Two friends from the other side of the pond were in the city earlier this week, necessitating a trip to a couple of bars in the general vicinity of the office in order to put the world to rights. Britain isn’t falling apart without me according to The Best Man and Sickly Child, although I struggle to believe it personally.
The second of the bars we visited was a relatively empty Chelsea drinking den, struggling to fill its glitzily-decorated interior with enough people to pay for a spare toilet roll let alone good staff. With The Best Man opting to grab a cheeky
fagcigarette on the pavementsidewalk before walking inside, it was left to Sickly Child and I to get a table.
Yet despite the place being near empty, and the two of us being able to point to our soon-to-be wining and dining partner standing on the other side of the glass a few yards away, the waitress insisted that she couldn’t seat us until the whole party was present. She didn’t seem particularly embarrassed at her intransigence as she brushed aside our protests, and instead directed us to the empty bar to sit for a whole two minutes while The Best Man finished his cigarette. At least the barman had the good grace to roll his eyes in contempt.
The New York commitment to customer service: you can’t beat it, eh?
Still, we did manage to sneak in a shared
starterappetizer which was served on the kind of three layer silver platter that you normally see stacked with cucumber sandwiches and fondant fancies in a swanky London hotel. Being that we are in New York though, the bottom layer contained deep-fried calamari, the middle layer had quesadillas and the top was laden with a pyramid of crispy golden onion rings.
Who needs high tea when you’ve got a deep fat fryer, that’s what I say.