Slumming at The Savoy

After a morning trodding around the Tate Gallery in my loathesome footwear and no makeup, B decided this would be the perfect time to lunch at The Savoy. Hadn't even slipped a lipstick into my purse, but what the hell, off we taxied. Trying in vain to look as if I belonged, we were ushered into the River Room along the Thames and seated in a dark corner beside a woman glued and gassing into her cell. After it rang three times, B asked to be re-located and I think this is where the entire dining room system broke down. You see, the place has a hierarchical system of hosts, hostesses, busboys, food waiters, beverage waiters, barmen, overseers............and you name it...........but it's a whole left-hand-right-hand fiasco. When we moved, we were cast adrift by our waitress and not picked up by the new boy across the room. So there we sat, as hoards of immaculately dressed staff bustled by ignoring us in droves.

First came the struggle for tap water. One guy said, "certainly madame, I will tell your server." Off he went to tell someone else, while the water jug sat mere feet from our table. Should I get up and pour my own? Then someone else came and asked for our drinks order; still no water. "Could I have my water first?" A huge mistake, as he did not serve water, so off he departed, the result being we got neither water nor drinks. More staff came and went -- this one dealing only with bread sticks, that one only with butter, another only with the chef's "amuse bouche". One was becoming less and less amused until I finally asked to speak to the head waiter. "Certainly, madame." Now, of course, I was a huge problem. She arrived as our food waiter came to take our food orders. Now, with drinks being about $25 at The Savoy, they were forfeiting a king's ransom, the mood I had worked myself into. I finally received my tap water (they forgot the ice and I insisted) and ordered a vodka martini from the barman who then had to walk 100 miles to the bar at the front of the hotel to put his order in behind others for the the king of that realm to fill. B was fuming. All he wanted was a bloody diet coke --with lime, you better believe -- and he had to wait as long as I 'cause it was all dispensed in good time from the same kingdom at the other end of the hotel.

I could go on......and on.......and on. As I was taking a first sip of my martini, ignoring the fact that it was lukewarm -- obviously steamed from the long and arduous voyage from the distant bar -- our food orders arrived. Again, a left-hand-right-hand snafu. In a senseless and ludicrous fit of decorum, I said I would prefer to eat after I had finished my cocktail. Much to B's horror, his filet was whipped with condescending flourish from under his fork, just as he was putting the first bite into his mouth! He glared at me in rage. What did I care? I was starting to mellow and sedate a little from the martini. But I felt so guilty I called a random waiter over and asked that his meal be returned to the table and mine held. Another senseless act because it just did not fit into their assembly line. Bring one lunch and not the other? But I insisted and they did. So, B and I were totally off kilter -- I at liquid stage one and he ready for dessert. Desperate for distraction, I pounced upon the innocent and hapless couple to my left. Middle-aged, respectable and placid, they had spoken not a word the entire time my act had been premiering at the next table. This was about to change.

More later.