Imagine what happens when you take four New York Queens to an Italian restuarant in Cardiff Bay.
No, really, imagine.
It was worse.
The combination of "hey, bitch!" pickiness with uniquely Italo-Welsh service was terrifying.
It began easily enough. Sliding slopes leading to crocodile pits are usually fairly gentle.
"Excuse me - what meat is in those meatballs? I just need to check that it's all beef?"
"Okay, now - these olives. What's the pickle exactly? Hmmn. Okay. Can we change that?"
"Now - so if there is pork in these meatballs, can I cancel them? I just don't do pork."
"This ciabatta - okay - now what wheatgerm is here?"
"Right. Now I've cancelled the meatballs, I'd like to change my main. Thing is, I've been to the gym, so there's not really a protein hit in ravioli, so it'd be great if we switched that to the chicken breast?"
I swear, they started taking away plates before we'd finished eating.
The advantage: Going clubbing later, and watching them "put their gay on" - as they swept off their shirts, revealing sleeveless t-shirts and arms made out of girders.
It's not often you see an entire nightclub take one step back. And whimper.
But it was Thursday night, so we're talking about 12 people. Including a lesbian barmaid with a donkey jacket and an open wound.
Sparkling Cyanide (1945)
1 year ago