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| Catching Sunday lunch |
From Mondays to Saturdays, Henry and I have been roughing it. Hostels where the curtains don't quite meet and you keep your fingers crossed for hot water; that sort of thing. So on Sundays, we treat ourselves. And last Sunday, we jumped aboard a tuc-tuc bound for the lakeside Kiboko Bay Resort Hotel for lunch -- and an experience in African table service that I had barely imagined possible.
Five minutes after taking our seats, I finally attracted the attention of a waiter. We might try wine, we thought, could we see the wine-list? It would be brought. Five minutes later, I caught the eye of another waiter. "The wine-list?" "I'll bring it over," came the reply. Time passed, no wine-list. "Just as I thought ..." I mumbled to myself, to Henry's disapproval. And then, from the edge of the pool, I spotted him: our waiter, weighed down by a tray of seven bottles: three red, one bubbly, three chilled. The wine-list was with another diner, I was told, so the waiter had brought its entire contents for us to choose from. A winning act to trump an impatient Brit. Africa 1, John 0.
I ordered Fish Meuniere. "Chipped, mashed or roast potatoes, sir?" I longed for chips, drew the line at mashed, so ordered roast. Henry chose a tortilla and salad. Ten minutes passed. Our lunch appeared -- Henry's as requested, and, for me, fish with chips, not a roast potato to be seen. Yet another African cock-up, I grinned to myself, but one I was very happy to leave uncorrected.
I had just enough time to take a couple of bites when I saw in the corner of my eye our same waiter, darting back from the kitchen, a troubling sight balanced on the palm of his hand. "Excuse me, sir, I am so sorry," he said. In an instant, the fish and chips was removed, a fresh plate of fish and roast potatoes in its place. "My humblest apologies!" And with that, he was gone. Africa 2, John 0, and only one of us truly humbled.
John
that was delicious!
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