What would the Earl say?

I’m sitting in a hotel bar right now waiting for some food I’ve ordered.

But in a place like this it’s never just food is it… no, it’s pompous wanky food with unnecessarily long and tedious descriptions.

It’s places like this that have words like compote, medley and terrine on the menu.  Even the scrambled egg on toast sounded so exquisite I wanted to have sex with it.

Is this to somehow justify the inflated prices?

Would I pay £10 for a prawn cocktail?

No.

Would I pay it for saltwater Alaskan shrimp on a bed of distressed iceberg shavings, drizzled with creamy homemade Marie Rose dressing and a tickle of paprika, complimented with hand cut toasted wheatbread laced with Devon churned butter?

Fuck yeah! Here are the deeds to my house, just feed me this extravagance!

Oh, wait, it’s just prawn cocktail.

And it doesn’t end with their choice of words.  Everything is delivered on a tray.  Even my diet coke was delivered on a tray, complete with a posh stirrer.

Why?   Is it so I can mix my diet coke with the rest of the diet coke in my glass?

I perused this minefield of Shakespearean verse called a menu and eventually decided to go for the ‘free range slivers of extra matured….’ Oh for fuck’s sake, I went for a ham sandwich.

Now, in my experience a ham sandwich is bread, butter, ham, possibly mustard and then bread. It is basically ham ‘sandwiched’ between two slices of bread.   So why am I still waiting for it an hour later?

If the pig has been hand reared as a result of my order, the cows milked and the butter churned,  the mustard seeds grown fresh, and the bread baked specially…then it makes sense I’d have to wait. But I suspect they’ve run out of trays in the kitchen and don’t know how to deliver my food to me any other way.

Frankly, I’m so hungry right now you could deliver it with a crossbow and I’d be happy.   In pain, but happy.

Interestingly, I’ve just had a second diet coke brought to my table (on a tray, naturally) and I find myself a little disappointed it has no stirrer.   If you set the bar too high, you’ll inevitably disappoint.

My sandwich finally arrives an hour and twenty minutes after I ordered it, but at least it’s a special sandwich with…. ….oh wait, no, it’s just a ham sandwich.

But it isn’t; not really. It’s three quarters of a ham sandwich.   They’ve clearly managed to figure out the bread-ham-bread thing and then understandably cut it into quarters, only to give me three of them.

Where’s my quarter of a sandwich?  Did you fucking eat 25% of my dinner you bastards?

It then occurred to me that maybe they give everyone 3 out of the 4 quarters of the sandwich to save money.  They could effectively create a fourth ‘three quarter sandwich’ for free, provided they have three customers who order them.   I bet that’s why I was left waiting for 100 fucking minutes for a fucking sandwich because these bastards were waiting for two more fucking guests to order ham fucking sandwiches.

It all makes sense now.

To add insult to injury, they’ve provided me with an unwanted handful of cress and a ramekin of crisps. A bloody ramekin  of crisps! Do you realise how few crisps you can fit in a ramekin??

I didn’t even want these 7 crisps; I wanted my whole sandwich!

For what it’s worth, the sandwich is delicious, dammit.

ham

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