![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
also, the steak was tough
Friday, 31 October 2008 02:05 pmSo, you wander into an upmarket Cape Town restaurant in the usual end-of-month ritual, with the usual three bottles of wine for the four of you. The maitre d' looks down his nose at you and remarks, "I see you've brought your own wine" in a tone of profound disapproval. Five minutes later the sommelier (they have one) arrives and tells you that, despite the R50 per bottle corkage fee, they usually only permit one bottle per table of four. As a great concession, her manner says, you will be permitted two.
The waiter has a French accent, I suspect from the Congo or such. He asks if you want still or sparkling water. In keeping with a unanimous Salty Cracker resolution you always ask for a jug of tap water on symbolic ecological grounds, in protest at all those bloody unnecessary plastic bottles. Waiter looks taken aback, but agrees and wanders off. Two minutes later he arrives with a bottle, announces "Still water for the table", screws off the lid and starts pouring. He is miffed when you call him on it and re-specify the jug. You are, however, eventually given a jug, which to his credit the waiter is assiduous in refilling.
You are forced to admit that the food, while good, is not in any way up to either the price, or the seriously unpleasant atmosphere engendered by the fact that the staff clearly feel you don't take your food seriously. You amuse yourself somewhat by listening to the pretentious wine-talk from the sommelier guiding, from on high, the next door table through their dining and wine experience, and by picturing the cowed basement existence of all the muted little slave-girls who clear the tables. You decline dessert in a marked manner and tip below ten percent. You are forced to conclude that you are not, in fact, in the market for the experience the restaurant is selling.
Then you blog it. Because you're nasty, you include the name of the restaurant. Aubergine, in Barnet St. in the city bowl. Avoid like the plague, people, unless you like your ambience at seriously low temperatures. Jo's full review snarkage at Salty Cracker sometime soon.
The waiter has a French accent, I suspect from the Congo or such. He asks if you want still or sparkling water. In keeping with a unanimous Salty Cracker resolution you always ask for a jug of tap water on symbolic ecological grounds, in protest at all those bloody unnecessary plastic bottles. Waiter looks taken aback, but agrees and wanders off. Two minutes later he arrives with a bottle, announces "Still water for the table", screws off the lid and starts pouring. He is miffed when you call him on it and re-specify the jug. You are, however, eventually given a jug, which to his credit the waiter is assiduous in refilling.
You are forced to admit that the food, while good, is not in any way up to either the price, or the seriously unpleasant atmosphere engendered by the fact that the staff clearly feel you don't take your food seriously. You amuse yourself somewhat by listening to the pretentious wine-talk from the sommelier guiding, from on high, the next door table through their dining and wine experience, and by picturing the cowed basement existence of all the muted little slave-girls who clear the tables. You decline dessert in a marked manner and tip below ten percent. You are forced to conclude that you are not, in fact, in the market for the experience the restaurant is selling.
Then you blog it. Because you're nasty, you include the name of the restaurant. Aubergine, in Barnet St. in the city bowl. Avoid like the plague, people, unless you like your ambience at seriously low temperatures. Jo's full review snarkage at Salty Cracker sometime soon.
