My Dinner With Andre

Ultimately, I blame my buddy Raj.  If he and his wife hadn't decided to have a baby then his wife--who also happens to be our office admin assistant--wouldn't be away on maternity leave and I wouldn't have had to deal with a substitute secretary when I made arrangements to visit a client.

There is a standard 'corporate' hotel where my colleagues stay when visiting this particular town, but my tastes favor less auspicious accommodations and I tend to spend my time at the more inexpensive, yet infinitely more interesting, facilities on the far side of the railroad tracks.  Explaining this idea to the nice young woman sitting at the secretary's desk, however, seemed too much of a hassle, so I simple told her to book a room for me.  This was why, after the usual five hour drive through the (naturally) wet and wild Welsh countryside, I found myself standing--dripping and disheveled--at the reception desk of an unfamiliar and rather more intimidating hotel than I am used to finding at the far end of my journey.

It was after eight o'clock in the evening and I was simply hoping to make it to the bar in time to grab a bag of nuts for dinner when the receptionist asked if I wanted to reserve a table in their restaurant.  Surprised that such a thing was possible, I said, "Yes."

I knew I was in trouble the moment I looked through the door and saw napkins folded into the shape of fans perched at every place setting.  The tablecloths were linen, the rug, Burberry.  The hostess spotted me loitering uncertainly near the entrance and escorted to the 'too sad to have a date' section and seated me, conveniently near the kitchen, in the 'too sad to have a date and, by the look of him, is probably a recent felon or, worse, a foreigner' sub-section.  In her defense, this was probably the only seat she had for me; you would be amazed how packed a huge dinning room like that can be at such a late hour.  Then she walked away, her footsteps echoing off the plush carpet, leaving me alone in a sea of cream linen.

My table, to accentuate the fact I was companionless, hosted a single (albeit, tasteful) place setting.  I was just beginning to wonder if the lone candle standing sentry in the center of the otherwise empty expanse was supposed to be symbolic when a waitress appeared, unfurled my fan and spread the napkin over my lap.  I have never in my life had a woman place a napkin in my lap and I can't say I found the experience enjoyable; I couldn't help thinking she only did it to keep me from stuffing one corner of it down my shirt collar and using it for a bib.

When taking my order, she asked which appetizer I wanted as if it were a requirement, so I ordered the salmon to start and real meat for the main event.  I couldn't imagine what the finance department was going to make of my hotel bill; usually, if I submit a food receipt at all, it is for a bucket of the Colonel's finest and/or a few pints of lager from the hotel bar.  Here, a single entree cost more than my wife and I spend on an average night out.  They were likely to think I bunked off and sent an imposter to the meeting in my stead.

I refused bread when she offered; it's not free here like it is in the States, and I was sure it would cost at least as much as I had spent on petrol.  Then, feeling like I had cheaped out, I ordered wine.

The appetizer arrived, and was arranged in such a cunning fashion it was almost a shame to eat it.  But I did.  It was so good it made me ponder the benefits of dining on food not served by teenagers wearing hairnets and nametags.  Then the main course appeared.  I had the lamb, who I named Andre (so I could justify nicking the avant-garde movie title as a tag for this article), and a variety of fresh vegetables.

My meal was straight out of the 'Nuevo Cuisine as Modern Art' instruction manual and I think it was meant to depict a medieval Welch croft.  The cooked meat and mashed potatoes appear to have been sculpted to resemble a hovel, the carrots were vaguely sheep shaped and milling about my plate, as sheep do, not bunched together as one would expect of better behaved carrots, and my string beans were bundled like kindling sticks, bound with a ribbon of spinach.  I'm sure this alone added ten quid to the bill, but I didn't allow that to detract from my pleasure of Andre's company.

Dinner, as a whole, was delicious.  If you could package it in a bucket for £3.99 you could give McDonald's a hell of a run for their money.

My coffee arrived, which I ordered, along with a small cube of … something, which I did not.   Whatever it was, it had the color of butterscotch pudding and was the size and consistency of those gum erasers you find in the more upscale art classes, and probably cost a fiver.  I considered eating it, but ultimately decided against it in case it was a cleverly disguised sponge or an exploding party favor.  In the end the waitress took it away without asking me if I wanted it.  She probably ate it herself as soon as she nipped into the kitchen, just so they could keep it on my bill.

I left then, before they found something else to feed me in order to ratchet the total tab up a notch.  I'm in the hotel bar now, working on my third pint and second cigar and wondering if the finance department is going to believe I merely had dinner or was secretly trying to pay off the national debt of a former Eastern Block country.

It doesn't really matter; if they complain, I'll refer them to Raj.  After all, it is his fault.