MRS. GRUMPY DINES OUT

I really don’t mean to be grumpy but, as a customer, I do get cross when I am not getting what I think I deserve for the money I am paying, and the environment I am in.  

I have always loved eating out and staying hotels, looking for any excuse to sleep in a bed that someone else has made (the sheer bliss of crisp, freshly laundered sheets) and a meal that someone else has cooked (no washing up!). I eat out around five times a week. I don’t need five-star luxury, and I am just as happy eating street food as sampling the delights of some of the world’s top establishments. For me, it is all about the experience. 

Working my socks off recently, on a visit to Calne, and keen to avoid a 150-mile round trip journey, I checked myself into a modest hotel; clean and decent enough, but with plenty to grumble about if I put my mind to it; the traffic noise, the absence of desk space, and somewhere to plug in a hairdryer within close proximity to a mirror.  

Putting a positive spin on my stay, I was looking forward to my dinner in the hotel’s 2 rosette restaurant. So far, so good. The menu looked interesting, was reasonably priced, and being on site, it meant that I could happily imbibe and just stagger upstairs.  

Sadly, from there on in it would seem that my high expectations were to be shattered. It was not so much the food, which was perfectly acceptable, but lacking the panache to deserve its award. It was the environment and the service. The soulless dining room, in which loud music rock music was blaring (clearly the choice of the kitchen staff), had just one other occupant, a woman, who I could hear across the room as she spent much of the time face-timing her French chef boyfriend. As for the service, the young staff were pleasant and helpful but lacking in professionalism. I was not offered any water with my meal (yes, I could have asked for some), both of the starters I ordered were delivered together (without having been asked), no additional cutlery was provided, and there was no enjoyment check during the meal, where I had been plonked in the centre of an empty dining room.  

I felt that I had become just the faceless, plump, old woman that in fact I am. 

What destroyed any serenity I might have been experiencing though was the ‘heritage tomatoes, goat’s curd, toasted hazelnuts, basil, sherry syrup’ at £6.50. Time and effort had clearly been spent on making the dish look attractive, but the hazelnuts had never seen the inside of a toaster (doesn’t one ‘roast’ them anyway?) and the tomatoes, amounting to less than one whole tomato in total, were fridge cold. Instead of enjoying my meal, which took just 45 minutes from start to finish, I beat a grouchy, hasty retreat to my room. Thank goodness I had brought the brandy with me with which to drown my sorrows. Thankfully, tomorrow is another day.