‘Something I like to do with all my tables is ask what brings you here today?’ said the young waiter as he sat us down and began to talk. If I’d known he would still be talking nearly two hours later I think I would have got up and walked out.
We were in a lovely riverside restaurant in Warwickshire for my mother’s birthday. But we were going to have to run the gauntlet of being served by a smiley young man who was under the impression that everything was about him.
He was pale, long-haired, very tall and thin and bendy, as if a gust of wind would blow him over.
He didn’t look like he had the strength to serve our lunch, never mind fight a war. That’s something I ask myself whenever I meet a man in his twenties. How would he fight a war? And then I remember, we don’t fight any more, and I think, well, it’s a good job really, isn’t it?
My father eats next to nothing but doesn’t remember that he does and orders as though he’s Henry VIII
I was already in a difficult enough spot, trying to chaperone my mother and father, both of whom have dementia, without having also to cope with someone who wanted me to tell him how fantastic he was every five seconds.
He showed us to our table by the window without pulling it out and watched as I pulled the big chunky table out on my own. Then when we were seated, he said: ‘And how are we today?’ Fine, we all mumbled.
‘So,’ he said, pausing for effect, ‘something I like to do with all my tables is ask what brings you here today?’ My mother and father completely ignored him. He was looking at me for an answer.
‘Something I like to do with all my waiters is ask them to mind their own business,’ I thought about saying. Or: ‘Something you don’t like to do with all your tables is pull them out so an old lady can sit down.’ Or just to keep it simple: ‘I’m here because I want some lunch.’
I opted for telling him my mother was celebrating her birthday. He gasped and said that was amazing. Amazing!
He then didn’t get us any free drinks or a cake at the end of the meal so I really don’t know why he asked, or got so excited. My father ordered champagne but when the waiter brought it he ruined it by attempting to take the cork out very, very gently, while saying: ‘I have to warn you that this bottle may make a popping sound.’
He then pulled the cork out so weakly that it flopped out almost soundlessly, while he made a grimacing face as if to commiserate with the bottle for hurting it by pulling its head off.
‘Do you get many people threaten to sue you for triggering their PTSD by making a noise with a champagne cork?’ I asked. He giggled: ‘Oh no, that’s never happened.’
I didn’t think so. When he went away, I spent a long time with my poor mother not being able to remember what she wanted to eat for even a few seconds.
When the waiter reappeared, I ordered for her. ‘Remember how you said you wanted the sea bass? And prawns to start?’ ‘Oh yes,’ she said.
My father, who eats next to nothing but doesn’t remember that he does and orders as though he’s Henry VIII, asked for half a roast chicken with barbecue sauce and chips, and a platter of breads for his starter meant for two people to share.
I sighed with relief, began to hand my menu back and then the waiter said to my father: ‘With some olives?’
I looked at the boy, made a stern face and said very firmly: ‘No.’ He didn’t get the hint. He smiled at my father and hovered.
Help me now, I thought. This pair could be looking at each other saying ‘Olives’ for hours
My father said: ‘Olives?’ Oh no no no. ‘Olives!’ said the boy.
For heaven’s sake stop saying olives! I thought.
‘Olives?’ said the waiter again. ‘Olives…’ said my father. Help me now, I thought. This pair could be looking at each other saying ‘Olives’ for hours.
My father furrowed his brow, looked down at the menu, placed his finger over the line about the platter of breads, read the item again, following each word with his finger, and saying the words slowly: ‘Platter of breads with garlic butter and a variety of dips… No, I can’t see olives…’
My stomach rumbled. ‘It doesn’t come with olives, Dad!’ I shouted. ‘It doesn’t come with olives, does it?’ I shouted at the waiter, misjudging the volume.
My father was pointing at the menu and mumbling to himself. My mother would be doubting her sea bass in a minute. ‘What have I ordered?’ she said right on cue. ‘Sea bass, Mum!’ I shouted. ‘Remember you said it was just what you fancied?’
‘I don’t remember,’ my mother said anxiously, and started reading the menu again. ‘Am I having scallops for starter?’
‘Prawns, Mum!’
‘So, did you want olives?’ said the waiter.
‘NO!’ I all but screamed. He walked away dolefully. I felt a bit guilty. Someone else brought the starters – I think the boy had gone to his safe space – but he was back soon enough. ‘I just want to ask,’ he said, hovering, ‘how are your starters?’ ‘Amazing,’ I said.
He was back during the main course: ‘I just want to ask,’ he said, ‘how are your mains?’ ‘Perfect,’ I said.
When the plates were cleared, he wanted to discuss our feelings about dessert, even though we didn’t want any.
When the bill came, he bounded over and placed a card with a QR code on the table so we could rate him. ‘If I get enough five-star reviews I get a paid weekend off!’ he announced, with a childlike beaming face.
‘Strictly speaking,’ I said, ‘they should give you paid time off anyway.’
I made sure we left him a big tip. He was so helpless, I almost contemplated taking him home to live with us.
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