Eating pie, non-delicious humble pie…

As a somewhat chunky chap you will not be surprised to hear that there are few foods I do not do, beetroot not withstanding. But the food I hate the most is humble pie, especially when it is served by the chefs with undue gusto and amusement. But I had no choice but to swallow it whole and with contrition.

It all happened the other evening. The restaurant was busy and I was, for reasons unknown, flustered. I'm not normally at home to Mr Fluster - Mr Shouty, yes. Mr Drama, no question. Mr Unreasonable Expectations, oh hell yes. But not Mr Fluster. A flustering waiter is not a good waiter.

My section was filing up at an alarming rate of knots but for a good three maybe four minutes I was fully in control of the situation. Actually if you asked the guests or the management or even my Waiter Chums they all would have said all was well. But I knew otherwise. But having secured three orders in a row I was sure my little moment was over. Well I thought it was until I brought the starters to table two.

"No, I didn't order that, I ordered the garlic bread", said the nice woman.

Now, as a waiter you have to be able to lie at the drop of a hat slice of bread. I mean, I cant think of the last time I worked a shift without telling a porky pie. It's part of the job, not that you will see it in any training manuals. Some lies, like waiters, are bigger than others. Someone phone's and asks what time we close at, you tell them a half hour earlier than the actual close. Some one asks for the sweet that takes forty minutes ten minutes before close, you tell them there is none left. And on it goes.

I needed a lie, and one tripped of my tongue - just like that.

"Ah my apologies madam, they [the chefs] must have confused your order with another table. I'll get it sorted asap. Silly chefs, I'll have them whipped", and off I trundled to the kitchen with the sound of the woman laughing as I went. Who doesn't find the thought of chefs being whipped amusing?

Obviously when I got to the kitchen I had to continue lying. I couldn't tell that lot I had goofed and rang up the wrong starter.

"Sorry lads, bloody woman didn't realise there was cream in the cream of tomato soup. Sake, what can you do eh?!"

Now, that problem was sorted and all was well. Little did I know that problem number two was winging it's way to table four. Again I had rang up a garlic bread as a soup.

"Whoops, sorry folks. I just don't know what those kitchen fellas are up to. Blah blah blah....I'll get it changed for you straight away....we'll get them whipped" Same lie all over again. Oh dear. But this meant another trip to the kitchen. Lying to guests is all fair and well but lying to the chefs is another thing. They are no stranger to the odd falsehood and occasional mendacity themselves and can spot bullshit at a thousand paces.

"Yes, yes I fucked up. I need a garlic bread. Sorry lads. Ah just do it will ya. It's not like you don't make mistakes either". They gave me some good hearted grief and off I went again with a replacement garlic bread.

No sooner had I dropped the replacement garlic bread on table four but the starters for table six came out, three soup. I balanced them and strode, not with confidence but with fear. Did the really order three soup? No, of course they didn't, they ordered three fucking bloody arse fudging garlic bread. For fuck sake, what was wrong with me?!! I was waiting at a management level, that is to say shockingly bad.

Telling the same lie to three tables in a row, all sat beside each other, is a bit much even for me. So I just ponied up, quietly to table six that is, that I had made a snafu. They took it well and we had a little laugh about it. But I still had to return to the sweaty belly of the beast, the kitchen. Oh my.

"Aye, you're fucking shit wah", was the opening remark from the second chef, the head chef was thankfully off duty. He would have tore me a new one. They don't get many opportunities to have a go at me so they really let me have it. Each chef and pot washer gave me both barrels, very sweary barrels. There was nothing I could do, I had to suck it up and stand there and take it. Let me tell you, nothing snaps you out of a fluster quicker than a stockpot full of abuse from chefs. It's like being pwned by a street drinker for your taste in clothes.

Meh, I do hope these fluster attacks aren't going to become a permanent trait.

The humble pie tastes like eating a shit cake, and I don't mean a bad cake, I mean a cake made from shit.