The hazards of eating out

The SCR food, with its leather-tough beef, dry chicken, and liquefied peas – is there anything more depressing? Well, yes – genocide, estate agents, malaria, sexual rape, facebook rape, yawn rape, and Robert Peston. The SCR is, after all, just a university canteen in a country mocked globally for its poor gastronomy – Great British Menu being as much of an oxymoron as Corporate Culture. An overhaul of the lugubrious menu would nonetheless not go amiss – I did contact Jamie Oliver, but he was elsewhere engaged. At a minimum, I trust Felix will not have to apologise again for daring to point out that the SCR food lacks a certain finesse (they have yet to find that delicate balance between burnt or soggy food).

But whilst the SCR is at a push tolerable, is it fair to also let the best restaurants in our capital city get away with murder? The top London eateries seem to be becoming increasingly unpleasant and inconsiderate, in the same way that having pliers gripped to one’s testicles isn’t very nice.

If I want to go out for an enjoyable meal with friends, and take the precaution of booking a few days in advance, I do not want to be told that I can have a table for four at 8pm but that I have to be done eating by 10pm for the next sitting of diners. Where’s the sense of occasion? I hate deadlines when they’re for coursework, let alone recreational purposes. The thing is that once you have to time a meal, it no longer feels like a treat – just an inconvenience to the restaurant.

The restaurant is effectively telling you they don’t give a damn, but they would quite like your cash and if you could leave promptly that would be very jolly indeed

What is most depressing about these fixed seating times is that you come to the realization that your life is pretty insignificant. The restaurant is effectively telling you they don’t give a damn, but they would quite like your cash and if you could leave promptly that would be very jolly indeed.

But not only can I not choose how long I stay; I also have to be forcefully generous for the privilege by coughing up a minimal 12.5% “discretionary” surcharge. It is discretionary if the service charge is not mentioned on the menu but appears on the bill – sounds like a bit of ruse to me. I have to bear with phone companies, the council, and British Gas ripping me off, but I didn’t expect this sort of behaviour from a restaurant. Soon I’ll be feeling quite unhappy as they gorge my eyes out for loose change, and I’ll be wishing I had gone to McDonalds.

When I look at the prices on a menu, I feel they should tell me how much I will be paying at the end of the meal. By financially tapping themselves on the back in this way, the restaurant is effectively removing the need for good service to obtain a decent tip. They could choke a chicken over my plate, and I bet the 12.5% would still be there cum the bill. Even the SCR hasn’t gone that far (although that tartare sauce…). And they love that little trick of having an automatic step in the PIN machine that asks the patron for a tip amount to be added, above the 12.5%. The sheer nerve of it all – do I get a discretionary happy ending if I tip more? No – I just get shafted.

And when looking at the bill, one item always stands out. A litre of water costs about £100! Something that falls from the sky with some regularity in London, and is cursed at by most commuters most of the time – yet in a restaurant, we’re asked to fork out good dough for this. It’s a goddam scandal. You know you’re getting screwed, and the waiters smile while they screw you and you inexplicably smile back.

But you know what? I’ll keep getting screwed. I don’t really do prolonged acts of protest, so I will just have to settle with narrowing my eyes, tutting and getting on with my life. See you at Le Caprice sometime soon.