Newest Archives Contact Guestbook Profile Photos Host

2005-07-11

So, Thursday. I went out with Glenn, who complains that I don�t mention him enough on my website. (Glenn, for your information, runs like a girl. Now, Glenn, would you like me to mention you some more? �That�s what I thought.) We went to �A Fistful of Tacos�, the local Mexican restaurant, which is a bit of a fixture around town � everyone in Southsea has either worked there or knows somebody who has, or does; it�s not uncommon to hear people reminiscing fondly about their happy tequila-sodden days at �Fistful�. Glenn�s endearingly eccentric (read: completely barmy, but we love him) housemate Jim has been a chef (read: taco assembler) at Fistful for the past eight years. Glenn had quarrelled with Jim the night before, which resulted in a huge helping of free fajitas on Thursday and a resolution on Glenn�s part to yell at Jim more often. Anyway. I started off the evening with a few innocent Coronas and a determination to behave like a civilised person for once in my goddamn life, but once you put a beer in my hand I�m like a perpetual motion machine: I drink until someone or something makes me stop, like last orders or a beefy bouncer or alcohol poisoning. (Actually now that I think of it I�ve never had alcohol poisoning, nor have I ever been thrown out of a bar. This amazes me. I must have an Irish guardian angel.) I was somewhat justified in making excessively merry, however, as former-flatmate Andy showed up looking very shaken: his daughter works on Edgware Road and when the bombs went off he�d been unable to get in touch with her for three hours. She was meant to have been on one of the trains that were hit, but she�d taken the day off. So, you know, beer. And another beer or two for good measure, followed by some beer.

The place was chocker and woefully understaffed, alas for the waitstaff, but huzzah for me, as this resulted in my witnessing one of the best mental meltdowns in recorded history, and getting free beer. Wow! How�s this, you ask? Well, I�d gone up to the bar with Andrea to order drinks, as you do. After a wait of several aeons, the harried waitress scurried behind the bar to take our orders. Andrea ordered two meals and two drinks, for Glenn and herself, and I ordered a beer. �Is this all together?� the waitress asked.

�No, I�m paying for my beer separately,� I said.

�Uh, OK, I�ll just ring through the food first.�

Glenn overheard this and ran (girlishly) up to the bar. He handed four pounds to the waitress. �That�s for my potato skins,� he said, and returned to the table.

The waitress looked mildly perplexed at this, but soldiered on. �OK,� she said. �The food comes to ten pounds twenty. Do you mind if I ring through the drinks afterward?�

�No, that�s fine,� said Andrea, and handed over a twenty-pound note. �That�s for the rest of the food then.�

At this point the waitress froze. She looked at the twenty-pound note in one hand, and the four pounds in the other. �So��

�The four pounds is for the potato skins,� said Andrea. �The twenty pounds is for the rest.�

�Um�� said the waitress. She continued to stare fixedly at the open cash drawer. �How much do I owe you then? I�m sorry, we�re just really understaffed and I�m completely stressed.�

�That�s fine,� said Andrea reassuringly. �Just take off the four pounds, and then I�m paying for the rest.�

�I�m sorry, I don�t understand,� said the waitress, beginning to look slightly twitchy. �Can you just tell me how much to give you?� (Whatever�s in the till, I thought.)

�OK, what was the total again?� said Andrea. The waitress shook her head dumbly. She looked helplessly at the kitchen chits she�d written, which of course had no prices listed on them.

�Look, I really don�t know,� she said, becoming visibly distressed. �I just�please, can I just�I�m going to cry in a second. Can you just tell me how much I owe you? I really have to�� she clutched her face in her hands and crouched down behind the bar. I cradled my beer protectively and took a step backwards.

Andrea was a pillar of calm. She rushed behind the bar to comfort the waitress, then put the twenty pounds in the till herself and extracted some change (a completely random amount, I suspect). The food orders were sent to the kitchen, and the waitress toddled unsteadily off. I opened my mouth for a moment to say, �I haven�t paid for my beer yet!� but thought better of it, for the waitress�s sake really � I didn�t think she was up to such complex transactions yet. Better give her a few minutes, I thought. Not surprisingly, those few minutes stretched into�well, forever, unless the World�s Stupidest Waitress has the wherewithal to remember the error and track me to my home, which I somehow doubt. A few rounds later a similar incident occurred (with no crying this time, more�s the pity), something to do with �Just take the drinks now and I�ll cash them in later� (we are friends of the staff, after all); of course �later� failed to materialise. It was like a Mexican Never-Never Land of free drinks. Ole!

Being drunk, as I then was, and having the brains of a hitchin� post, as I always do, I thought it would be a good idea to make the acquaintance of a fellow who was wandering around the place with a wooden pole in a carrying case (to protect the stick from injury, I presume?). After the predictable comedic potential of the stick had been exhausted (turned out it was some sort of martial arts implement), I ascertained that the gentleman was North American � well, he was born in the UK and had moved to California when he was twelve, and then back to the UK at twenty-one. When he spoke to me, he had a typical �rad, dude� California-surfer accent, but when he spoke to anyone English, he switched instantly and completely back to an English accent. It was disorienting, a bit like talking to someone with multiple personalities; except this guy didn�t even have one personality. He was a brainless twit with a chip on his shoulder looking for an excuse to wield his pole. He nearly picked two fights in the two hours of our acquaintance � when I heard him yell at a passing drunk, �Your Dad must have been an astronaut, 'cause you should�ve been shot into space!� I decided it was time to go home.

previous | next