Perusing the menu at Zaza in Ruislip, we suddenly noticed how long we'd been sat there. On arrival, our drinks order was taken and produced within five minutes. 40 minutes later, they hadn't returned for the food.
An uncharitable murmur went round the table that it was to do with rinsing us for a higher alcohol spend. I mused whether the delay could have been because the staff knew we'd need hours to read the vast list of meals. Haven't these people watched Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares? The first rule of Eat Club is "Scale it the fuck down". I decided to leave my choice to Restaurant Tourettes and see what happened when the waitress eventually reappeared. Nevertheless, I resolved to drink no more, just in case.
The birthday boy mopped his brow. "Is it me or is it hot in here?" I sipped my wine and surreptitiously sat on a spare napkin to avoid the awkward situations an arse print can cause.
Our girl turned up. One of our party mentioned the temperature. "Oh I know! We've got those windows open behind you, though."
"We just opened those."
"There you go!"
Frowning, we ordered. I privately applauded my mouth's choice of 'Insalata Toscana' - chargrilled chicken and crispy smoked pancetta, tossed with avocado, vine ripened tomato, spinach leaves & wild rocket in a creamy Italian vinaigrette with Parmesan shavings. That'll do, pig.
Birthday boy opened his presents. I shifted around on my seat, preoccupied with my sweaty legs. The meals arrived. "Would you like some black pepper?" Why yes I would. In fact if I cannot be trusted to season my own meal, or equally the professional chef cannot be trusted to season it for me, I'd like you to grind me a little pile of it just on one side of my plate because you can't be bothered to lean over far enough. Perfecto. No, hold the Parmesan, thanks.
A green mountain, now with a volcanic flow of pepper down one side, faced me. Thin slices of avocado wilted sadly. Two rigid slices of salty pancetta looked embarrassed at the abundance of dry and distinctly un-chargrilled chicken covered in white ropes of something with the texture of mayonnaise, but no discernible flavour.
My other half was pushing some flabby Gorgonzola and walnut ravioli around a pool of split sage and butter sauce. He looked uncomprehending at it, then me, with watery eyes. "It's... split?" he whispered sadly. I ordered another wine.
Two chipper waitresses and a harassed-looking manager asked how we were at regular intervals. I remained silent. After the fourth "Everything okay?" and the mumbling had died down, our girl stopped dead, my tellingly still full plate in hand and stared at me.
"Everything okay?"
I smiled. "Food okay?"
She was calling me out! Shit fuck shit, abort abort. I smiled again. She didn't leave. I continued to smile, then made a slightly strangled noise and widened my eyes, juddering my head in what I felt to be slightly encouraging fashion. She left. I flushed with shame.
We settled up. Our sunny waitress left to get the card machine, and returned with an unexpected plate of tiramisu complete with candle. In the minute or so of momentary confusion, her steely eyes locked on mine and unseen, she calmly hissed, 'Sing Happy Birthday'.
I dutifully burst into panicked song.
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