“At dinner the other night I was the oldest one”- Theo Walcott
I was joined at dinner by two colleagues. As much as the ambiance, the drink, and of course the food, I have long been of the belief that a good meal is defined by your company. Many times has a mediocre desert tray been rescued by lively discourse. This is not to say that a restaurant should be given an easy reviewing ride simply because of rewarding companionship. Instead their task has become a more nuanced one: they are now charged with ensuring that not only your own spirits, but also the spirits of your fellow diners, are kept in thorough and fine fettle. Put simply: we didn’t want any more tantrums from Emmanuel because they had ran out of Last Airbender toys in the Happy Meals.
When we arrived the staff were attentive and brisk; we hadn’t been sat down five minutes before a lady with an industrial mop told us we would have to get what we wanted ourselves and that the milkshake machine wasn’t working. We had been planning on sampling a few different milkshakes as the night went on and so, as Aaron removed his bib disappointedly, there was a gloomy feeling that the night had already been soured. Theirs more than mine, I must confess: in the back of my mind I was relieved that they wouldn’t be taking hands sticky with congealed sugar and syrup back to the car with them.
Beginning with a chicken nugget starter, finished in Barbeque sauce (once I got theirs open for them), there was a moment of high excitement when Emmanuel told us that he had one shaped exactly like a beak. As somebody who values presentation, I nevertheless wonder about such gimmickry. It may be an interesting quirk giving the diner “the full and visceral experience of eating a chicken”- as a staff member explained it while wiping up the juice spilt by Aaron- but novelty crutches like these lead me to wonder if the sanest path for the restaurant isn’t the one more commonly wandered. It didn’t end at the nuggets either. I was forced to complain when I found a hair in my coffee. As I pointed out to the staff, chickens don’t have hair, they have contour and down feathers.
Waiting on the main course, which Emmanuel has gone to the till to order on the condition of being timed, I reflected on our surroundings. Though the ceilings are high and the artwork- abstract and sparsely coloured drawings of Ronald McDonald and The Ham Burgular presumably on loan from the nearby Tate Modern- challenging, it’s a slightly cramped and less than relaxing venue for dining. The seating arrangements don’t help, with barely enough room for Aaron to swing backwards on his, and, in an era of fast food sushi and affordable dining for all, it feels almost like a throwback to the type of place one might have visited with friends during summers gone by way of a last resort. I mentioned my thoughts to Aaron and Emmanuel but they’d never heard of Wimpy.
As the Big Macs and Fish Fillets arrived, the table has subdued a little and we ate our meals in thoughtful silence, a silence only punctured by Aaron’s occasional claims that Emmanuel got more fries than him. The mellow mood suited the dish, even if I did get more to chew on from the fish than from the conversation.
Over After Eight McFlurrys things picked up slightly, the previous lull presumably being missed bedtimes based and nothing to do with the sogginess of the fries. (They hadn’t been prepared wrongly- Aaron had spilt his juice again.) Chatting about this and that as one does waiting for the bill, it suddenly occurred that the last time we saw a member of staff was sometime before Aaron began on that mega random thing he had watched on the tele the night before, roughly forty five minutes earlier. Furthermore, the mops had been stored away, the lights switched off and, most damningly of all, both doors bolted shut. In the distance, as we peered out the window, smoke rose from the heels of the departing staff. It wasn’t the ideal circumstances in which to enjoy a desert.
Still. It’s not all bad. I’m looking forward to sampling the pancakes and Mcmuffins
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