Beaver and Bulldog
Our afternoon, though sunny and agreeable in climate, had been unpleasant in humour. A young sales-gentleman from some local purveyor of electricity spoke with us in such rude tones that we were forced to escort him from the property with expansive gestures and words which, we fear, are among the most colourful of those on the top shelf of our vocabularic pantry.
Thus when we were invited to try the new local public-house, named the Beaver and Bulldog, our defences were weak. We mused that some comforting frothy malted beverages and egg-and-chips or gammon-and-peas would precisely suit our pugilistic mood, and we acquiesced without question or protest.
The establishment is situated in one of the more soulless sections of Cambridge's Highway 24, not far from Umberto's Bistro. Though we have not yet commented upon the Italian fooderie in this forum, we assure our reader that some aptness might be felt in the proximity.
The pub was extremely busy within and, on the several dozen outdoor tables, without. However, we were ushered to a roomy booth-table with the help of a mere four confused, wandering hostesses. Surmising that a discount on alcoholic beverages must be among the staff premiums, we dismissed the interlude of staring, discussion, and aimless wandering to and from the hostess-station and resolved to enjoy a glass of stout and hearty, tasty food.
We turned to the menu, and instantly deduced that one of our four hostesses must have composed it. Finding meagre pub fare was not surprising; however, learning, upon closer inspection of the company logo, that the pub was in actuality a "Sports Pub and Wingery"; and having no idea whatsoever that might mean, we opted for a salad each, and a small order of chicken-wings to divide between us.
The salads ordered were "Greek" and "spinach", and seemed unremarkable for anything other than their price -- nine dollars. The price would have escaped our notice, perhaps, were it not for something that did not escape us: the bits of dirt and detritus on the mushrooms in the spinach salad.
Note, please, that we are not your complain-for-the-sake-of-complaining sort of patron, even in wingoires, sandwicheries, and mobile hot-dog salons. We know that the manure in which mass-produced mushrooms are grown is pasteurized, and its ingestion poses no health risk whatsoever. However, it does lend a certain grittiness of texture to the other vegetables, and provides an aesthetically unpleasant barrier in the diner's psyche to actually lifting fork to mouth; we hope our reader will agree that we were not being outrageous, and will indulge us in this case. For nine dollars sterling, we feel we are within our rights to ask that the vegetables and cup of bottle-born salad dressing be, at the very least, free of faecal matter.
As our companion dug one dirty slice of mushroom after another from the platter, our server approached to ask if all was well, and we informed her of the issue. She politely asked to examine the offending fungus and, finding our complaint to possess merit, she withdrew to the kitchen in order, we assumed, to administer a brief tongue-lashing and acquire properly-prepared mushrooms.
However, to our surprise, she returned with nothing in hand, and only the following explanation: that the mushrooms had indeed been cleaned (according to the cooking-staff, we assume she meant) and that when mushrooms are immersed in water they absorb undue amounts of the liquid. Although there was slightly more to her tale, we hoped that we could safely ignore it, since her second statement was an unfortunate kitchen myth, and her first was an outright lie, within any tolerable definition of the word "cleaned".
Feeling that it would do no more good to discuss the matter further, we refused her offer to obtain the attentions of the managerial staff, thanked her, and proceeded with our meal. The chicken-wings, we must add at some point, were quite good, with a crispy, well-seasoned coating and a judicious amount of sauce. At ten dollars sterling for a small order of seven wings, however, we suggest they be ordered only on Tuesdays, when they are offered at half-price.
As we hastened to finish, a manager approached and inquired as to the quality of our experience thus far, and, being still of the aforementioned pugilistic countenance, we decided to press the issue. We made a brief summary of the salient points (including absolution of our server, who had done her best) and informed her that, having washed a mushroom or two in our time, we rejected the kitchen's explanation as unbefitting our intelligence, and were quite unhappy with the situation.
Although the manager made noises and facial contortions to indicate her commiseration with our plight, she offered nothing to better the situation; she departed for the kitchen, to what end we were unsure, and did not return. Our server did come by to drop off a pre-printed coupon inviting the bearer to a discount of five dollars sterling at his or her next visit; we refrained from voicing our suggestion that they might look into volume printing discounts on such coupons, or perhaps distributing them at the entryway.
Our bill paid in full, we departed, the coupon firmly ensconced in our breast pocket, for mounting and framing in our trophy room. We cannot think of any situation, other than a startlingly exaggerated joke, or perhaps a papal edict, which would require its use.
Thus when we were invited to try the new local public-house, named the Beaver and Bulldog, our defences were weak. We mused that some comforting frothy malted beverages and egg-and-chips or gammon-and-peas would precisely suit our pugilistic mood, and we acquiesced without question or protest.
The establishment is situated in one of the more soulless sections of Cambridge's Highway 24, not far from Umberto's Bistro. Though we have not yet commented upon the Italian fooderie in this forum, we assure our reader that some aptness might be felt in the proximity.
The pub was extremely busy within and, on the several dozen outdoor tables, without. However, we were ushered to a roomy booth-table with the help of a mere four confused, wandering hostesses. Surmising that a discount on alcoholic beverages must be among the staff premiums, we dismissed the interlude of staring, discussion, and aimless wandering to and from the hostess-station and resolved to enjoy a glass of stout and hearty, tasty food.
We turned to the menu, and instantly deduced that one of our four hostesses must have composed it. Finding meagre pub fare was not surprising; however, learning, upon closer inspection of the company logo, that the pub was in actuality a "Sports Pub and Wingery"; and having no idea whatsoever that might mean, we opted for a salad each, and a small order of chicken-wings to divide between us.
The salads ordered were "Greek" and "spinach", and seemed unremarkable for anything other than their price -- nine dollars. The price would have escaped our notice, perhaps, were it not for something that did not escape us: the bits of dirt and detritus on the mushrooms in the spinach salad.
Note, please, that we are not your complain-for-the-sake-of-complaining sort of patron, even in wingoires, sandwicheries, and mobile hot-dog salons. We know that the manure in which mass-produced mushrooms are grown is pasteurized, and its ingestion poses no health risk whatsoever. However, it does lend a certain grittiness of texture to the other vegetables, and provides an aesthetically unpleasant barrier in the diner's psyche to actually lifting fork to mouth; we hope our reader will agree that we were not being outrageous, and will indulge us in this case. For nine dollars sterling, we feel we are within our rights to ask that the vegetables and cup of bottle-born salad dressing be, at the very least, free of faecal matter.
As our companion dug one dirty slice of mushroom after another from the platter, our server approached to ask if all was well, and we informed her of the issue. She politely asked to examine the offending fungus and, finding our complaint to possess merit, she withdrew to the kitchen in order, we assumed, to administer a brief tongue-lashing and acquire properly-prepared mushrooms.
However, to our surprise, she returned with nothing in hand, and only the following explanation: that the mushrooms had indeed been cleaned (according to the cooking-staff, we assume she meant) and that when mushrooms are immersed in water they absorb undue amounts of the liquid. Although there was slightly more to her tale, we hoped that we could safely ignore it, since her second statement was an unfortunate kitchen myth, and her first was an outright lie, within any tolerable definition of the word "cleaned".
Feeling that it would do no more good to discuss the matter further, we refused her offer to obtain the attentions of the managerial staff, thanked her, and proceeded with our meal. The chicken-wings, we must add at some point, were quite good, with a crispy, well-seasoned coating and a judicious amount of sauce. At ten dollars sterling for a small order of seven wings, however, we suggest they be ordered only on Tuesdays, when they are offered at half-price.
As we hastened to finish, a manager approached and inquired as to the quality of our experience thus far, and, being still of the aforementioned pugilistic countenance, we decided to press the issue. We made a brief summary of the salient points (including absolution of our server, who had done her best) and informed her that, having washed a mushroom or two in our time, we rejected the kitchen's explanation as unbefitting our intelligence, and were quite unhappy with the situation.
Although the manager made noises and facial contortions to indicate her commiseration with our plight, she offered nothing to better the situation; she departed for the kitchen, to what end we were unsure, and did not return. Our server did come by to drop off a pre-printed coupon inviting the bearer to a discount of five dollars sterling at his or her next visit; we refrained from voicing our suggestion that they might look into volume printing discounts on such coupons, or perhaps distributing them at the entryway.
Our bill paid in full, we departed, the coupon firmly ensconced in our breast pocket, for mounting and framing in our trophy room. We cannot think of any situation, other than a startlingly exaggerated joke, or perhaps a papal edict, which would require its use.
posted by the Droll Bastard at 9:53 p.m.
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