My experiences with abysmal service at high prices were so vast that the Trinidad Guardian Newspaper could not accommodate them all in my column today (15/10/08) so here's the full, untrimmed, unedited belly-aching session...

Service with a Sneer

By Paolo Kernahan

pkernahan@gmail.com

 

“Is not dat gyul, dey say dey know who doeet!” “I feel is some young fella whey take de boy!” “nah gyul!  buh I wonda if de po-lice feel is Jennifer Hudson have something to do wi’ dat boy?” “Yuh maddawa! Dais she nhheview you talkin’ bout dey. Dat woman doh have ah evl bone in she buddy!”

 

 It is all I can remember of what was at the time, I admit, a somewhat intriguing ventilation of theories about the killing of Jennifer Hudson’s nephew.

 

The only problem is all of those words, seasoned with spittle, came to rest on the crepe being prepared for my semp (girlfriend). The movie is about to start and my SEMP is fuming, staring me down with a double-barreled look of horror and incredulity. Now the crepe that she had been craving ….is crap.

 

The look of incredulity I knew was meant for the oblivious food attendant, but I suspect mostly for me. Incredulous that I did nothing to intervene in the contamination of this delicious treat about which she had been murmuring all week unsolicited.

 

The facial expression reflex came to me faster than I anticipated. I fired a complex combination of left eyebrow raised, right corner of my mouth pursed and nostrils at full flare, meant to convey, “what the ass you expect me to do! you don’t know is Trinidad we in or what ?” The movie was about to start so we settled with the futility in our heavy hearts and took our carefully packaged crepe with nutella, additional sputum and a disembodied conversation.

 

Let’s dissect this outrage. At no time did the food attendant think it inappropriate to carry on a full blown conversation over food. It really rendered her hair net pointless. After all, if you are happy to have globules of saliva landing on food that you are preparing for some one else, then dandruff falling on the vittles like the first snowfall at the end of November in a quiet town called Sudbury in Ontario, well that should present no significant pangs of shame and remorse.

 

That it happened is not the issue because things happen. That it happened as if it didn’t is what is prompting this latest rant. There is more than one person at fault here. The quick witted ones reading this column will already have sussed that out. For those of you who haven’t, stay close, and don’t let go of my hand dears.

 

Incident number two. It is a beautiful Sunday for a drive along the north coast.

We two (the semp and I, a former semp, that is) fall upon a spot seemingly charming, with large samaan trees on the property. Their proud strong arms reaching into the azure sky, the leaf cover, like an earth wind and fire afro dancing in the marmalade sun.

 

A dizzy pair, we coo on the shady balcony restaurant with beams of light dancing like stilettos on the wood decking. The hypnotic view …. the churning froth of  the waves’ spent force on the white sand beach and jagged black rocks, like decayed teeth set in receding gums. This set the heart aquiver. Not even the fact that the waitress clearly mixed up our order for red wine and brought us two glasses of heinz vinegar instead; not even that could rob this feeling, the ambience too potent to be undermined by something so trivial. It was the kind of setting that would make a man put God out of his thoughts, get down on creaky bended knee and utter those words that would forever saddle him with feelings of guilt, inadequacy and acrimony.

  

And then the food came. There was no pretension at sophistication, the plates were as plain as the calypso monarch show. I thought little of it given the rustic surroundings, coupled with my desperate desire and at times daunting struggle of unshackling myself from the description: anal. Coincidentally and, quite unfortunately, that is the only description that could be applied to the cutlery. Yet it was not even that! We tucked into the steak that was harder than the times, wondering with both minds, as if twins, if the waitress, “silly girl!” has mixed up this order also, bringing us the hide instead of the meat.

 

Forsooth! Not yet my young padawans! Not yet! While I wrassled with sinew stronger than a hundred pound test fishing line, I came upon something in what was masquerading as the sauce. It was a fly (you can exhale now. If on the toilet you can unclench your teeth from the seat.) There it was ….simple and small , yet wielding enough power to destroy the entire canvas I just painted for you .

 

The fly is my proverbial final straw, I demanded to see no less a person than the owner, or at least the manager. (okay, if the receptionist is around, she’ll do.) The owner did emerge from the shadows, listened attentively to my complaint and removed the plate.

 

He returned moments later with a look of satisfaction on his face. He had an explanation ready and here it was. “That is actually what we call around here a honey fly, it is more like a bee. Eef you look at the colour on de bamsee there you will see it is not a fly”.

 

I wish I could pause in this column to convey what I was feeling at the time. In the words of the inimitable Robin Montano, “well suck my socks! I am dealing here with an entrepreneur/entomologist!” 

 

Following the forensic analysis of the plate, quite to my mirthful surprise, there began a conversation about payment. In other words, it was expected that, as it was explained to be a relative of the wasp family and not the dirty and disagreeable fly, I should eat the food and keep my tail quiet! (it’s a family paper folks!)

                                    

                                      We two, the semp and I,

                                      stumbled upon a bee, not fly,

                                      and that has made all the difference.

 

There are two to carry fault in this tale, the owner with his ridiculous response, but most importantly me!

 

Over the last five years a multitude of businesses has sprung up in this country like razor grass in an abandoned lot. All of them crowding the teat of wanton consumer spending. Occasionally I am forced to go out to a mid level restaurant because, let’s face it kids, the natural progression from dating to relationship, is also accompanied by a shift from KFC to Apsara. Mind you, I have always believed that it should be the reverse; spend the big money first to impress the girl then, when there is a commitment, you can feel free to be yourself. She is now part of your life and your routines. Theoretically, the lady love should by now be sufficiently acclimatized to the Chinese over-the-counter take out, replete with the turkey-gobbling cooks in the kitchen fighting to see who could mash the roach before it scurries under the grease coated cooker.

 

Your darling love should by now have grown tired of nights out for drinks arm in arm, cheek to cheek on the avenue, settling nicely for a drop round to the local pirate DVD store for 30 dollars worth of  tomorrow’s movies today and a 15 dollar bag of cheetos.

 

Your future wife will always have those initial images of you to cherish in the mpegs of her mind; the sight of you cutting a flim in your nice shirt and slim jeans and dangerously angled leather shoes standing outside of the pub, and she will be clicking on those pictures while forever ensconced on the couch with you watching ESPN (every spouse’s perennial nightmare).

 

Back to my point, as far as the eye can see there is a new business waiting to relieve you of your hard earned cash. Make no mistake about it, these places are expensive. From Movietowne and all of the itinerant millionaires who have invaded Invaders Bay to cast their nets for all the cash scattered in an orgy of instant gratification, to the Ariapita strip where there are a hundred bars and not a dollar difference in the price of a simple drink.

          

In my opinion, the prices in this country are outrageous and most places you go to the food is absolute rubbish and a rum and coconut water is nothing but a shameless imposter. You know what, if I owned a business in this country I would do the same thing It is shooting fish in a barrel really, people throw money at you like a pole dancer, the least you can do is bend down and pick it up. There is a reason why everywhere you go in this country and order fried squid, it invariably looks and tastes like flash fried pig’s anus.

 

This is where I make my point though, we are forced to stomach from mediocre to basic nutrient survival level food and then wash it down with deplorable service.

 

We are paying top dollar to be ill treated, for security guards to bark at us if we fumble as we return our parking cards. We are heavily taxed only to have a surly waitress pierce you with glare of annoyance because you are hesitant over your gamble on which crappy meal to try this evening, simply because she is 12 months pregnant, her dramatically distended navel is practically poking out your eye  and her ankles are swollen and she would much rather be at home  and this job sucks! It is like the victim of a date rape being asked to provide the condom.

    

Businessmen, it is your right to apply the most punitive pricing that takes your fancy, as it is our right to tell you where to pack it, if we so choose.

 

We must hold ourselves accountable, however, for accepting abysmal service at luxury prices. When you grumble about the response “but dat is how dey do de fish sir!’ or “well de beer hutt because de glass hutt because it now come out de washer” or “lemme tell you right now, we short staff so do budder to complain” and after all that pay with so much as a whimper, then we deserve the contempt heaped on us.

 

Businessmen are not inspired to demand high standards from their workers because we do not demand it of them .Too right! Don’t complain because  we set it up for them to knock it down . 

  

Incident number three .The semp and I at are at a hugely popular restaurant. The fried shrimp is the chosen appetizer. It is placed in front of us. I bit into one and it is practically still alive, the shrimp’s entrails come to rest on my bottom lip.

 

“Maam this shrimp is not simply underdone, it is still feeding, the shrimp remains a vibrant member of the community! It is still with us dear!” “Oh gorsh, lemme take dat yes!”

 

We resume our conversation, the semp and I. Moments later the server returns “Sorry bout dat eh.” Placed before us, in a neat, pretty basket ……..mini charcoal briquettes. Touche!