Went out for dinner last night. The ‘works Christmas dinner’. Obviously there was no turkey involved, if Jesus was around today he’d eat Asian Fusion, like the rest of us. So it was that we trecked across to fancy Fitzrovia to our destination, upmarket (read: eyewatering), trendy (dark), Asian experience.

We were met by a stony-faced Russian, as you’d expect. Probably KGB trained cos she was only small but ‘menace’ seeped from every one of her pores, undisguised by the beauty treatments. She was hard. Cold. Not exactly who I’d choose as my ‘front of house’ greeter, but what do I know? She led us to the bar area. “Oh, let me see if I can find you a space”, leaving us in the doorway. 5 minutes later she returned, elated, that, yes, she had managed to secure somewhere for us to squeeze in, thrilled that she’d succeeded in this achievement. We went down to a bar area large enough to seat 200 that had 4 people in it, plus 26 staff. Oh, yes, this was our lucky night.

Dinner was pre-booked. Tasting menus, all the Thai you can hurl down but brought on small plates so you don’t make an obvious pig of yourself. 7 of us were ‘normal’. As in meat-eating and tolerant to most foods. The remaining 1 was abnormal. A gluten intolerant vegetarian. Who had called the restaurant a month ago, when we booked, to inform them of her disabilities. ‘No problem’, they said. At that time. Because all restaurants are very ‘right on’ about preferences, as half of London won’t eat various things and the other half can’t. Or they can, but then they’ll swell up and vomit and the taxi won’t take them home. If their swelling still allowed them to actually fit in the taxi.

Yet as the waiter (an Italian; which is odd because you never find Italian waiters in Italian restaurants any longer) took our order; “ah! issa problem’a”. Apparently you have to have 2 vegetarians at any one time. They don’t exist singly. ‘But we’d booked, but we’d told you, but we’d emailed our preferences…’ “Sorry, the manager (Lithuanian), ee says it ‘as to be 2’. Then send him over (fists balling, face reddening, teeth gritting). “Actually; iss’ok!!!” How lucky were we?

Then we mentioned the gluten thing. “Ah, issa problem’a”. Of the 9 courses listed on the vegetarian menu, Luigi/Paulo/Alfonso said only one item was gluten free. And faced with the ‘riotous taste spectacular’ claimed, tofu salad weren’t gonna cut it.

Some serious anger, frustration and cajoling later, they indeed conjured up a meal not just almost fit for a queen, but for a coeliac vegetarian Queen. Though still brought all the things she couldn’t eat as well, because… errrr… because they’re either stupid or concerned we might haggle on the bill.

The food was actually fab. The booze tasted like booze and slipped down remarkably easily. The ambiance was wonderful there, but I left with a rotten taste in my mouth. Nothing to do with the food. I contemplated this during the 10-minute, total they’ve-lost-my-fucking-bag panic, as the aforementioned Russian who took our bags laughing that she might need a ticket to find them again, couldn’t find them.

Food 9/10, staff 1/10.

Not good enough really.

Happy eating

A xxxx