Plettenberg Bay, Western Cape, South Africa
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Fed up with touristy fish option and Indian rubbishness, we ventured into a restaurant that caught our eye the first day we arrived but had wavered unsure of whether to splurge but decided that credit cards exist for a reason. A bit in the Victoria 1906 vein, except they positively welcomed customers, we went in even though diners were thin on the ground as we felt we should support them in their strides to raise the dining bar. It was an evening when eating out is a proper occasion, an experience, rather than merely functional though I think they may have overdone it a bit. I'm not sure what divides very polite service from becoming overly attentive service but it must be a hairbreadth. I also have a compulsion to say thank you after anything is done for me, which meant I was saying it a lot (for the unfolding of napkins, serving of bread, refilling of water, refilling of wine, clearing the course etc etc). It seemed our waiter also had a compulsion, to say 'pleasure’ after every thank you I uttered which was slowly driving me mad. I was heading for Basil Fawlty style crack up. Urgent action was needed, which mainly involved stuffing my gob full of food thereby smothering any inclination to say thank you. You see my opinion is I’d rather have a grumpy or silent waitress than someone who’s disingenuous. I’m receiving a service, I mean it when I say thanks, they’re working for a living, which most of us do out of necessity, I’m sure most of the time it’s a piggin pain in the ass.
The other odd thing was being served bread only to realise it was the chef who’d brought it out (the big white hat on his head should have given it away). When I realised this, again without even realising I was doing it, I felt it necessary to translate this into mime. Badly. I think I was trying to pretend I was frying things instead I looked like a was doing a very half hearted and poor version of the twist while sat down. He didn’t come back out again.
