I should have known there was a problem when the customer beside me asked for a clean glass. Things were already looking dodgy as the lone barman seemed to be juggling overflowing drip trays, trying to find an EPOS terminal that worked. Each time he moved the sound of shoe sole being ripped from a stickily-coated floor made me fear for his footwear – and balance.
“Look, this one’s no better,” complained the customer. Echoes of Death Star Canteen gathered in my mind as the beleaguered barman pulled another glass, and then another and then yet another from the shelf, all with their tell-tale tide mark. The customer wisely threw in the towel at this point. “Just give me a straw then,” she exhaled.
The queue at the small – pint sized you might say – bar was now 3 deep but here comes the cavalry. An older but determinedly dishevelled chap cut a path through the waiting drinkers, shimmied under the serving hatch and looked surprised to find himself on the working side of the counter. The barman looked relieved. “Look these trays need emptying. But the slop sink is blocked and the Archers needs a new barrel,” he implores.
But the pub gods weren’t listening. Or more to the point Mr Dishevelled Manager wasn’t
With a glance around the bar, a glimpse of a grimace and self-justifying shrug, he ducks back under the serving hatch and disappears towards the smoking area, followed by about a dozen swivelling heads.
“Yes mate?” the barman asks having abandoned hope of support but safe in the knowledge that all those waiting to be served had seen the same as him.
In the circumstances, booking a table for dinner seemed to be the most straightforward and supportive thing I could do.
With some trepidation, eight of us turn up for dinner that evening. “Ah yes, here you are,” is the warm greeting for an efficient looking waitress. She shows us to a table in a separate dining room. But it is dwarfed by a table for much larger group of at least 20 which surrounds us on three sides. “Lucky you got in before them,” she laughs a little nervously.
Menus are handed round and the chat turns to who is having what. The waitress takes a drinks order which duly arrives. I offer a silent prayer that the slop basin has been unblocked. Then food……
Well, that was the general idea.
Chicken wings to start please, followed by…….
Sorry, we can’t do that tonight.
Oh well, deep fried camembert……..
We’re, er, the deep fat frier’s faulty and we’re waiting for a new one. And we’re right out of camembert today I’m afraid.
What about the Pastrami cured Salmon, that sounds nice.
Ah well, it wasn’t so much a cure as a disaster – the salmon fought back. Ruined the whole thing.
Whipped Feta dip?
Not allowed to whip any more. Animal cruelty innit? Those poor little Fetas.
And so it goes until eventually the waitress runs out of increasingly implausible explanations on her chosen specialist subject – the absence of starters.
Look, she says with shades of desperation. We can’t really do starters tonight. You see what with a big party coming in, chef just couldn’t cope.
So, no starters then?
No, you can have starters. The range is just a bit, er, limited.
Encouraging looks from the hungry table of eight.
What starters can we have?
Er, nachos. You can have nachos. With salsa and sour cream. And guacamole.
Are you sure chef can open the packet?
Our waitress giggles. Oh you are funny. No he’s got a machine for that. This isn’t the 1970s you know. Now is that everything? I’ll sort that out and come back for orders for mains.
No, hang on, we say collectively, as if motivated by some premonition. Let’s order those now.
Chicken Kyiv for me.
Ah, look , sorry, we’ve had a localised but deadly outbreak of avian flu. Had to take chicken off the menu.
So no Chicken Kyiv either?
Well we’ve not had that for some time actually. She leans forward conspiratorially – not since the Russians invaded.
Ok, Steak and Ale pie sounds good.
She winces.
You’re not going to tell me there’s been an outbreak of foot-and-mouth are you, just locally?
Oh no, that would be silly.
So Steak and Ale pie.
And for me.
Make that three.
A nervous giggle. Ah, you see. The delivery…..
Didn’t turn up did it, we say in unison.
No, grasps the waitress, it didn’t. Have you been affected too? Can’t get the staff these days.
Beer battered haddock and chips? You must have Fish and Chips?
Like I said, had to pull it from the menu. Animal cruelty, Can’t batter little fishes no more either.
So what have you got?
Well…..we’ve got a special on the menu. An exceptional blend of textures and flavours,
an appetizer smothered in melted cheese and speckled with taste explosions of jalapeño peppers, tomatoes, onions, spicy ground beef, or other fine condiments. A veritable……..
It’s nachos again isn’t it.
Yes. The valiant waitress deflates.
F**king nachos.
We stand and struggle to make our way out past an inrushing party of 20.
©SimonSapper 2026
