Dışarıda yemek: sorunlar ve bahşiş

Ben, don't say anything. I'll handle it. Excuse me, waitress? I'm afraid there's a problem. I asked for medium rare, and this steak is overcooked. It looks like a shoe.

Thank you, I'll wait. Ben, stop laughing. They're being very nice. Oh, here comes the new one. I cut it and... it's raw. It's practically still moving! Now Ben is crying with laughter.

The waitress comes back and asks, "Shall I try a third time?" I say, "No, thank you. Maybe just a salad." She smiles and says, "Good choice. Our salad can't be overcooked." Fine. She wins, and I'm eating lettuce with a man who can't breathe.

Excuse me, this isn't what I ordered. I ordered the vegetable curry, and this is chicken. Also, I asked for no onions, and there are onions everywhere.

Does it come with rice? Oh, rice is a side dish? And it's three pounds extra? Fine, one side dish of rice, please. And could you bring a spoon for my son? He's going to eat my chicken. He says it looks way better than his pasta.

Ten minutes later, the right curry arrives, with rice. My son has the chicken, I have the curry, and we share the rice. I look in my bowl. There are three onions. Three. I smile and eat them anyway.

Fifty minutes. We waited fifty minutes, and look at this. The pizza is burnt at the edges, and the soup is stone cold. Hakan, please don't say anything rude. It's a nice restaurant.

The manager comes to our table. "Sorry for the wait," he says. "Please, let me take it off the bill." All of it? The soup and the pizza? Yes! Hakan, he said yes!

We eat the burnt pizza anyway, because we're starving. Actually, the middle is delicious. At the end, we leave a big tip. The manager laughs and says, "Come back soon." Next time, we'll bring a sandwich for the wait.

Third place, third problem. The first restaurant was fully booked. The second had a table, but every main on the menu was twenty-eight pounds. Twenty-eight! For chicken? That's overpriced, Lena. Let's go.

Here, a small pub. It's noisy, and there's no menu, just a board. "What's the dish of the day?" "Fish pie, twelve pounds." Twelve! Lena, sit down. This is the one.

The fish pie is huge, hot and perfect. Then the owner says, "Cash only." I look at Lena. Lena looks at me. Neither of us has any cash. She runs off to find a cashpoint, and I stay here with the dessert menu. Not a bad hostage.

I dropped my fork in the soup, so can we have some new cutlery, please? And another serviette. I'm wearing half my dinner.

Could I have a doggy bag? I can't finish this, and it's far too good to waste. Thank you. Is service included? Twelve and a half percent, I see. Good, so I don't need to do any sums. Asha always says I'm bad at maths.

On the way out, the waiter gives me the doggy bag. It's heavy. Asha whispers, "Uncle Ravi, that's not our food. That's the dessert from table five." Oh no. Do we run? Sorry, we walk. Slowly. Quickly.

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