Garcon

Today

Yesterday was the London-Brighton Classic Car Run. In accordance with recently created tradition, Paul and I drove up to London the day before, planning to stay over so we were fresh the following day.

The start was at Mercedes-Benz World at Brooklands so we booked into a swanky-sounding De Vere Hotel at Gorse Hill, near Woking. The hotel looked pretty swanky too; Becky joined us and we were all set for a good time.

Went into the very nice dining room to be served a dinner by completely untrained waiting staff. They didn't know what was on the menu, didn't offer us a taste of or pour the wine, removed dishes when some were still eating - in fact committed practically all the faux pas that a waitress can make. In the end the restaurant manager came scuttling over to rescue them and us - "So sorry", she said "it's their first day." "I know they need training - but I bet we don't get a discount" I hissed to Paul.

In My Day

Back in 1970 I was in serious need of a summer job. Mamma and Daddy had by this time vacated 4 Beulah and I was camping at my brother's. I don't now remember how I found out about relief waitressing but one day I went into central London and booked as a temporary relief waitress with the Brook St Bureau.

They told me to supply a uniform consisting of black skirt, white blouse and white apron. The first 2 I had, the third I hastily ran up on the sewing machine and hoped I didn't look like a character from 'ello 'ello.

Experience I completely lacked; all I could offer was intelligence and good legs.

My first assignment was to a very busy snack bar on Fleet Street. Journalists and other media people dashed in, barked orders and wanted them quick. I tried to remember who was having what and have no idea how I got through the day.

The second one was to an Italian restaurant situated near to both Smithfield Market and St Bart's Hospital, so had a varied clientelle. I turned up and was shown the ropes by an elderly waitress who'd obviously been there since before the Flood. "We keep our own tips," she told me. This experience was altogether more gently-paced. Doctors and butchery businessmen came in for leisurely wine-fuelled lunches. I quickly undertood what was required and, it must be said, found that my youth, chirpy manner (and good legs) brought me very good tips. So much so that the elderly waitress complained to the boss and said she thought that tips should be shared. "Yes", said the boss "Aren't they always?" She then had to admit that she'd changed the rules when I started - clearly she thought that her experience would favour her - and the boss told her to lie on the bed she'd made. I quite enjoyed my stay at this place and sometimes did weddings on Sundays when 100's of drunken Italians would roar out "O Sole Mio" or "Ave Maria" and try to pinch my behind.

My final stint was at a gastro pub which was quite swanky and where my complete inability to do silver service was somewhat looked down upon. The chef, amazed at my being veggie, would give me food parcels of meat to take home for my cat.

I don't think it was the fact that the waitresses on Saturday were new that bothered me, it was that they made it so obvious.