We meet again Dear Reader!
Frankly I’m surprised you haven’t unfollowed, defriended or indeed defenestrated me yet (google it) after all the begging for votes I’ve been doing recently.
I am super sorry about that but I have become quite desperate (no jokes please). You see, I would very much like to win something in 2015, I think it may be my year. Well that and my Slimmer of the Year 2014 campaign isn’t going according to plan.
*reaches for donut*
Speaking of food. It was my friend Kelly’s birthday last week and we went to Rosso in Manchester. It is lovely. Quite posh but not too expensive and just a genuinely nice place to eat. It helped that when I walked in the live jazz band were playing Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash.
Things were going swimmingly, Gary the lovely boyfriend (Kelly’s obv), had bought us some champers and as usual we were taking forever to order. It had been a while since we’d last seen each other and Jade had got glasses since then so of course they had to be discussed at length.
Whenever my friends and I get together there is a minimum of three conversations going on at the same time, which is why we are hated by waitresses the world over. We take more time to open the menu than most people take to eat three courses.
Eventually I ordered chicken with prawn chowder (sounds awful but was delicious). Jade ordered lamb. Kelly ordered chicken with bacon and cheese. This is where it all started to go a bit tits up.
Without so much as a pause for thought, the waiter, who I will name George, shook his head and proclaimed
“No, that cheese is too strong for a lady”.
Firstly – thank you for calling us ladies. My mum will be very pleased. Secondly – What the….??
This was followed by ten minutes of Kelly protesting that she liked strong cheese, George refusing to let her order the strong cheese, and me getting slightly riled, partly because all the talk of cheese was giving me food envy fear but also the “for a lady” part confused me. Do you have to have a Y chromosome to eat Stilton nowadays?
What’s next – do I need testicles to order tuna tartar? A penis for a pie?
Sorry to go all Sweeney Todd but you get the idea.
George managed to coax Kelly away from certain dairy disaster when she realised she did actually want the cheese and eventually it was ordered. I’m sure he would have written down his credit card details and his mother’s maiden name with more enthusiasm.
We were left befuddled.
I don’t want you to think we didn’t like George – he was perfectly charming. He just had no idea who he was dealing with. These were three girls who collectively had attended 387 wine and cheese nights, had probably eaten a wheel of brie each before breakfast, and could argue the pros and cons of Primula like the G8 discussing Palestine.
We know our way around a cheese board.
Sure, Fontina cheese is pretty stinky but it would take more than a bit of a pong to put us girls off our dinner. Poor George seemed disappointed when he came back to find our plates licked clean. Maybe it would have been more “girlie” if we had nibbled on a salmon fillet or a half portion of pasta but that, Dear George, is not us.
This is not the first time this has happened.
My super sophisticated friend Sarah is possibly the most glamorous girl you could meet. Irritatingly she hasn’t aged since she was 17. Whilst my skin is slowly starting to look like gone off chicken, hers is liquid chocolate. Never underdressed, I don’t think I have seen her in flats since Year 7 PE. She went camping wearing a fur gilet and pearls. You get the idea.
Sarah loves beer, specifically real ale, and yet every time she orders one at the bar the young chap looks confused.
“You mean a gin and slim or a white wine spritzer?”*
If she had wanted a spritzer she would have ordered a spritzer for crying out loud! Now pass me the pale ale and be off with you!
*If we are ever fortunate enough, Dear Reader, to meet each other in a bar and you order a white wine spritzer I will slap you. A spritzer is what French toddlers drink instead of fruit juice. It is not an appropriate beverage choice.
The story ends well, the cheese was delicious. We tipped but I left a mildly irate comment card – that’ll teach ’em! #British
Normally my blog posts don’t have a point and if they do they are neither big nor clever. I don’t write about politics or health or real-world problems not because I’m not interested but because I don’t know where I stand on a lot of issues. Plus, I think you have all got your own views, far be it for me to tell you what to think (are you listening Russell Brand?!).
Each to their own I say. Except racists, bigots, homophobes etc. You lot are definitely wrong. Have a word with yourselves please. Thanks.
The one thing that is bound to get my goat is if someone tries to stand in the way of me and a good meal. Not only that but to say that I shouldn’t eat said meal BECAUSE I AM A WOMAN. Ooh – if I had the upper body strength to poke you in the eyeball I would.
I’m not sure if Little George learnt his lesson but in case you missed it, waiters (and waitresses) of the world, please note:
I like my meat rare, my cheese smelly, and my testicles tickled!
…wait that came out wrong…
I’m off out for dinner again tonight. Where shall we go Gromit?
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