Pass the stroganoff

“You don’t know what’s in beef stroganoff? It’s rice… mushrooms…” he plunged another fork-full of said stroganoff into the depths of his mouth, “…and beef.” A piece of beef (neatly propelled by the last breath of its very name) flew across the table and settled on the empty seat opposite.

The waitress smiled and looked down at the reservation list, again. I imagined it blank, a barren wasteland of empty tables, destined to remain vacant for the rest of the evening. No respite, no distraction and no excuse to tend to someone else.

It seems that whenever I stay in a hotel I end up sharing dining space with a road worker. I don’t know many road workers. I don’t know any, in fact, but I imagine they’re likely to be as varied and diverse a race as found in any profession. Only, the ones I come across sit in hotel restaurants, appear to be on first name terms with all of the staff and are, without exception, the most annoying people I’ve ever come across.

Tonight’s diner was a prime example. Fat, loud and insistent on reminding everyone within a one mile radius that he is working away from home, he gave us all a running commentary of the work in hand. It’s been a long week, y’know and it’s looking like he’ll be working into the weekend. Barry said he could have the overtime, but the missus isn’t going to like it. Oh no, but at least it’ll give her chance to catch up on Corrie. That bit out the front is done, but they’ve got to do the bit down by the tram line, and that’s going to take at least another eight years…

They’re never pleasant, either. I can just about tolerate a loud, nice person. For a couple of minutes. But these guys are, without exception, nasty pieces of work.

The stroganoff expert finished his meal and demanded to see the dessert menu which was duly delivered, in my opinion, far too quickly and without the necessary final action of inserting it into him. “Not much nice on there, eh?” He said, leaning back on the chair I hoped would give up trying to support him.

To her credit, the waitress simply smiled again and didn’t take up the second opportunity to force-feed him an ironic dessert menu dessert.

And with that, he left. I’m here for another night, so I’ll let you know how they get on with the tram bit tomorrow. Personally, I can’t wait for the update.

2 thoughts on “Pass the stroganoff

  1. Brill Mark – these type are a waste of DNA – and they take up way too much space, and oxygen for my liking.

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