This evening Buddy-Jo announces that
she has made a booking for us at 'Paolo and Ortho', a very
fashionable, very expensive restaurant in an oblong-shaped basement
in Covent Garden. Gets lot of fancy customers.
“Do we have to do that?” I ask.
“Come on, Jason,” she says. “I'm
a cordon bleu, remember? I want to check out the London eating scene
a little. But I do have a special request.”
“What's that?”
“Well. That you leave everything to
me, ordering the food, choosing the wine, and so on. Is that OK?”
“I suppose so,” I say, grudgingly.
“Great! Then let's go. You'll enjoy
it!”
As usual, heads swivel when we walk in,
Buddy-Jo looking a knock-out in a little black number. The Maitre d.
shows us to a table.
“No good,” says Buddy-Jo giving him
a sweet smile. “ Too near the kitchen.'
“But, Madame,” says the Maitre d.
“This is your table.”
“That table over there will do
nicely,” she says, and gives him another smile. He hesitates and
then capitulates, leads us to it, gives us the menus and tells us a
waiter will be with us shortly. Buddy-Jo studies the menu for a
couple of minutes and then sits back and looks around.
“They sure go in for weird décor.”
I explain that Paolo and Ortho's décor is supposed to represent old
Milan and I point at the small black and white photographs on the
wall.
“Terrific,” she says. “Must have
cost them a fortune.” She's acting a little forceful this evening,
it seems to me. Well, so be it. The waiters – there aren't many –
pass back and forth. Buddy-Jo is watching them quietly. There must be
something wrong with these guys. If I was one, I'd be here real
fast to get an eyeful of Buddy-Jo. She looks at me in a sort of
speculative way and then as one of the waiters walks by our table,
she says loudly, “Hey!” The waiter stops in his tracks, heads
turn.
“We've been here twenty minutes.
Would you like to take our order?” He takes our order.
“I'll have,” says Buddy-Jo, with a
perfect French accent. “Le Neufchatel Tiede aux Pommes Fondantes,
followed by La Brouillade de la Mer au Jus de Betteraves Rouges. My
friend will have La Terrine de Foie Gras Maison en Remoulade followed
be Le Filet de Boeuf aux Echalottes Confites, Creme de Ciboulette.”
“Certainly, Madame,” says the
waiter, tight-lipped.
“OK, Jason?” she asks.
“OK,” I say. “Please continue.”
The wine waiter appears.
“Monsieur has chosen the wine?” he
asks me.
“We have,” says Buddy-Jo. “A
bottle of the Graves '96, and would you bring it right-away,
please.?” He comes back surprisingly soon and says they don't have
any in stock at the moment.
“Really? Then, the Crozes-Hermitage
'98. What do you say, Jason?” I am glad to have only a bit part
in this production so readily agree. After that, she continues to
look around the place and at the other diners Then she stops the
waiter as he passes by.
“I forgot to order mineral water.
What brands do you have?” He rattles out a few names looking off
to the other side of the room.
“Excuse me,” says Buddy-Jo. “Are
you talking to me?” He jerks his head round.
“Why yes, Madame.”
“Oh good. Then I'll have the
Mattoni.” After which we sit quietly for a short while.
“Do you like this music they're
playing,” she asks.
“Definitely not,” I reply. “You'd
think we were in a night club, not trying to enjoy a quiet dinner.”
The food finally comes and she
concentrates on it, asking me to switch dishes with her so she can
taste everything, to the amusement of the people at the next table.
So, what do I care? I'm enjoying Buddy-Jo's performance and the food
and the wine are good.
“Coffee?” she asks me and I say
yes. Our waiter is summoned.
“Two expresso please and would you
ask the Maitre d' to step over ?” The Maitre d' takes a long time
to come but finally appears, smiling.
“Would you care to sit down for a
moment,” she says sweetly to him. He stops smiling.
“Alas, Madame, we are rather busy.
Did Monsieur and Madame enjoy the meal?”
“I had a couple of problems with it,”
says Buddy-Jo. “The cheese in the Neufchatel Tiede is definitely
not from Neufchatel, the Creme Ciboulette was burnt and the Jus des
Betteraves Rouges was stale.” The Maitre d' sneers.
“I regret that Madame did not find
our cuisine to her satisfaction. We never have any complaints. We
have two Michelin stars, Madame. And Monsieur and Madame have
over-run your time here.”
“Shall we go, Jason,” she says.
She hands the Maitre d' a small piece of card.
“You have just been visited by
complain.com. Whose website will feature a review of your
restaurant. You could lose a lot of potential customers. Good night.”
And out we go, the Maitre d' shepherding us along in case we
embarrass any of his clientele.
“Well,” I say, when we get out into
the square. “I hope we don't have to eat out too often! And what's
complain.com?”
“Jason,” she says, taking my arm.
“Thanks for staying cool. I have a doctorate in Cordon Bleu, summa
cum laude, and I spent a year with Maximilien d'Eu and Marcel Bizy in
Lyons working eighteen hours a day. So I know about cooking and OK I
do get a little concerned about it, once in a while. Complain.com
was set up to help the paying customer get the good food and the good
service which they should get, especially in view of the prices they
have to pay. Members put up on the site a list of good and bad
experiences. Neat, huh?”
What can I do but agree?