Today has been the culmination of a weekend from hell and, frankly, I've earned the right to moan about it. It began last night with a trip to a bar that, fortunately for it, will remain nameless. It is renowned for showcasing new acts and performance art apparently. I found this out in hindsight as I ended up being a prop.
In-between the acts which included a guy on piano singing mini-monologues and other musical interludes, two women in leotards prepped the stage with tables and tablecloths, placed on top of which were a selection of fresh cakes and biscuits. They then encouraged people to join the feast on-stage if you happened to be handed a paper plate (which I was). Gamely, I went onstage and began a conversation with those sat next to me. All of a sudden, a mammoth food fight erupted and before I could react, a massive cake came plummeting towards my face and body. I had, up to that point, looked immaculate, and now I was covered in mousse, chocolate and sponge. I had a complete humour breakdown over the supposed "arty" student-style performance that thought it was something more. I flipped.
I waited momentarily whilst the others fled and took a huge great cake and approaching the person who'd instigated it all, went right up to them when they happened to be addressing the crowd and proceeded to plough it into their mask - to much approval from the mass of onlookers. Encouraged, I then quickly exited stage only to see the smug MC looking on. I was so fed up, I wiped my face with a towel which was by now covered in cake, and I chucked it at their face too.
I was on a warpath and demanded to see the manager who I summoned outside. I then laid in to him about the cost of my clothes, his poor taste in acts, and the need to develop a better understanding of health and safety, as well as under-estimating the reaction of his punters. I demanded free drinks (and got them) and that the cost of my dry cleaning bill would be met (he agreed). I've since put the coat into the dry cleaners and it's going to take a fortnight to clean at a cost of £45.
His explanation over what happened was that he didn't want to have any limits over who he had on-stage, but I said it wasn't very big, nor clever to have a food fight and plummet your clientele with patisserie. I smelt like a bakery when I left, I was absolutely livid. I might as well of stuck a cherry on top of my head, just to complete the look.
Phone ringing - hang on.
And guess who that was? Only the manager of the bar. He had obtained my number because I left a fuming message on the answerphone threatening the police with cries of "assault" last night. It might sound OTT, but my friend had observed that the skin around my eye had been cut - no doubt as a result of the gateau-led fracas.
In essence, he said he was sorry, he'll "make a fuss" of me next time I'm in with free entry, unlimited guests, and rounds of drinks. In defence, he mentioned that he doesn't want to limit the performances that take place there and that they are often unpredictable. It was just unfortunate that I got the rough end of the stick, but he'll learn from the experience - so he tells me. That's fair enough, I'm not one to hold a grudge and to an extent, I could understand his reasoning.
However, today, thinking that my troubles were behind me and planning a more restrained approach to the day, I decided to buy some Sunday papers and head for the pub to order a Sunday roast. Not a lot can go wrong there, I thought.
How wrong I was.
So off I trotted to Tesco's and with papers in hand, I decided to try the pub in the area that constantly bombards its customers with quotes hailing the "best roasts in town". In I went, and to the bar-woman I mentioned my intention to purchase a roast.
"We only do roasts here" she said. "That's good, because I would like one" I replied, adding "beef please".
"And what would you like to drink sir?". Thinking about the night before, I answered "I think I'll just have a BLACK tea". She then went, "do you want it white or black?". "Er, black thank you" I replied.
Anyway, I found my seat and opened my papers to be presented with a WHITE tea. Politely, I pointed out that I had ordered a black tea, and off she went again, whilst I returned to my papers.
Suddenly the meal arrived, containing alien-meat that looked like something out of Torchwood and gravy, as if it had been poured from a kitchen tap. I can let most things pass, so I smothered everything with mint sauce to mask the flavour, and actually the vegetables were edible enough. I then attempted the two slices of "meat", which were so tough they resembled rubber soles and infact, I suspect a good vet could have resurrected them.
Noticing what resembled a chef standing at the bar, I decided to discreetly ask for a steak knife to ease the burden of cutting through the meat. The chef picked up on my disattisfaction and mentioned that it was a "topside cut" and he'd done it "rare", implying that this may have been why it was so tough? In my mind, rare usually means reddish in colour and the meat was so brown, it was practically singed.
Regardless, I took the new instrument and attempted the ordeal again, only to be met with point blank refusal from the meat's point of view. I then gave up and returned to my paper. The highly observant waitress who noticed after a huge length of time had elapsed that I had left half of my lunch, then came over to ask if everything was alright.
"Erm" I replied, "the meat was rather tough. I don't want to create a scene as the chef is standing over there, and the rest was okay, so I'd be prepared to pay for half of the £10 price-tag". She seemingly agreed to this, disappearing again and then, nothing.
Eventually I noticed the chef was staring in my direction. I looked up from my paper as his eyes were literally burning holes in my head, thinking that he may have been looking beyond me, but no, it was definitely me he was eyeing. As this is rather distracting when one is trying to read, I asked if he had a problem, to which he replied that he did, as I'd had the audacity, would you believe, to complain about his food.
In my defence I mentioned that I was a paying customer and I was well within my rights to complain if I wasn't happy, but he invited me to come up and criticise him in-person. I took this as an idle threat, so I responded by saying that I would not communicate through him, but only the manager. The manager then ushered him away into the kithen/pit to slap his wrists. One of the girls behind the bar lip-whispered a "sorry".
I stopped a little longer, expecting that I might get a proper apology, or even the remainder of my money returned, but of course it never arrived. Fed up, I eventually approached the manager myself who pretended initially not to hear me coming, and I told him what I thought of his unprofessional chef. He of course, pretended to be sympathetic but in reality couldn't wait to see the back of me. I thought for a fraction of a second about saying something like "it's unfortunate for this place that I'm a restaurant critic" before leaving, but I resisted it. Needless to say, I ain't going back.
I've now locked the door to my flat as bad luck has a habit of coming in threes. Just in case the JCB digger outside comes hurtling through my first floor window. This is the same JCB digger that woke me up at 8am this morning, coupled with drilling that didn't cease until 2 hours later. Can't wait for work tomorrow, it sounds like the safest place for me, and let's face it, weekends are overrated.
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