Dionysus needs spoons…

Three day weekends eh. Good times, for most. For waiters and chums of waiters it's just an extra day at the coal face with giddy people being extra giddy about not having to go to work on a Monday. Not that I am bitter, much. My waiter chums were lambasting me for my miserable bank holiday attitude and generally glum visage and even called me a "grumpy old git". That didn't help things much it has to be said. And they then launched into a five minute tirade about all the things that annoy them about me.  Apparently I take things "too seriously". So I huffed and didn't speak to anyone for ages. That showed them.

Bank holidays don't bring the best out in me. There was the usual ball-achery and smugness from the marathon runners. They tend to wear it, the smugness that is, like a badge. A big badge that apparently entitles you to be a bit of douche. And by "bit" I mean huge giant planet sized douche. It's as if the normal rules of dining don't apply to you if you have just run 26 miles.

"'Scuse me sir, what are you doing?", asked the jolly (code for fat) waiter who hasn't ran for as much as a bus in nigh on twenty years to the man in tracksuit bottoms and ill fitting t-shirt who was rifling through the cutlery trays. The cutlery trays are not customer accessible, unless you have a minor god complex because you have just run a marathon of course.

"Yes...what...eh...yes..."

"Sir?"

"I just need a couple of spoons", said the minor deity.

I tried to manoeuvre myself between Dionysus and the precious polished cutlery but being an athlete, him not me, he was too agile and just moved quickly to block me off. I was not amused as you can imagine. After handling, pawing and generally touching up my sparkly silver wear like he was at his high school disco he turned to me with a very exasperated look and demanded to know where the spoons were!

Well you can imagine my reaction.

"The spoons sir..." began I with more snootiness and condescension than a Parisien waiters bus run to the university of snootiness and condescension, "...are not kept here. This is where the knives and the forks are kept." And with that I tugged the handful or forks from his sweaty grasp. Obviously I set them to the side and then just put them back into the tray later. Heh, nice.

"But I need a spoon", says yer man

"I gathered that sir", replied I with all the disdain of a graduate of said university.

"The spoons, however, are over here", and I walked him over to the spoon station. Station? Probably not really a station as opposed to a different cutlery tray and it's not solely spoons, there are steak knives too but they aren't relavent to the story. Well I say not relevant but I did consider lodging one in his neck.

I lifted a dessert spoon and a soup spoon and enquired which he needed.

"It doesn't matter, either of them."

I had to take a step back. It doesn't matter? I should coco.

Steadying myself from the insulting suggestion that spoon selection 'doesn't matter' I took a deep breath and asked him what he was eating.

"Eating? I'm not eating anything. We are getting a bit of a sing song on, I'm gonna play the spoons."

It took all my strength not to move my hand slightly to the left and pick up a steak knife. Sing song? Play the spoons? In the restaurant? My restaurant? Where I was working? Not a bloody chance of it runner boy. I don't care if you are Haile Gebrselassie himself there will be no sing bloody songs and no bloody spoon playing when I'm on shift.

He wasn't best pleased. But one has standards to maintain. Pfft.

Anyhoo I went for a wander after that to the dark place were the minions of Gordon hang out, that is to say I went to see the chefs in the kitchen. Ten minutes later and having been mercilessly abused for no real reason I found myself back in the restaurant humming along to "Dirty Old Town". Not that it was being played over the speakers, oh no it was straining to be heard over the racaous shenanigans from table ten. Fixing my angry face I stormed off to be put an end to the frolics only to find my waiter chums and a lot of tracksuited diners, including a man with his foot up on the leather benching playing spoons (2 desserts spoons at that), singing their little hearts out.

I know when I am beat.

Bastards the lot of them.

But well done to all who ran the Belfast Marathon on Monday especially Little Miss Manuel. Thanks to all who donated to her chosen charity, The Northern Ireland Hospice. Last count it was about £800. Which is aces. You can still donate online here.