Portugal 2009 - Day 7

I saw Michael today. He showed me how to use the windows for looking out of. Be careful though, he said, although you can see out other people can also see in unless you move these things across. Bits of cloth called curtains apparently. What will they think of next?

Haven’t had a decent value for money meal since arriving in Estoril. It seems to be a prosperous area with the bars and restaurants reflecting that. This evening we went to a place not far from the hotel for our evening meal. It didn’t appear to be anything special but once inside the waiters were attentive to an embarrassingly grovelling degree. The cutlery was placed on the table with a flourish and slow precision the Queen would have been proud of and while pouring the wine, the waiter held the neck of the bottle over the glass for such a long time I thought he’d nodded off. He hadn’t, he was just waiting for the final minute drop of wine to land into the glass and not sully the tablecloth. It was all rather Basil Fawltyish, eager to please with an obvious false bonhomie.

After serving the wine he said, “Would sir like some water for the table?” Now what does that mean? “Hang on,” I said, and putting my ear close to the table, I looked at him and said, “No, the table doesn’t want any water thanks but we will please.”

My ‘Beefstek Portugal Style’ turned out to be a bit of tough stewing steak with a few olives thrown in to give it that authentic touch and some accompanying sauté potatoes – not bad for bloody £16 eh? And when I’d finished and the waiter asked if everything was all right, I said, “Yes, very good thanks.” Why did I say that when it was one of the worst meals I’d had in a long time? And do you know what the waiter said? He said, “Thank you sir, if I’ve made you happy then I’m happy as well. Thank you sir”

“No, thank you.” I said, “I’m so happy I could sing and dance. Shall we?”

“Thank you sir, I would be honoured,” he said.

“Sit down and don’t be stupid,” Pauline said.

So I sat down.

On the way out we encountered another waiter who placed his right arm across his chest and clicked his heels as we passed him. “Thank you sir.” He said, “I’m so happy you’re happy I could cry.”

“Shall we dance?” I said as Pauline dragged me out the door.

Luckily we didn’t go back there again.

While we’re on the subject of restaurants I might as well admit that for me eating out generally is something that has turned from being a relative pleasure to a bloody provocation from beginning to end. And it all seems very recent to me. London restaurants are all run by people off the telly made famous by their funny haircuts or their willingness to charge you an arm and a leg for a mushroom. You’re made to feel inferior as soon as you step inside the place when the maitre’d takes your coat and inspects what you’re wearing as he says, “Oh, you’re the first of your party to arrive sir.” He even manages to make you feel bloody guilty about that. Then you’re asked if you want a drink at the bar or if you want to go straight to the table. If you answer straight to the table it doesn’t go down well. There goes the chance to charge you a small fortune for a gin and tonic. And then at the table it’s the old water ploy again. “Would you like some water for the table? Still or fizzy sir? We have some excellent water, gently carbonated if you prefer.” Rubbish. What does that mean? Gently carbonated?

Now, as opposed to abroad where bottled is always the preferred choice to their dysentery flavoured tap water, in England we have a choice. Bottled or tap. But after being given the marvellous choice of still, fizzy or gently carbonated you say, “Still please,” when all you really want is a glass of tap water. What it comes down to is that you would rather pay as much for a glass of bottled water as you would for a glass of decent wine than risk the embarrassment of asking for what you actually want. Tap water, with fewer impurities in it these days than the bottled water you are paying through the nose for. Have we totally taken leave of our senses?

Then they give you a menu written in French and in what we are presumably meant to believe is the chef’s handwriting. Now why do they do that? What is the point they are trying to make by writing menus in French? You wouldn’t write it in Thai in a Thai restaurant would you? Or Urdu in an Indian? You don’t enjoy the food more because you’ve bloody ordered it in French. And if you can understand the menu what does it say? It says, “Corn-fed and hand reared Cornish chicken that have luxuriated in warm baths and enjoyed gentle rub downs each day until it was allowed to choose its own method of death and then lovingly hand plucked by happy peasants, marinated for three weeks in a consommé of pure egg yolk, truffles, marjoram and butter made from the milk of wild goats from the foot of the Andes. Then it’s lightly broiled in a pan made out of copper which was mined using well-paid local labour from Zambia and then tossed with a mixture of herbs and spices first discovered by Marco Polo…”

What bollocks.

And to end it all, your plate arrives and someone has drizzled a pattern of some red sticky liquid all around the edges and the quantity of food is always in inverse proportion to the price. By this time you are starving so the two inch square portion of fillet steak is gone in three minutes flat.

Jesus Christ.

And square plates. Square plates! For hundreds of years we’ve been using perfectly serviceable round plates and then some trendy, arty-farty designer comes along and decides on behalf of all humanity that round plates are so yesterday. What we need today is not round but square plates. What for? Jesus only knows. In fact it doesn’t stop there does it? You never know what your food’s going to be served up on (or in). It’s a constant surprise. Baskets, basins, vegetables in separate dishes, starters on flat pieces of wood – what’s wrong with plates? Plates. Round plates. Not square, hexagonal or triangular. Round. Round. Round. Square plates? Piss on them. Actually, don’t do that.

And then there’s the service charge. Different from a tip in several ways: it’s not voluntary and it doesn’t often get to the staff. You never know whether the restaurant will split the service charge with the staff or just keep it all for themselves. So it’s not even a ‘service’ charge, a charge in appreciation of the staff who might reasonably expect to get paid enough anyway. It’s just a charge. Someone asking you for extra money for no reason whatsoever which they will then simply keep. You can see why they don’t put that on the menu.

The thieving shits.

And if you are still drinking ordinary water, you must be some kind of bleeding loser. I wouldn’t drink ordinary water – bottled or tap – if you paid me. I now only drink ‘ultra-purified’, ‘restructured’ Penta – “the Choice of Champions”. (Look it up).

Too bloody right it is.

This water is scientific. Consider this blurb from their advertising: “Top athletes use Penta for ultimate performance.” Drinking this stuff makes you run faster: FACT.  “Busy mums and high flyers use Penta to rise above the daily grind.” Anything endorsed by both athletes and mums, well that’s got to be some serious water hasn’t it? Which it is. High flyers are usually real bastards but never mind they need water too and it’s reassuring to know that when some bastard in the City is bankrupting the country, they’re very, very hydrated and much more likely to pee in their pants.

So what’s in it? Water! Yes. Just bloody water – but more water than in old fashioned water. That’s right. There’s more water per centilitre of water than your Earthling water, you crap water drinking fools. If you had 500 millilitres of your crappy water and I had 500 millilitres of Penta I’d have more water than you. Having trouble getting your brain round that? Try getting “Bio-hydrated”. It makes you alert, more intelligent and more likely to get off with fit people. Not only is Penta “easy to drink” (how difficult can water get?), it’s also “fast acting”. Because old water while perfectly adequate for the Steam Age is now just so bleeding slow. If you’ve got broadband but still use taps, you’re clearly some kind of chumpy monkey.

In fact next time your local water authority comes knocking on your door demanding to know why you haven’t paid the bill, tell them to shove it up their arse, their water’s shit!