Restaurant Diners

During my black days as a Restaurant Owner, I quickly learned to categorise diners into one of five groups, perhaps you can spot which one you fall into:

Bernies
The biggest group of all, christened after the infamous eighties steak restaurant chain. Normally the parents of a thirty-something; everyone knows a Bernie. Their brief is big portions, cheap price and to hell with quality. They have a huge problem with change or experimentation and will turn their noses up at anything that does not come with chips. Nothing will see a Bernie exit a restaurant quicker than a menu which consists of anything remotely described as Thai Style.

They will seldom ever complain to the servers face; they are the a-typical English customer that will whine continuously to their fellow diners about everything from the firmness of the carrots to the thickness of the gravy, until their waiter inquires if their meal is okay, at which point they declare “ooh yes, absolutely wonderful, thank you”.

Clickers
A particularly sad bunch of diners, who, although they believe in their own self-importance, cause embarrassment for anyone at the same table as them. So called because of their annoying habit of clicking their fingers every time they want attention. What they fail to understand is that within the restaurant business, clicking of fingers is the universally acknowledged declaration of “hey everyone, look at me, I am an prick!”. Remember that next time you or someone nearby clicks their fingers at the waiter.

The most nauseating cross-section of diners of them all, generally they will spend the least amount of money but will brag incessantly about the expensive restaurants they have supposedly ate in before. Will complain just to try and look intelligent in front of their fellow diners.

Freeloaders
Will complain to either a) receive a discount, b) to get a free drink or meal, or most commonly, c) a combination of both. Their most common complaint is their meal was a little bland. Not cold or undercooked. Not burnt, raw, frozen, off, scorched. Not tasting awful. But bland. That word that doesn’t really mean much except that maybe they would have preferred a dozen birds-eye chillies thrown in with their green salad. Usually the complaint will come at the end of the meal when there is no longer any proof of the offending dish. Some Freeloaders have become some adept at all of this that they will actually tell the waiting staff what they expect in way of compensation.

Critics
Fairly harmless, these are the ones that have watched far too much Master Chef.
They will make stupid, meaningless comments, either positively or otherwise on each and every mouthful, such as “I’m getting a lovely aftertaste of chilli and lime coming through”. They will ask dumb questions of the waiting staff, such as the origin of the food on their plate, which is fine if they know what they are talking about, but they seldom do, and pass on pointless suggestions on how to improve the restaurant, the food or the service with no actual point of reference.

Advocates
The Restaurant Owner’s favourite group! Advocates seldom complain without just or reason, and when they do, it’s always in a polite, constructive manner, and they never make the waiting staff feel uncomfortable, the exact opposite in fact. They enjoy experimenting and are always keen to try the chefs’ specials. They appreciate the whole restaurant experience; the ambiance, the service and the food. Most people like to think they fall into this category; if only! It is in fact a very small, elite group consisting mainly of ex-restaurant owners.

The thing about these Customer Categories, not totally dissimilar to traditional star signs, is that you can be on the cusp of two. For example a Freeloader may show certain traits of a Critic. The most common is the cusp of Bernies and Clickers, and this is most evident when Bernies travel abroad. Suddenly this normally fairly reticent faction become temporary two week Clickers to anyone whose first language is not English and begin to talk down to them. I witnessed a fantastic example of this recently during a trip to Italy. The Bernie-Clicker at the table next to me was ordering coffee:

“I’ll have a cap-a-chee-no please, understand?”
“Si, a Cappuccino”
“Cof-feeee?”
“Si”
“you understand? Yes? cap-a-chee-no?”

This episode of embarrassing ignorance went on for a painfully long time. Bizarrely the Bernie-Clicker did in fact have an English-Italian phrase book with her. It was a shame really she didn’t use it then she would have discovered that the translation for Cappuccino is in fact Cappuccino, what with it being an Italian word and all.

Beer Gut

Of course drinking, whether that’s beer or another poison makes you fat. And whilst I concur that alcohol is to blame, I don’t believe it’s the calories in the alcohol that’s necessary at fault. It’s a little more complicated than that.

It’s not what you drink. It’s what you eat, when you’ve had a drink.

Last Thursday was a fairly typical night out. I was meeting a friend straight after work at 6pm. Drinking on an empty stomach is of course churlish. So on route to our meeting pub I grabbed a stomach-lining burger. Yuk. I then met my friend and proceeded to drink at a rate far higher than my comfort zone (this is what happens when you drink with friends, yet people will claim that drinking alone is the first sign of a problem – I beg to differ). To defer the effects of this peer-pressure-piss-up, I stuffed my face with peanuts and crisps.

Around 9.30 we both agreed that something more substantial was required to soak up the excess alcohol if we were to continue with our little social revelry, and headed for the nearest curry house, where we consumed vast quantities of vindaloo and tiger beer.

Then onto a club.

I left my friend around 3.30am and headed straight home. Or so I thought.

The next morning I awoke, rolled over and horribly the final events of the previous night came back to me. I half opened my eyes and could see the evidence of my disgusting indiscretion in front of me, strewn across the marital bedroom. I felt guilty and I felt sickened. Under the influence of alcohol, I had succumbed to forbidden pleasure.

I had come home with a kebab!

I am 38 years old. I understand I can not blame stupid mistakes on alcohol; that does not make everything alright. But in my defence, I can honestly say I would never bring a kebab home when sober.

Luckily my wife Jo was working a night shift, so I was able to rise early and quickly clear away any incriminating evidence of my illicit indiscretion. But it didn’t stop there. I had tasted forbidden fruits (well actually lamb, fat, grease and chilli sauce), and I wanted more. With a hangover to end all, I cooked myself bacon and eggs. And much, much worse: fried bread.

Come mid-day I was still feeling well and truly out of sorts. Everyone has there own bizarre and often incomprehensible hangover cures. For me, when things are really bad, when I reach lunch time and the Nurofen is quite simply not targeting anything, it’s Super Noodles. So a trip to the village shop was in order.

My dog Lily simply loves travelling anywhere in the back of the land rover, so I took her with me. It was only fair; I hadn’t given her much attention this morning. Whilst she waited in the back of the 4X4, I picked up my noodles, a bottle of Lucozade (normally following a drinking session I supposedly re-hydrate myself via coca cola, but on extreme days, such as today, the big guns of pop are called for), and a bar of chocolate.

Lily had been the perfect pet all morning. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not the most obedient dog; she loves everyone and displays that love by pissing on them. She barks excessively at her own reflection and will eat almost anything; shoes, cushions, radiators, doors (but strangely enough – not leftover kebab). But she understands when I have a hangover, and knows when to keep quiet. Definitely Mans Best Friend. So I picked her up some well earned doggy treats.

Walking back to the car I took a massive swig of Lucozade. I was in urgent need of a sugar boost and so hurriedly opened the packaging and took a big bite. Instantly I was hit with intense flavours of rabbit, liver and gravy. I glanced down at the bar in my hand; it was not my chocolate bar but Lily’s dog treat. Even though this treat must have been far healthier than the kebab I had eaten the night previous, I felt incredibility sick at the thought of eating such a thing. I leant against the shop window and tried to spit it out. My mouth was full of a murky brown liquid which I began vomiting. A small concerned crowd gathered which I tried to wave away with one hand whilst the other collected the rabbit-y flem. I pushed through the crowd towards the car. Even Lily who normally stands on her hind legs up at the back windscreen excitingly awaiting my return, had curled up on the floor with embarrassment.

As I climbed into the cab I heard someone chortle “Someone had a tad too much to drink last night”

How so very observant of them.