Steph, Paddy and me had a late lunch at Ask Pizza in Petersfield. Even though it was past 2 by the time we got there, the place was rammed full (weÂ’d already been to Pizza Express and been put off by the long queue. Pizza is very popular in Petersfield.) Even at Ask we were told itÂ’d be 15 minutes before a table was ready, so we took a seat on some sofas by the bar and waited.
As we settled down, a sullen-faced middle-aged man approached the bar. “Any time you are ready with those coffees,” he huffed sarcastically. His cheeks were flushed (whether through anger or through 35 years of drinking, I’m not sure) and he was reacting as if the late arrival of his post-lunch beverage was on a par with the worst excesses of Nazi Germany. Admittedly I hadn’t seen how he’d been treated in the restaurant, but I felt whatever had happened to him, it couldn’t have been so bad as to elicit such exasperation.
There was something unpleasant and arrogant and a bit shifty in his appearance. He had that sort of Jeremy Clarkson sneering face that you immediately just want to punch. In fact, thinking about it, he looked quite like a Jeremy Clarkson who had been severely facially beaten. Surely it was too much to ask that this was who it actually was.
He had a face that was very much the shape of a potato. Of course, potatoes come in all shapes. This potato was in the shape of the face of a pompous man with eyes which had become perpetually small and slitty due to his continual diffidence towards the world and its general refusal to treat him as if he was the most important thing in it.
He was clearly complaining in a loud and self-important voice to let everyone else in the restaurant know how aggrieved he was at this outrageous treatment. Certainly at least one of his uninvited audience was thinking “Twattish tosser”, but I can only speak for myself. Maybe the others thought he was really cool. Or maybe not.
The restaurant was clearly busy and the staff seemed to be working as hard as they could. But perhaps time would show us that the man was right to be so pissed off.
A few minutes later and we were still waiting for our table, the man trounced back up to the bar, theatrically and wearily sighing, “Can I have the bill?”
The teenage waiter who had been serving him, possibly foolishly or possibly for the craic, politely said, “Did you enjoy your meal, sir?”
“No!” came the blunt and sing-song response.
Once again we were forced to be unwilling witnesses to the tragedy of the potato-faced manÂ’s life, and despite ourselves we couldnÂ’t help paying attention.
“Well lets’ just say I didn’t enjoy the service,” he continued.
“I’m sorry to hear that sir. What was the problem?”
“Well for a start, you forgot to bring us our desserts….” (so presumably everything had been OK up to then. Not as bad as I had been anticipating.)
“I didn’t forget,” said the lad, a little too abruptly, finally losing the veneer of politeness.
“Yes you did,” insisted the curmudgeon, “and you certainly forgot the coffees.”
Was that it? Was that all that had happened to cause this discontent? Surely the chef had also accidentally flambéed his baby?
The rude man signed his credit card receipt with a self-regarding flourish (IÂ’m guessing there wasnÂ’t a tip) and left the restaurant mumbling his disapproval. And behind him trailed his dining companion, who I had not seen up until now. It was a small, sad-eyed eight year old girl. She looked as if she was so used to this behaviour that was beyond embarrassment. She followed him dutifully, but her presence just made the outburst seem even more inappropriate. If this had been a high-powered business lunch and there was an important meeting to get to, then maybe snideness and rudeness would be called for. But a Saturday lunch with your small daughter? Surely you could relax a bit. You might not want to act like a pillock, just to give your child the impression that you werenÂ’t one.
When heÂ’d left the mood in the room noticeably lifted and there was an audible chuckle from the diners and staff.
