Dinner out with friends turned into a social minefield when the lobster starter turned out to be uncooked. How am I going to live this down?
I promised myself I'd never write a column in which I go to an expensive restaurant and complain about the lobster. I think I may have even written it down, signed it and put it away somewhere safe. But now I can't find it. And anyway, it wasn't really like that at all.
The lobster starter is part of the set menu. I didn't order it, it just came. There are four of us at the table, and we each get one. Half a one, actually. None of us says anything for a long time.
"This is raw," my wife says, finally.
"So is mine," our friend says.
"And mine," says her husband. "Completely uncooked."
"Maybe it's supposed to be like this," I say.
"You can't serve raw lobster," my wife says.
"I'm sure it's safe to eat," I say. "It was alive, like, 10 minutes ago." I look down at my plate and think, actually, it probably wasn't as long ago as that. Had they not split it in half lengthways, this lobster might have pulled through and gone on to live a meaningful life in a lobster sanctuary.
"I'm going to complain," my wife says.
"You can't," I say. "I've nearly finished mine." But she has already flagged down a member of staff.
"This is raw," she tells him. He is not initially receptive to her criticism.
"Are you sure?" he says.
"It's raw," she says. "They're all raw." He looks at all our plates.
"Sorry," I say. "I've eaten rather a lot of mine."
There's an inevitable stir as our lobsters are whisked away. It feels like the worst of both worlds: I was too timid to complain ? I actually apologised for eating my food ? but I ended up being part of a class-action complaint anyway. Once again, I think, circumstances have conspired to make me look unattractive.
"At least you've got something to write about now," our friend says.
I'd sooner write about beating my chauffeur with a stick, I think. Fortunately, I can edit this episode out of my life. The waitress comes over.
"The chef knows who you are," she says. I look toward the kitchen.
"Really?" I say.
"How does the chef know who we are?" my wife says.
"I've no idea," the waitress says. "I don't know who you are."
Eventually, the chef comes to our table. She turns to our friend, who is a newspaper columnist. "I know who you are," she says. "My dad clips out all your articles and sends them to me." She turns to me.
"And I know who you are."
"Sorry we sent the lobster back."
"That's OK," she says. "I don't do the lobsters."
The next day, Saturday, I rise early, a little hungover from the free bottle of wine we got as a reward for complaining about our lobster. I make coffee and take it into the garden. I wonder how the story would work if I replaced "lobster" with "celeriac". Then I realise I can't just change it. People were there and they knew who I was. From now on, my public idiocy is potentially a matter of record. Only my private idiocy is mine. Also, you can eat celeriac raw.
"Hello," a faint voice says. I look around. There is no one awake in the house, and the garden is empty.
"Hello," the voice says again. I look above me. Halfway up the side of the house next door I see a small, square, open window. The eyes of a tiny child are peering over the sill.
"Hello," I say. There's a long pause.
"My mum's reading about you."
"That's funny," I say. " I was just..."
The window closes. I look down the row of back gardens, at all the houses, at all the windows.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/apr/16/tim-dowling-lobster-class-action
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