Posts tagged India

Not for the girls

October 21, 2009 · Filed under Restaurants · Tagged , , , ,

To the Restaurant Show. My first time. I’ve been to other trade shows, of course; scores of them, from party political conferences to the steel industry with mass-attendance pointless versions in between. I’ve struggled round juggling collecting stuff I’ll never look at again with balancing a coat (why are they always so stiflingly airless?) on arms that get longer from bags of bumph, bored, tired, mind-dulled, wondering why I had tortured myself yet again. Not here. This felt like home.

It was early afternoon; the drinking spot was full of suits quaffing, no other point to their day. I was here to get ideas for articles and who to approach who might need crisis management training. A little snack here and there, now that would be nice, but no drink thanks. Except for small tastes.

Bombay Export beer. Now that’s a good idea. My home town on a label and I can’t resist. Bombay Sapphire stands proudly in my drinks cupboard. Alphonso mangoes arrive in March and I’m buying them by the several Bombay boxfuls at a time (the season’s so short, it’s a crime to miss any – just don’t judge me on the air miles/carbon footprint point; it is my one weakness in an otherwise shop-local, in-season world).

It’s new, I was told.  Not actually brewed in Bombay (just in the bit of Bombay that is Bradford) but based on a brew from Bombay. That works for me. And with an impressively high alcohol content. A sip of that would be lovely, I said. I put down my bags, relieved to be standing so close to heaven. They poured generously; almost half a pint swirled into a plastic (sorry) glass, frothing nicely; my nose appreciated its nose. It settled on my tongue; lovely, golden. It slithered it’s way down my throat; glowingly, slightly dark. It was good. I’m not a fan of lager, except with a curry or a Thai, but at a trade show …

What do you think? Very good indeed. It’s full in the mouth, not too light, with a hint of night on the tongue. Do you own a restaurant? No, I’m a food writer I said, slightly aspirationally. Give her two bottles, please, to take away, he said. Oh, are you sure? (I’m newish to this lark; used to freebies in restaurants but not to take away drinks). Thank you! (Ignore the heaviness; they’d be perfect on an at-home night … and they are chilling nicely, thank you.)

More stalls. Longer arms. Some vile food; some average food; a bagful of Jonathan Crisp crisps; a homely mouthful of Label Anglais chicken (I buy it from my butcher, so no surprise for me); only the ice cream (which I can’t get excited about) seemed worthy of praise.

Oh! So Shepherd Neame distributes a Chinese beer, does it? As a fan of Kirin with sashimi (no time to waste on rice in sushi; just give it to me neatly raw), this must be worth a try. Sun Lik Beer, it said. And with only one punter at the stall, this would be easier than being crushed by crowds at the Bombay Export beer stand. I smiled, trying to catch the eye of the chap behind the bar. He was talking loudly, and fast, with the punter. Guffaw! Chuckle! Guffaw! They were getting on famously. A woman, sporting the Shepherd Neame logo on her top, joined in. Raucous laughter! Banter! I moved. And moved back. Looking from one to the other. Tried to say “May I have a taste, please,” but mutual grunting drowned me out. I moved to the other side of the stall, hoping to attract the attention of the third stall-attender. He turned his back on me, started to dial on his mobile. I looked again at the first man, then the woman; no, their conversation with the punter was far more exciting; I clearly wasn’t a catch. Still I stood there, moving from foot to foot, eye to eye, hoping one of them might wake up to my potential.

As a (younger looking) middle-aged woman I might not have seemed a good prospect as a buyer. I didn’t expect them to think that I might look out for their beer (not worth plugging it’s name here again) while eating out – and written favourably about it – but surely they could see that I might be a good prospect as an orderer from a menu? Instead, I will actively avoid it. It’s clearly not for the girls.

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It’s all about the waitress …

October 21, 2009 · Filed under Restaurants · Tagged , , , , , ,

A short walk away, strangely with several Indian restaurants along the same shortcut route, I found a new Indian restaurant. Short (that’s a lot of shorts) cafeteria-style tables, a little bit of boho-chic amidst classic modernism in the decor, another single diner seemingly enjoying being there, great reviews in the window: why not give it a try?

It started well. Yes, I could sit for as long as I liked; it was open all day. And, yes, anywhere I liked; they didn’t expect to be that busy at that time of day. Poppadoms (I can never resist) and a beer arrived immediately. It’s looking good, I thought, as I opened the Independent magazine at the best bit … Mark Hix’s food column, my handbag safely tucked away from the door and out of view.

Huh! My heart leapt. My breathing stopped. Out of nowhere, plonk. A heavy menu was shove-pushed onto my paper; no introduction, no warning, no subtlety. I looked up; a girl (she was surely only a teenager) stared harshly at me but said nothing. I shook my head in astonishment. “You shocked me,” I said. “Sahry,” she said in an American drawl. Surely she could have put it slightly ahead of me with a gentle “Here’s the menu”? Did no one tell her unobtrusive service is the way to go?

The owner/manager (her boss, whatever his title) took my order. Polite, willing, a smile, an explanation. That’s more like it. I read. Suddenly, a yard away, the teenager started singing – and dancing. Uninhibitedly. A strange, unrecognisable noise; nothing to do with the restaurant, just an attempt to grab attention. What made her think listening to her – when live music was not part of the deal – was my idea of Indian-food heaven? I’m sure I looked bewildered but it had no effect. Thankfully, her exhibitionism was short-lived.

My lunch arrived. If that implies a degree of subtlety, you’re wrong. The show-off pushed it under my nose, her hands hovering above the magazine, and waited for me to move it out of the way. I looked at her quizzically, stunned into silence by her brazenness. She didn’t catch the twist in my eye or my astonished expression. “You’re lunch,” she said.

It was utterly delicious. Faultless. Richly spiced and warming; an unctuous delight. All of it, gone.  (That’s the worst bit of the meal – when there is no more to be eaten.) The owner/manager re-appeared. How was the food? Excellent, thank you. I wish I’d known about you before. We’ve been open six days, he said.

I’m not one for puds, though a mango kulfi can slip down nicely – but not today. Another beer would do it. And then perhaps another (I still had hours to kill till the theatre and didn’t need to merge with shoppers in Piccadilly Circus). I read.

Swoosh. Plonk. She’d done it again! With barely a third of the beer drunk, here was the bill. Pushed in front me between my eyes and the pages of the magazine. What! It was instinctive, rushed out, the result of yet another shock. But I’m still drinking (and may carry on doing so, I thought).  Has no one thought of training this wild child? I looked at her grimly, pointedly moved the bill off the magazine and on to the opposite end of the table, and carried on sitting, sipping and sojourning. The owner/manager re-emerged. May I stay for a bit longer, I asked. Of course, he beamed. We do not close. And, in any case, more customers had come in and were just starting to order.

That’s for you, I said pointedly, handing him the tip as I left. I turned towards the door … and  the gyrating and squawking started again. Who gave this odd girl the confidence to think that diners would want to experience her need to be the centre of attention? I resolved to ring to suggest a spot of staff training (but didn’t).

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If you’re on your own …

April 10, 2009 · Filed under Restaurants · Tagged , , , , ,

It was mid afternoon on a Saturday.  Not lunch time.  Not tea time.  But I’d been to a refreshment-free meeting in the centre of London and wanted to kill time before going to the theatre on the South Bank in the evening. And plays, as we know, start bang on supper time.  I was hungry.  Ok, I wasn’t hungry; I was greedy.  But I would be hungry if I didn’t eat.  And the heady scent of Indian spices wafted through the air, enticing me to follow my nose (and my ever-expanding stomach).

It’s a well-known chain, not my first choice intellectually (I go out of my way to find an independent restaurant, cafe, shop or trader) but the options were limited at this weird time of day.  With several tables for six to eight people, tables for four in booths, tables for two around the edge, a whole section down a few stairs of long cafeteria tables – and only six diners – I assumed I’d be allowed to sit anywhere.  I felt like sitting in a corner, or along an edge, with my handbag tucked safely out of view and space to read the Independent magazine, sipping a nimbu pani while waiting for the poppadoms to arrive.

The manager stopped me as I headed towards my intended spot.  May I sit over there?, I asked, indicating one of the booths for four.  No, that is a table for four.  Oh, is it booked?  No.  Well, I was hoping to sit there so I could read my paper while eating lunch.  No, it is a table for four.  Oh, well may I sit there, I asked pointing at a table for two along the edge, away from the door. No, that is a table for two.  I know, but !’d like to sit there if I may, so I can read my paper.  No.  Why?  It is a table for two.  But the restaurant is almost empty; surely it’s unlikely that all the tables will be taken in the next hour; it’s only half past three!  Customers might come.  I realise that.  Could I sit at that table and move if customers do come?  No, it is management policy.  What, not to allow people to eat on their own?  They must sit there.  He indicated a narrow ledge, just deep enough for a plate, and a small stool that much smaller bottoms than mine would have difficulty perching on.  There was no space for a paper, nowhere to tuck my bags out of sight, I’d have to press my handbag between my stomach and the edge of the ledge to keep it still and safe (my back would have been to the door so anyone could have rushed in, grabbed my bag and fled in a flash), and my view was directly at the door to the loos.

I tried to reason with the manager – the only person front of house – and pleaded for a proper table, on the firm promise that I’d move if customers came flooding in.  But no, it was not possible.  It was there only. Management policy. I left. I haven’t been back to Masala Zone since – and I won’t.

This story also belongs in a blog about the insulting treatment meted out to singletons in restaurants – another blog? another time-wasting opportunity for me!  But it fits here too.  Where did I go to get better treatment and satisfy my now craving-for-curry?   You’ll find out in my next post.

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