The Restaurant That Couldn't Give A Sh***
This restaurant promised a bottomless brunch - and served bottomless indifference.
In the UK, there is a quaint institution known as a ‘bottomless brunch.’ You go to a pub or a restaurant, sit a table for two hours, eat brunch or other brunch-like objects – and drink a limitless amount of colourful drinks, either alcoholic or non-alcoholic.
Last weekend, we were visiting cousins in Northern England and they kindly asked what we wanted to do. I said I fancied a bottomless brunch. I was in search of some holiday decadence fancied the idea of pretending for two hours that I was twenty-six, not forty-six.
And so it came to pass that I found myself in the restaurant that couldn’t give a s***.
My heart sank as soon as I came in. The restaurant had a Caribbean theme and was playing reggae at a belting volume that did little to keep out the cold northern wind. We were then led to a massive table, a vast expanse of wood.
When our group had eventually dribbed and drabbed itself to the table, the waitress came over. If this was Ireland in the 1980s, we’d have said she had a puss on her.
We inquired about the bottomless brunch.
‘The whole table has to have it,’ she said.
The cousin who booked the lunch told a tale about a manager who had said it would be all right – some problem with the system that could be circumvented.
‘Unless the whole table is having the bottomless brunch, we can’t offer it. Sorry.’ (Not sorry)
Never mind, I told myself. I prefer cider to cocktails anyway. And I can order a proper dinner, not a fiddly brunch.
Another woman in our group shared my sentiments and asked for the only cider they offered.
‘There’s no cider,’ said the waitress.
No bottomless brunch. No cider. Steam began to rise from my ears. The cousin who booked the meal said.
‘There’s two for one on cocktails.’
Photo Description: This is an orange cocktail in a trinagular cocktail glass with a long stem. Green leaves adorn the top of the cocktail.
I saw the words mini-Margarita, and that revived my spirits. When I asked for them, tie waitress said.
‘They’re not included in the two-for one.’
The peacemaking cousin said: ‘You could try the raspberry reggae.they’re really nice.’
‘Do they taste of raspberry?’
She said they did. Her words had the effect of a soother dropped into a grizzling baby’s mouth.
I asked for a raspberry reggae and another cocktail. The waitress said:
‘You have to order two of the same. You can’t have one of each.’
Luckily the raspberry reggae bore a passing resemblance to raspberries.
I wasn’t the only one with woes. One of the men ordered an ale which wasn’t available. When the alternative ale came, it was in a can. He asked three times for chicken ribs, but a plate of chicken wings arrived. They were shared around the table.
One of the women ordered tea and asked for sweeteners. The usual custom is to bring a little bowl of sugar or sweetener.
‘How many sweeteners do you want. We have to enter it into our system.’
They were rationing the sweeteners. And it wasn’t wartime.
We did manage to get sweet revenge. These cousins are very fond of a bargain and one young cousin had an app on her phone which reduced our bill by 20%. So, I managed to enjoy a full dinner and colourful drinks for considerably less than the bottomless brunch would have cost.
I didn’t get a bottomless brunch. Instead I encountered bottomless indifference. That’s what I get for trying to capture my lost youth.