Let's Go To Dinner

Welcome to a warm and sunny South Manchester on day 448 of Covid-19 restrictions. The weather has improved dramatically and we can now look forward to at least three weeks of lovely warm sunny weather to raise our spirits and help us to make the most out of this dreadful pandemic. Added to that, the European Championships start next Friday and I can look forward to a couple of weeks of international football (that’s soccer for any American readers). 

I have been making the most of the easing of restrictions by seeing friends and tonight Mrs PM and I are visiting a lovely local Italian restaurant for a cosy meal for two. 

That will be nice. 

Shall we dive into some silly questions from Sunday Stealing? 

1. When is the last time you went out to a meal with someone special? Tell us about it.

Well – as I said above, I anticipate that the meal tonight with Mrs PM will be special. However, we met a couple of friends two weeks ago and after a quick drink in a bar in the city centre, we all went to a lovely restaurant where we chatted about life, the universe and everything. It was special because it was the first time we had been to a restaurant since late summer of 2020 and the first time we had seen those guys for well over a year – perhaps closer to two years. 

2. Show us a picture of your favourite cuisine.

I can’t choose so here are four of my favourites (in no particular order).

Chinese 

Indian

Italian

Mexican

3. What is the funniest thing a man/woman has said to you lately?

I share a lot of banter with the guys at work and, during one meeting, one member of my team said to me:

“Dave, I’ll bet you love wearing a mask to bars now. You probably stand more chance with women because the mask covers most of your face.”

4. What makes a gentleman a gentleman in today’s dating world? Are there any left?

What do you mean “are there any gentlemen left”? Of course there are – and I am one of them. I don’t have to date because I am in a loving relationship but if I did I know that I would be the perfect gentleman. I AM the perfect gentleman. 

How very dare you!

5. Is there anything you won’t tolerate when out to dinner with your significant other?

I am with Joey from Friends on this.

There are exceptions; for example I am happy to share Chinese food and, sometime, Indian food – but nothing else. I would prefer than Mrs PM orders a plate of chips for herself and only eat a couple than steal mine.

She knows this – even though she frequently tries to humiliate me about it. I don’t care – I am who I am.

6. What type of ambiance do you enjoy in an eating establishment?

I like a fairly busy place with a little light music in the background, with friendly attentive staff. Of course, the food has to be good too. There are a lot of very good restaurants like this in Manchester.

7. Tell us about the worst public dining experience you ever had, whether it be a date or with your family.

Here’s a good one – not the worst but quite funny.

I was in a restaurant in Zurich with a work colleague and we were about to eat pizza. The food was very nice but the two guys on the next table were very drunk and very loud. Their banter and conversation were harmless and they didn’t butt in and talk to us but their voices were so loud that we could barely talk to each other. They were speaking German so I didn’t fully understand what they were saying (I speak only very limited German). However, one of them stood up just as my pizza arrived. The waiter put my pizza on the table and, next to it, a large glass of German beer. The drunk guy stumbled into our table and knocked the entire glass of beer over my freshly baked pizza and partly over my lap.

To be fair to him, he was mortified. 

He started apologizing profusely in German and I had to say “Ich spreche nur ein bisschen deutsch.” (I only speak a little German). He switched to English and said “I’m so sorry!” 

He then ran after the waiter and called him back and spoke rapidly in German. He basically told the waiter to take my food back. 

“I have ordered it again for you, my friend,” he said. “I will pay for your meal!”

“There’s no need,” I said. 

But he insisted. 

Meanwhile, my work colleague was struggling not to laugh out loud. 

Sure enough, a fresh pizza and another beer arrived and then the guy kept talking to me, apologising over and over again. 

Eventually he got the message and stopped talking and sure enough, he paid for my pizza, despite my protestations. 

So, I guess it ended okay.

8. What is the lamest or rudest thing a man/woman has said to you lately?

Nothing recent – but I got into a discussion over Brexit with some friends a couple of years ago and a bloke decided to intervene in our conversation to tell me that I hated the United Kingdom because I disagree with Brexit. Thankfully, the guys I was with all rounded on him and told him, in the sweetest possible way (not really), to go back to his wife, to enjoy his meal and not to be such an arsehole and butt into other people’s conversations.  

9. Are you a good tipper?

Tipping is not mandatory or expected in the United Kingdom, but I do tip if I have enjoyed the meal and the waiter has been half decent. Generally if you tip in the UK the tips are all shared out at the end of the night.

Of course, I have been to America where tipping is expected and, to be honest, I always feel a little odd when I am over there. I once saw a waitress take the bill payment and the person left without leaving her a tip. She returned to the table and basically lost the plot and threw every single one of her toys out of the pram. 

“What did I do wrong?” she complained to anyone within earshot. “I don’t do this for fun you know!” before storming off.

She was our waitress too. I did leave her a tip of course because, despite the outburst, she was sweet and friendly to us – and I did enjoy the food. But I still felt a bit odd. 

10. Do you ask for doggie bags when you leave food on your plate at a restaurant?

Only in America. The amount of food that you are served there is incredible. 

On one occasion I was working in Atlanta but had the weekend off. I popped into a local restaurant and ordered what I thought was a small burger, fries and a coke. When it arrived I was stunned. The burger was enormous and the amount of fries that came with it was enough for about three people. And then came the coke – a huge bucket of the stuff. 

I didn’t know what to do. I tried my best to eat as much of the food as I could but it totally and utterly defeated me. Thankfully, I was staying in an aparthotel so I asked for a doggie bag and took it with me. The coke also came with me when I left and it lasted most of the rest of the afternoon. 

I had the remains of the burger and fries back at the hotel later – thank goodness my room had a kitchen.

11. What is your pet peeve about restaurants and dining out in general?

I don’t like really expensive restaurants that charge the earth for food but only provide you with enough to whet your appetite. That really boils my blood and I avoid such establishments like the plague.

12. Do you prefer to order yourself or do you ever let your significant other order for you?

I absolutely prefer to order for myself. Why on earth would I let anybody else order for me? I will listen to recommendations of course but ultimately it is my choice.

The only exception to this is in China. Whenever I have worked in China, I have usually dined with the Chinese guys I am working with and allowed them to order the food, having told them what I will and won’t eat. Things I won’t eat include insects (and anything related to insects such as larvae), spiders, scorpions, dogs, offal or anything that comes from inside the animal’s head. That said, I have never had a bad meal in China – the food over there is absolutely brilliant – much better than most Chinese food in the UK – and whenever I go there it is the one thing I look forward to the most.

13. Describe your most intimate romantic dinner ever. (fantasy or real)

Café Deco on the Peak in Hong Kong without a doubt. It was a beautiful restaurant with amazing views of Victoria Harbour. Sadly, I have just discovered that it has closed which is an absolute shame. When I worked in Hong Kong for three months in 1999, Mrs PM and I used to go there often for a lovely romantic meal while enjoying the amazing views.

The food was international and always wonderful. 

Cafe Deco

I will miss the place when I next manage to get there.

14. Do you enjoy piano bars?

Not really – mainly because I don’t like the music. I have stayed in quite a few hotels in the world when travelling with work, and when I sit in the hotel bar and there is a guy playing the piano, it generally annoys me because the music is not really the kind I like, particularly if the singer tries to emulate people like Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin or any of those old-time singers. 

Give me a bar playing rock music any day.

15. If you could go anywhere in the world for dinner, where would it be and who would you be with?

I would go to Hong Kong with Mrs PM and have a chinese meal somewhere in Wan Chai. I would have chosen Café Deco if it was still there.

Artistic Food

In a restaurant the other week, I saw an absolutely artistic masterpiece, so aesthetically pleasing that I wanted to take a photograph of it and display it on my kitchen wall as a work of art. Sadly, it was my main meal and although it was beautiful to look at, the dish in question had barely enough food to satisfy a hungry dormouse; in fact a hungry dormouse would have been able to eat it in one go (and would almost certainly have complained afterwards).

As a human being, hundreds of times larger than your average rodent, what bloody chance did I have with this meal? I’m not going to name and shame this restaurant because it is one of thousands throughout the world that change the emphasis on your dining experience. Call me boring but when I go into a restaurant, I want the food before anything else. The very fact that I am going to a restaurant means that I am hungry. The depth of that hunger will typically range from “more than a little peckish” to “so ravenously hungry that if you don’t feed me within ten minutes I will rampage through your kitchen eating anything that is vaguely edible”.

Almost all of the restaurants I choose to go to satisfy this one basic requirement: to drive out my hunger in the most pleasant way possible and leave me fully sated and happy with my dining experience. Sadly, there are a number of restaurants that shift the emphasis from eating to “a fascinating dining experience”. I will describe a typical night out in a restaurant such as this.

Picture the scene.

Mrs PM and I arrive at the restaurant for our table which is booked at 8 o’clock. We arrive early out of courtesy. We are greeted at the door by a very pleasant European maître d’hôtel who immediately charms us with his lovely French accent.

Maître d’ : Good evening, sir and madame. Do you have a reservation?

Plastic Mancunian: Yes. I have a reservation in the name of Mr Mancunian for 8 o’clock

Maître d’ : Ah, oui, Monsieur Mancunian. You are early and your table is not quite ready. Would you like a drink in the bar while we prepare your table?

Plastic Mancunian: Certainly.

We stroll over to the bar and a charming barman, also French or Italian, greets us and asks what we would like to drink.

Plastic Mancunian: I’ll have a pint of bitter please.

Mrs PM: I’ll have a glass of sauvignon blanc.

Barman: I am very sorry, sir, but we do not sell bitter. We have bottled premium lagers.

The barman then rattles off a list of lagers that I have never heard of. I opt for a weird Lithuanian pilsner called something like Kibiras.

Barman: Would you like to pay now or put it on the bill?

Plastic Mancunian: I’ll pay now.

Barman: That’s £15.

Mrs PM: Are you OK Dave? Why are you lying on the floor?

Plastic Mancunian (getting up); £15?????? £15?????????

Mrs PM pays the barman while I continue to question the price. At precisely 8pm a wonderfully charming waiter leads us to our table and presents us with our menus before departing to leave us to make our choices.

Plastic Mancunian: £15????????????

Mrs PM: Will you shut up about the bloody drink prices?

I just can’t get the price out of my head. There I am with a small bottle of Lithuanian beer that probably costs £7.50 and it tastes just like every other pretentious continental lager I've ever had. Just because it comes from Lithuania doesn’t mean that I should pay a fortune for it.

Then I look at the menu.

Plastic Mancunian (frowning): There’s a misprint.

Mrs PM: Why do you say that?

Plastic Mancunian: £10 for a bowl of soup.

Mrs PM: That’s not a misprint.

Plastic Mancunian: £10?????????????? £10?????????????????

Mrs PM (through gritted teeth): Shut up!

Plastic Mancunian: £10 for a bowl of soup????? £15 for a glass of wine and a tiny bottle of Lithuanian beer?????? That’s £35 if we both have a bowl of soup. And we still have to order out main courses.

All of the starters are roughly the same price. The main courses are even more expensive and I try not to look at the prices (fearing the wrath of Mrs PM). The waiter comes along and takes our order. I opt for a prawn cocktail starter and the “Lamb Poubelle”, the description of which makes it sound like the best dish ever, fit only for royalty and the privileged elite. It is described as follows:

A tranche of the finest lamb, lightly cooked to your liking, resting on a bed of pommes de terre puree and with the finest legumes du jour and drizzled with jus de rôti.

I try to ignore the price: £35.

I also try not to moan about the restaurant because, clearly Mrs PM is beginning to have violent thoughts. I change the conversation to something more pleasing. And then the starter comes.

I stare in disbelief at my prawn cocktail that has set me back a cool £8.

It is a single lettuce leaf, shaped like a face, with two prawns, strategically placed to give the appearance of two eyes, a single cherry tomato sliced up artistically to look like a nose and a wafer slice of gherkin forming the mouth. Carrot shavings form the hair and a little mayonnaise (two tiny pipette drops) signify the cheeks.

Plastic Mancunian: Excuse me I ordered prawn cocktail.

The Waiter: Monsieur, this is your starter.

My prawn cocktail looks like a ginger person with green skin, prawns for eyes and a red nose. I look around for flies because a tiny insect could scoop up my starter in a mouthful and still be ravenously hungry. In fact, I devour the food in one gulp. I feel as if I have just set fire to a five pound note and skimmed three pound coins into the sea. If that was a starter then I am Brad Pitt.

I look across at Mrs PM who has ordered the same. She, too has eaten her tiny portion and is looking as disappointed as I am. I want to rant; I want to storm into the kitchen, grab the “chef” and say:

“What the %*$% was that? You may be able to fool an art critic or a pseudo intellectual that what you presented them was worth eating but I tell you what, mate! You don’t fool me! How much did it cost to prepare that piece of crap? 20p? And you want to charge £8 for it? You, sir, are a thief. You, sir, are a blackguard.”

The waiter returns and takes our plates. I want to stand up and punch him on the nose.

The conversation remains stilted. Mrs PM wants to mention the starter but fears that it will be like arming a nuclear warhead. I want to stand on the table and scream blue murder but I am not sure whether Mrs PM agrees with me and I don’t want to annoy her.

The waiter returns.

The Waiter: Would you like another drink sir?

Plastic Mancunian: (thinks – GO OUT TO THE PUB ROUND THE CORNER AND GET A PINT OF BITTER AT A REASONABLE PRICE YOU THIEVING SWINE!!!!!!!) Yes, please. I’ll have another kebab.

The Waiter: You mean the Kibiras? It is a fine beer brewed for centuries by Lithuanian monks, using an 800 year old recipe.

Plastic Mancunian: (thinks – Oh is that why it costs nearly a tenner? Was the bottle flown to the UK in a first class seat? Is that why this bottle of gnat’s urine costs over a bloody fiver?). Oh, that’s interesting. Yes – a bottle of gnat’s, pi... er, sorry, Kibiras.

The Waiter: And for madame?

Mrs PM: Nothing for me.

I begin to believe that Mrs PM realises how much this meal is going to cost. The waiter returns with my beer and another waiter arrives with our main courses. With a “bon appetite”, he leaves our “main course” with us.

I will say this once (through gritted teeth). The “meal” looks amazing. There is a huge plate that could accommodate an enormous quantity of food, enough to satisfy even the hungriest Mancunian. The food itself has the appearance of an art masterpiece; the meat has been carved to the shape of a little lamb and the jus de rôti (or gravy) has been spread to make the little lamb look as if it bounding happily in a field. A small chunk of mashed swede has been carefully placed to give the appearance of the sun shining and there are no potatoes to be seen – oh hang on, they are underneath the lamb.

Sounds good, eh?

NO!!!!

It is the smallest meal I have ever seen. I eat the bloody thing in two seconds (one second to think about it).

It is a monumental rip off. It cost me £35. £35!!!!!!!

In my head I can contain myself no longer. In my head, I stand up and throw the plate at the wall. In my head, I take Mrs PM’s equally pathetic fish dish and smear it on the waiter’s face (barely covering a quarter of his cheek). In my head I tell the waiter to stuff his Kibiras up his bloody arse, preferably breaking the top of the bottle before he does so.

In reality, I tell Mrs PM to hurry up (only to find she has already eaten her “meal”) so we can clear out of the place. The waiter returns, takes our plates, offers us a dessert (to which thankfully we both say NO!!!) and gives us the bill.

Plastic Mancunian: I don’t want to see how much it is. Just pay it.

Mrs PM: OH MY GOD!!!!!! You DO NOT want to know the price.

Plastic Mancunian: Just pay it.

Mrs PM, now almost as angry as I am, pays the bill and we leave the restaurant as quickly as is humanly possible.

Mrs PM: Fancy some fish and chips?

Plastic Mancunian: I thought you’d never ask.

Of course, the above scenario may seem a little over the top, but I swear that I have been in a situation that was extremely similar. I mean, come on! How can restaurants justify giving you barely enough food to feed an anorexic ant and then charge you a small fortune to eat it, just because it looks nice? And why do people put up with and, worse, return to the place to be robbed again?

It’s like “The Emperor’s New Clothes”.

It’s time we made a stand. Some people have more money than sense.

It makes me so mad I could drink a bucket of Kibiras.

(Kibiras is used by kind permission of the Plastic Mancunian’s warped imagination. Any similarity to any existing beer, Lithuanian or otherwise is purely coincidental).

The Beast Within

In a restaurant last week, I ordered a bottle of wine. The waiter dutifully delivered a £30 bottle of rioja, opened it and poured a tiny amount into my glass. As tradition and etiquette dictate, I obediently sipped the wine to relay to the waiter whether it was acceptable or not.

It was disgusting; I stood up, spat the wine all over the waiter’s white jacket and screamed:

“This is revolting! How dare you charge £30 for this bottle of rocket fuel.”.

I snatched the bottle from the stunned waiter and poured it over his head.

I didn’t really. In fact, I didn’t even go to a restaurant last week. However, I would love to have the courage to do just that; refuse a bottle of expensive wine because the taste is not worthy of the asking price.

Furthermore, there are numerous other things I would love to do if only I had the audacity.

The beast within me needs to be totally constrained as does the mischievous imp. I long to unleash these dark sides of my personality on people who wind me up; I feel like Bruce Banner containing the Hulk within. The urge to unleash the beast and vent my fury on people who anger me is sometimes overwhelming. And sometimes I can barely contain the mischievous imp who yearns to conquer arrogance and stupidity with suitable punishments.

Here are a few examples:

(1) You see lots of men with long hair. I can appreciate that, having had long hair myself. However, when men tie their long locks into a ponytail, it makes me cringe. It may look cool to some, but I hate the style personally – and sadly, I know people who do it. And what would I love to do to these guys? Cut the bloody ponytail off and then see the look of horror on their faces when they realise what’s happened. If I did have a pair of scissors, the urge to act would be overwhelming.

(2) At a football match, when a player dives and feigns injury, i.e. cheats, all I want to do is leap over the wall and stamp on the imaginary injury and say “NOW, you’re injured you cheating scumbag!”

(3) When stuck in a conversation with the world’s biggest bore, I usually listen attentively, nodding at the appropriate times and pretend that I’m interested in the plot intricacies of Coronation Street. If I were to unleash the beast I would say:

“For crying out loud – GET A LIFE! STOP BORING THE ARSE OFF ME AND TALK TO SOMEBODY WHO CARES!”

(4) Have you ever found yourself next to a loathsome businessman on an aircraft who sticks his elbows into your ribs as he attempts to eat, drinks huge quantities of wine and ends up disturbing you every twenty minutes to go to the loo, talks inane crap peppered with business buzzwords and phrases, is rude to the stewardesses and treats them like skivvies and then falls asleep facing you, breathing his stinking wine-breath into your face whilst snoring so loudly that it drowns out the engines? Well I have and let me tell you this: all I want to do is haul that man out of his seat, frogmarch him to the toilet, crowbar his massive belly into the cubicle and shout:

“STAY IN THERE, YOU FAT OBNOXIOUS GIT!”

(5) A female friend walks into the bar wearing the most awful outfit you have ever seen. Instead of saying:

“Wow, you look fantastic”

Don’t you sometimes want to just tell her the truth? Wouldn’t it be better to say:

“You’re dress looks like a warped garbage sack and your lipstick makes you look like a tart. Your hair's a bloody mess and your perfume is so overpowering I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve left a trail of dead cats in your wake. I’m sure it took you hours to get ready but, let me tell you this, love; I’d just go back and throw on something simple – you’d look much better.”

(6) Picture the scene; you’re at an art gallery standing in front of a work of art by a contemporary artist, described in the media as a visionary. The piece is basically a pile of bricks thrown at random and covered with various colours of paint and has random bric-brac glued to various bits of it (eggs, jelly, cat fur, dog poo, feathers, tar, broken crockery, soup, dolls furniture, used tissue, mud and bits of car). It is called something like “Adventures in the Platinum Void”.

Two art critics are standing next to you. One says:

“It’s fabulous! It captures the essence of existence in a manner that is, quite simply, breath-taking. I feel privileged to see this beautiful piece. I’m moved to tears. I am a voyeur from an existential plane. This piece is the work of genius.”

The other replies:

“I totally agree. This magnificent sculpture explains the meaning of so many philosophical taboos on a level that is deeper than the world’s best thinkers can ever imagine. The intensity of splendour is daunting; I am but a microbe in its presence. The power is overwhelming and I am wholly inadequate, yet totally enthralled.”

One of them turns to you and says:

“What do you think?”.

Wouldn’t you just love to say:

“This is total crap! The artist is a genius but only in the sense of being able to con you two pseudo intellectuals that it actually means something. I’m sure the artist is laughing all the way to the bank. You are a couple of morons with more money than sense.”

(7) Back in the restaurant, I’ve survived the wine incident and I’ve ordered the gourmet dish, described in great mouth-watering detail. The dish has a fancy French name (that probably means “dustbin slime”). The waiter, having brushed himself down and changed his jacket, presents me with my main course on a huge plate; there is barely enough to feed a gnat. The meal is so tiny that I need a microscope to see it. And I’ve paid £25 for this useless gruel. Instead of saying “Thanks!” I long to say:

“What the hell is this? How have you go the gall to charge £25 for food that would leave a goldfish demanding more?”

I’m sure he would run for cover if I threw the plate at him.

(8) You’re in a queue at the ticket office in a railway station and your train is due to depart. In front of you is a man who is so dim it’s a wonder he can get himself dressed up in the morning. He says:

“So what time’s the next train to Liverpool?” he says. “I need to get there by 5:30. It’s now 1.30 so that gives me a few hours. How long does it take? I’ve heard its 35 minutes; is that true? How much does it cost?”

Don’t you just want to grab the idiot and shout:

“THIS IS A TICKET OFFICE WHERE YOU BUY TICKETS. IT IS NOT A BLOODY INFORMATION DESK. MY TRAIN IS ABOUT TO LEAVE AND IF I MISS IT BECAUSE OF YOUR IDIOCY, I’M GOING TO COME BACK HERE AND SET FIRE TO YOUR TROUSERS!”

(9) Don’t you just want to turn up to X-Factor auditions with a large bottle of indelible ink in your pocket? Why would you do that, I hear you cry? Well, you could stand up in front of Simon Cowell and when he asks what you going to sing, simply run up to him and pour the entire contents of the bottle over his smug head.

(10) You’re in a pub with your beloved lady having a wonderfully fulfilling conversation over a pint of the landlord’s finest ale, when all of a sudden, the place fills up with young people out for the Saturday night cattle parade and the barman cranks up the background music so loudly that you can barely hear yourself think. Worse still, the music is rap, r’n’b or boy band/girl band fodder. Wouldn’t you just love to walk behind the bar, lift up the offending music machine and smash it to the floor? Even better – walk to the pub with the world’s most powerful ghetto blaster and as soon as the music is cranked up, retaliate by playing a Metallica CD at three times the volume?

I’m glad that’s off my chest. The post may make me appear to be a savage, bent on the destruction of all that annoys or irritates me but I’m not really. I can tolerate almost anything; whilst my inner turmoil in trying to contain the beast and imp within is a struggle of monumental proportions, my outward appearance is one of calm and polite acceptance – just as long as the wine tastes nice.

Embarrassing Moments - Restaurants

Eating out in a restaurant is a truly enjoyable experience, and an activity that I participate in as often as I can. But such is my life that there have been moments of pure embarrassment. I have two tales of woe for you today and in both cases I was a complete arse.

When I started out on my adult life at university I had led a very sheltered life. My parents were not keen on eating in sophisticated restaurants. Furthermore they weren’t keen on eating in any restaurants whatsoever. So when I arrived at an Indian restaurant as a naïve nineteen year old, I had no clue what I was letting myself in for.

Of course, as is traditional in British culture, Indian restaurants are a challenge to all young men who have been enjoying a night out. It is a ritual we all go through several times in our lives; we quaff a gutload of beer and then challenge each other to eat the ripest and hottest curry on the planet.

On this, my first visit to an Indian restaurant, beer had flowed all night and all of us were rather boisterous having imbibed several pints of ale. My memory of the night is hazy but I do recall sitting down and looking at a menu full of exotic Indian dishes, none of which I had heard of. I didn't know a Bhuna from a Rogan Josh. I had eaten curry before as my dad used to cook it regularly. I quite enjoyed it. What I didn’t know was that my dad’s curries were rather mild.

“What shall I have?” I asked innocently.

“Try a Madras,” said one of my so-called friends.

By the time my meal had arrived I was ravenous. Several pints of ale had stimulated my gastric juices to the point where I was willing to eat the tablecloth. So when I was presented with a dish of Chicken Madras I attacked it with gusto.

I think the delay was around two seconds.

“AAAARRRRGGGGHHH!” I cried and was so shocked by the burning sensation that I somehow (don’t ask me how) managed to snort Madras sauce up my nose. My entire nasal cavity and mouth were on fire. I felt as if I had snorted lava. Of course being under the influence of alcohol, a substance that increases reactions exponentially, I mutated into a desperate dervish, whirling around and howling like a crazed cat. I was blinded by tears of agony and stumbled around gasping for breath. I may have been breathing fire.

My so-called friends shrieked with laughter as I miraculously managed to totter to the nearest waiter pleading for water to relieve my anguish. The other restaurant patrons were hardened curry eaters and screamed with laughter (they were also drunk). Even the waiter was laughing as he handed over a jug of ice cold water. I think I drank the whole lot in one go.

Next day I suffered. Boy did I suffer. I had a hangover and I could taste and smell the Madras all day, giving me a constant reminder of my traumatic experience. I didn't realise just how much curry burned. When comedians joke about putting toilet paper in the fridge they are not kidding. I wanted to fill the toilet bowl with liquid nitrogen.

It took a while for me to pluck up the courage to eat Indian cuisine again.

Some years later I was in Amsterdam on business with a friend and colleague called Paul. Both us were willing to try something fresh and exotic so we opted for an Ethiopian restaurant. Ethiopian food proved to be quite unique and also quite spicy. By this time, thankfully, my palate for piquant food had evolved and I relished the dish. A wonderful Ethiopian waitress brought our food; she was wonderful, with dark brown and smooth skin, wearing a white blouse with a black lace tie and black skirt. She was delightful as were the other lovely waitresses – all dressed in an identical uniform.

About half way through the meal, I was aware that something was missing; I needed a refill for my empty beer glass.

“Fancy a beer?” I said to Paul. Before he could answer, I waved my hand in the air at the nearest waitress.

“No,” said Paul looking around.

Ignoring him I continued to wave and eventually attracted the attention of the waitress.

“Don’t!” pleaded Paul looking suddenly rather perturbed

“It’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to have one.”

He shook his head in exasperation as the waitress approached the table.

“Can I have a beer?” I said. “What do you want, Paul?”

Paul said nothing. he simply put his head in his hands.

“You want a beer?” said the sweet waitress. “I can get one for you if you like.”

“Yes please,” I said.

She walked to the bar spoke to the barman and pointed to me.

“You idiot!” said Paul.

“I’ve only had one,” I said. “I’ll be alright.”

It was then that I noticed something odd. The waitress walked over to a table and sat down. I also noticed something else. She wasn’t wearing a tie and her blouse was a different style from the other waitresses.

She was a customer just like me.

Another real waitress bought my beer as my face reddened enough to set fire to the tablecloth.

I had to swallow my pride. I stood up and walked over to the poor woman who I had cajoled into going to the bar on my behalf.

”I’m so so sorry,” I squarked. “I mistook you for a waitress. I … I … I ….”

“It’s alright,” she smiled as her fellow diners sniggered at my expense.

I bought her a drink to prove that I wasn’t an ignorant arse (just a stupid buffoon). Paul, being a good friend and colleague spent the remainder of the evening telling me what a moron I was. He delighted in telling the tale to complete strangers in bars and of course, my work colleagues upon our return to Manchester. Thanks, Paul!

Sadly, I haven’t learned from these mistakes. There are other incidents that make me want to crawl into a hole and seek sympathy from woodland creatures. I will save those for another post.
In the meantime, Mrs PM is taking me out for a pleasant meal tomorrow night as a belated birthday celebration. Let’s hope she realizes what she is letting herself in for. There’s plenty of scope for embarrassment in the old dog yet.