Went out for a walk and snack lunch, with hubby and one of the teens. Turned out to be one of the worst lunches I’ve ever had. Nothing to do with the company – they were lovely. But typically British.
Ordered a goat’s cheese and tomato toastie – Oh. My. God. It arrived looking like a limp, pathetic, anaemic rag. I opened it up – it wasn’t even sealed – and couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Very little I tell you! Very little! I immediately had three issues with said ‘toastie’.
First issue: thickness of bread – very thick. This meant it remained as bread in the middle and did not, as its name would lead you to believe, become toast.
Second issue: one small round of cheese in the middle of two large slices of square bread – thus leading to huge amounts of empty white, pappy bread all around the edge.
Third issue: three slices of tomato cut so thinly I could see through them. I know this because I tried. Since when have surgeons’ scalpels become part of a café’s kitchen equipment?
And another thing: also on the plate was a small pile of dry salad. Dry salad! Ever tried chomping through salad with no dressing to lubricate it? Not pleasant and also not possible – especially when it’s full of the kind of lettuce leaf that point-blank refuses to yield and bend. Just as you manage to fold it on to the fork, and successfully get it near your mouth, it pings open and slaps itself across your cheek.
I immediately wanted to complain, and hand this sorry excuse for a toastie back. I voiced this desire. Hubby said it didn’t look that bad (it did) and suggested I ordered something else; teenager looked completely panic-stricken. I had two choices: complain and ensure he NEVER came out with us again, or swallow my disgust (which would be a whole lot easier than swallowing the toastie) and keep quiet.
Waitress: Everything alright with your meal?
Teenager: *looks terrified*
Hubby: *suddenly finds something very interesting at the bottom of his rucksack*
Me: Errr…(make ’em both sweat) …yes thanks.
I decided to do the noble thing and not embarrass them. I’ll go back on my own another day, order the same toastie, use the unyielding lettuce as a weapon and play merry hell!
Why oh why do the British struggle with complaining?
Would you keep quiet for the sake of teen/parent relations?