I have a mouth full of something called ‘Amuse-bouche’, it’s cold, it’s lumpy and it’s freaking vile. Etiquette dictates that I can’t spit this crap all over the table, but each time I try to swallow I balk (stop being rude folks, this is a serious spit or swallow situation!). The wine hasn’t helped, in fact it just added a sickly sweetness to the mix.
Take a deep breath, pinch the nose, 1,2,3 and…
Waiter: “How was the Amuse-bouche ma’am?”
Me: “It was….lovely…thank you”
Brain: “You lying soft git…It tasted like fetid squirrel testicles whisked into week old porridge and strained using undercrackers stolen from an incontinent tramp!”
My brain, of course, was right on the money.
As soon as the mix hit my stomach I knew I’d made a mistake persevering with it. I knew I should have searched eagerly for a toilet (or a cloak cupboard) in which to dispose of it. But I didn’t.
Each burp thereafter tasted of regret.
I then lied to the waiter. I had no reason to lie to him, he hadn’t created the offending concoction, he’d merely placed it delicately on the table…then loudly proclaimed it’s arrival to the room so I couldn’t just tip it into the nearest plant pot. The fact is I didn’t like the Amuse-bouche, food is personal preference and any food that reminds me of vomiting in my mouth just shouldn’t be eaten. So why couldn’t I just tell the guy that while I appreciated the effort made by the chef, I would rather have swigged a cup of warm pee?
Perhaps it is because I grew up with the whole “you can’t leave the table until you’ve eaten everything on your plate” mentality (cue still being sat at the table at 2am because of a cold sprout), perhaps it is because I was in a Michelin starred restaurant and feeling like I just didn’t belong there (thank you Social Anxiety for causing utter panic by telling me I created a faux pas by pouring my own water), perhaps it is because I felt like some uncultured twonk for not really understanding how each element complimented the other (seriously, it just reminded me of bile) or perhaps I was just concerned that the waiter would grass on me to the chef and the chef would spit the biggest greenie (snot people, snot) of his life into my main and pretend it was pea foam.
Whatever the reason I picked the first positive word that sprang to mind that happened to be a step up from ‘fine’…because we all know that fine means that there is a whole shit-fest of wrong going on…then I sat there with a gormless expression on my face hoping that his bull-poop detector wasn’t sounding, all the while listening to my guts churn at the very thought of more food.
My brain was right…I was a lying soft git.
My brain was right…That Amuse-bouche tasted like fetid squirrel testicles whisked into week old porridge and strained using undercrackers stolen from an incontinent tramp.
My brain, of course, is an insufferable sod.
Are you folks more forthcoming with the truth when served something you really don’t like? Is there a correct form of Etiquette for this type of issue?