dining out. A waitress showed us to a table and, apparently considering her job done, never came back our way again. There seemed to be more than enough staff to cope with the number of customers. Yet we sat there being ignored. Perhaps the staff had taken an instant dislike to us. It could happen and I would understand. Ten minutes passed. Eventually we snagged a passing waiter and persuaded him to take our food and drink order. He, too, never returned although he did put in the drink order. From our table we could actually see the drinks we ordered sitting on a tray across the room. There was frosty condensation on the glasses. Another 10 minutes went by. For goodness sake, bring the customers a drink so at least they are made to feel welcome. More time passed. Our meals came one at a time from the kitchen. Only when all three had been delivered did yet another waitress finally bring the drinks. The glasses, no longer frosted, sat in a pool of melt water at room temperature. Yet the waitress had an bright air of triumph as if she expected to be congratulated. I thought my companions were going to have a seizure. It raises the question: Which is more important in a restaurant, the food or the service? Personally, I can cope with food that is passable if unremarkable, which it was in this case, but not with incompetent service. I am not saying Coastal restaurant standards should be at the Michelin Guide level of France where a three star rating is the ultimate accolade. Three star chefs have been known to suicide on losing a star. No-one in this restaurant was going to die of burnout except my guests, who by the time the meals arrived wanted to leave. Afterwards it was suggested to me that the restaurant’s usual front-line staff had been away attending a food festival somewhere and emergency fill-ins were being used, as if that were an excuse. Alright, here’s the deal: If the main staff are away and fill-ins have to be used, then the meal prices should be reduced to reflect the lower standard of service. But of course that will never happen, will it? As we left, the electronic EFTPOS machine ran out of paper. After being kept queuing for 15 minutes while staff searched for a new roll without success, we were asked to pay in cash. The three of us managed to scrape together just enough money and we will never return there. I only wish the experience was a rare lapse but frankly I keep coming across the same level of slack service more often than not across the Coast. Perhaps it’s me.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Published The Advocate, March 26, 2005
LET me tell you something about my sister Jennifer: As a kid, whenever we visited someone’s house for the first time, she made a bee-line for the toilet. It was a reflex action. Walk through a front door and she was immediately stimulated to have a wee. The family joke was that every time we drove past roadworks, seeing the concrete drain pipes by the side of the road always made Jen cross her legs. Here’s another thing: She turns 50 next month, and will not thank me for telling tales. When she turned 49, Jen went to see a naturopath to have her spirits revved up. I do not know why Jen, a qualified nurse, decided alternative medicine was a better option than all her medical training. Then again, she has always put shredded carrot in her hamburger mince. She said the naturopath attached an electrode to her forehead and another one to her big toe. The readout showed she had the muscle tone of a 91 year old, which sounds worrying unless you happen to be 91. She bought 2kg dumbbells - hardly enough to make a difference, one would have thought, but she could not lift anything heavier – and went powerwalking carrying one in each hand. She also went on one of those high protein, no carbohydrate diets that she swears has worked although it is difficult to tell from behind. My other sister Maureen went and had the same electrode test. She had the muscle tone of a 41 year old – not bad for her 46 years – but she also was found to have some mysterious problem with fluid retention, about which I wish to know nothing. The sisters were here recently with our mother and I took them to Cradle Mountain. An $5 million sewerage system had just been announced which I thought would interest Jen. On the way home we dropped into the Bischoff Hotel at Waratah for lunch. Maureen and I ordered the Bischoff Burger with The Lot while mum and Jen ordered the tuna patties – Jen without chips for her protein diet. There was lots of chiacking with Jen about the upcoming birthday milestone and her advancing years, about ``nana naps’’ and ``senior’s moments’’. Not that I can talk. To change the subject, Jen told a joke about the Blow-Up Boy who went on a frenzied knife attack, stabbing the Blow-Up Principal, the Blow-up School and finally himself. Recovering in hospital, the Blow-up Principal told the Blow-Up Boy: ``You haven’t just let me down, you’ve let down your school but worst of all you’ve let yourself down.’’
Jen laughed like a drain but no-one else did. Her sense of humour has always been different. ``Who’s the one didn’t want chips?’’ the hotel waitress asked, chuckling and eyeing the tuna patties, which had been deep fried. ``There’s less fat in them burgers – I made ‘em myself.’’ Jen blanched and headed to the toilet again. For her birthday I’m thinking of giving her incontinence pads.
LET me tell you something about my sister Jennifer: As a kid, whenever we visited someone’s house for the first time, she made a bee-line for the toilet. It was a reflex action. Walk through a front door and she was immediately stimulated to have a wee. The family joke was that every time we drove past roadworks, seeing the concrete drain pipes by the side of the road always made Jen cross her legs. Here’s another thing: She turns 50 next month, and will not thank me for telling tales. When she turned 49, Jen went to see a naturopath to have her spirits revved up. I do not know why Jen, a qualified nurse, decided alternative medicine was a better option than all her medical training. Then again, she has always put shredded carrot in her hamburger mince. She said the naturopath attached an electrode to her forehead and another one to her big toe. The readout showed she had the muscle tone of a 91 year old, which sounds worrying unless you happen to be 91. She bought 2kg dumbbells - hardly enough to make a difference, one would have thought, but she could not lift anything heavier – and went powerwalking carrying one in each hand. She also went on one of those high protein, no carbohydrate diets that she swears has worked although it is difficult to tell from behind. My other sister Maureen went and had the same electrode test. She had the muscle tone of a 41 year old – not bad for her 46 years – but she also was found to have some mysterious problem with fluid retention, about which I wish to know nothing. The sisters were here recently with our mother and I took them to Cradle Mountain. An $5 million sewerage system had just been announced which I thought would interest Jen. On the way home we dropped into the Bischoff Hotel at Waratah for lunch. Maureen and I ordered the Bischoff Burger with The Lot while mum and Jen ordered the tuna patties – Jen without chips for her protein diet. There was lots of chiacking with Jen about the upcoming birthday milestone and her advancing years, about ``nana naps’’ and ``senior’s moments’’. Not that I can talk. To change the subject, Jen told a joke about the Blow-Up Boy who went on a frenzied knife attack, stabbing the Blow-Up Principal, the Blow-up School and finally himself. Recovering in hospital, the Blow-up Principal told the Blow-Up Boy: ``You haven’t just let me down, you’ve let down your school but worst of all you’ve let yourself down.’’
Jen laughed like a drain but no-one else did. Her sense of humour has always been different. ``Who’s the one didn’t want chips?’’ the hotel waitress asked, chuckling and eyeing the tuna patties, which had been deep fried. ``There’s less fat in them burgers – I made ‘em myself.’’ Jen blanched and headed to the toilet again. For her birthday I’m thinking of giving her incontinence pads.
