Remember Wimpy? Anyone my age will surely remember the precursor of fast food drivel. We all loved it and our waistline never recovered from the fries and double whammies. Anyway this has nothing to do with the quickie-in-food concept. I thought of the burger joint of old just because I felt such a wimp a few days ago.
OK here's the rub. Reading me you'll find this hard to believe but I hate complaining when I'm in a restaurant. I must sound, with my gripes here laid bare for the whole world to see, the complainer from hell. I hate complaining in restaurants not just because of those awful stories about food for complainers which gets the extra unknown, unseen and unexpected ingredients added on nicely by the kitchen staff. I also hate making scenes. And most of all I hate disturbing the rest of the diners' good moods. So I've eaten food I never ordered, burnt offerings and a few under-cooked meals. I just sit there, grin and bear it.
A few days ago I went to a restaurant in St Julian's which is usually very good. Food came a bit late but who's complaining? I was in a/c comfort. Outside it was blisteringly hot and I was nicely doing nothing. I had ordered ravioli which might have been home-made or not I know not. They came in a sea of some soup which rendered the ravioli's outer part far from stiff and proper. They of course became soggy and nearly inedible. I am no gourmet but this soggy, sagging, sorry ravioli lump was rather off-putting. I braved on heroically and stoically saying nothing to the restaurant staff.
Or rather I said nothing because I'm a wimp. I was paying good money so why not tell them to put these disgusting specimens back where no sun shines—in the freezer. I usually eat all I'm given on my plate even if it isn't prized food. So it was strange for me when I left quite a few ravioli swimming in that glutinous gunk. No waiter or manager mentioned the fact that I didn't finish all my food.. Or seemed a bit taken aback by the sight of the soup in the plate where no soup was meant to be.
The wimp in me won again because I paid for the whole meal and even added on a tip, when the whole plateful was more than fitting to go head-first in a tip. And the service wasn't exactly superior. Oh well it's all my fault as I should have told them while I was there not kept it bottled inside me to then spill it all out in a blog. I don't even get a decent offer to make up for it—just as my blogging neighbour does by naming and shaming and more often than not giving due praise for eating-holes he visits.
Wimpiness be damned. I'm now off ravioli forever.