Upset Patron

I have been in London on serious business for the past ten days. I denote serious as my liver is communicating to me in various ways, most too shocking to mention in a blog that is read by children. Suffice to say my liver has gone to defcon 7.

Mrs. BB rocks up for the weekend. We are flying under the radar as it is our anniversary and we do not wish to see friends. Rather, we cherish the time we get to spend together, especially when it is alone! This happens all too infrequently!

I have booked a table at an excellent fish restaurant. We are persuaded to change the booking by a good friend’s new man who is in the know. Scott’s is THE place NOW for fish. It is a newly refurbished restaurant with a long heritage in the fish trade.

I attend to the re-booking with my usual and healthy level of scepticism though I am happy to get a table on a Saturday night at such short notice. Years of working away and client entertaining have turned me into a hardened critic of transportation, accommodation, and eating establishments. Ditto for Mrs BB.

You do not want to be on the end of a poor service proposition if we are flying in team formation.

We arrive. The signals from the outset are disturbing. The Maitre De, waiting staff and bus mooches have stiff postures indicating that most have something large stuck up their arses. The restaurant is heaving and the wait borders on tedium.

As we tuck into lifeless starters, the table next to us are complaining for the Nth time. One of theirs has not received his main. Desert has been served to the rest of his party. Shocking!

My main course is a road accident. I am keen to draw this to the attention of anyone on staff. Hailing a NY cab in a blizzard is easier. In the end, I am uninterested and enjoy the Montrachet, the best thing on the table, next to Mrs BB.

We laugh. We are having a wonderful evening in each other’s company despite the food. The deco ambiance is hypnotic. It is 1939 in black and white. We are too tired pick a fight. Life is too short. We enjoy more of the wine and each other’s company.

Removing an almost uneaten plate 30 minutes after I have downed cutlery, the waiter says nothing. I ask for the bill. I have nothing else to say. There is nothing else to say. I will never be back. I will rubbish the restaurant at every opportunity. C’est la vie.

It will not survive London unless it ups its game. Once the weekend sub-urbanites (bridge and tunnel people) move on, they are fucked. This is a sign of the Michelin Dog in its ascendency. A laudable ambition but with a pretention devoid of professional talent that has already been blinded by an early false success.

Dogs don’t shine.

Beaverboosh