What an odd weekend. Friday was a bust due to the world and it’s wife and most of their friends and all of their family and the guy who does their lawn sitting in and watching bloody Eastenders. Seriously people, how am I ever going to have enough money for my own island/chain of Morrissey themed cafes if you insist on sitting in and watching TV? Saturday was obviously the total opposite as all those who sat in to see red faced nice boy Bradley’s peculiar death and Stacey’s tearful admission of murder most dull raced to get the fudge out of the house and into a restaurant.

Saturday was, as we say round these parts when it’s a bit tough, fucking mental. The hen party in the private room wasn’t causing any problems but the stag group within the restaurant were. Loud, obnoxious, spoilt and demanding…was how one of them described me under their breath. Heh, but I soon fixed his wagon with a well timed dressing down in front of the group. What is it about men away from home that makes them turn into a primary school day trip?

Anyhoo, with the man-children suitably subdued with a combination of shame and steak I got on with my other tables most of whom were quite well behaved. All, that is, with the exception of The Man Who Knew Too Much. Except he didn’t, he knew less than too much, in fact I would go as far as to suggest he knew fudge all about anything, and that’s being kind. I had just returned from seating a cute young couple (quite probably on a first date – he looked like he had been dressed by his mum and she had more fake tan on than was really necessary which prompted Waiter Chum the Smallest to remark, “Isn’t dressing up as a minstrel illegal?” to much guffawing  from the rest of us) when in he wandered all brazen and loud with a swagger to match.

Obviously his table was in my section, I should be so lucky to get the wee fella and Mrs Al Jolson.

He swaggered and swayed and essentially held court over the five other guests at his table. Nobody could get a word in what with his pontificating and sermonising on every subject from Eastenders (he knew it was Stacey what done it) to Haiti (such a tragic history) to the fate of the bee population (we’re all fucked apparently if the bees die out) and on and on and on it went. Wouldn’t mind but I hadn’t even told them the specials at that point.

Obviously he knew everything about food, EVERYTHING! But actually he knew nothing as evidenced by the twatty questions he asked,

“Is the fillet steak succulent?”

“Is the do what where? The fillet, succulent?” I was tempted to reply by telling him the £33 a portion fillet steak tasted like the ass of a Jar Jar Binks but feared he would simply reply that ,”that was a good thing as Jar Jar Binks’s are indeed as succulent as it gets”.

I replied in the affirmative and tried to move on. “And waiter….”, being called waiter makes my skin crawl “…is it marbled, I mean really well marbled?” and he made slightly odd hand gestures which I assume were meant to demonstrate marbling but instead made him look like a tit. Again I replied in the affirmative and tried, again, to move on to another guest. But he wasn’t done with me. More silly questions followed as to the provenance of the meat and the colour grass it had been fed on and the name of the farmers daughter and blah blah fucking blah I watch Saturday kitchen and read AA Gill so I think I know about food in fact you can call me a foodie. But then one of his chums snapped and demanded he order something or shut the fudge up. So he did, order that is, and despite everything he went for the salmon. The dick. A decision he would later regret as two of his chums wolfed down their spectacular 12oz fillet steaks whilst he pushed his poached salmon round the plate like a boy eating gruel whilst his master eats beef.

I had cause to interrupt him sometime later as I cleared away their plates. He was admonishing a chum about their choice of car when I asked them if they would  care for a polite glance at the sweet menu. But before anyone could answer yer man turns to me and says,

“Now let me see….hmmm…”, he was stroking his chin and sizing me up and down, I wasn’t sure if he wanted to thump me or fiddle with me. I was on edge either way. He continued, “….hmmm you must be Quinny’s brother eh?”

“Quinny? No, my name isn’t Quinn.”

“Ah c’mon now you MUST be Quinny’s brother for you’re the double of him”

“Indeed sir but I assure you I have no brother and my name isn’t Quinn”, I was firm but polite.

“Now now, I say you are the Quinn’s brother….there’s no shame in it…” and he guffawed like a portly gentleman from the 1800′s. His cheeks wobbled and released the sweat trapped in the folds of his fat face. Charming I’m sure.

“Sir, I have no brother. My surname is not Quinn. You are mistaken.” I didn’t want to embarrass him but he wouldn’t let it go.

The table fell silent until one of the chaps squeaked that they would like to see the sweet menu thus giving me an out from the table. I returned with a face like thunder, he had gotten under my skin. I delivered the menus in silence. The table was quiet too until he piped up again. “You are Quinny’s brother, you damn well know it and so do I.”

I blew out my cheeks, shook my head and walked away from the table. I did not return. Waiter Chum Number One owed me one so she filled in for the rest of the meal.

I was very likely to have said or done something career/liberty threatening if I had continued serving them. But seriously? What the feck is that all about?

He was a walking PG Woodehouse charcter without the charm or warmth but just the sweat and bloatedness. Quinny’s brother indeed, whoever the hell Qunny is….!

I have no brother, meh, you sir are a tiitymaboob Manuel the Waiter, Well Done Fillet