The head waiter had it right

London, United Kingdom

If there was any time of my day when my brain is at its best, it is in the early morning. I am one of those antisocial creatures who jumps out of bed at a ludicrous 4.30 a.m., in keeping, I would guess, with farmers, postmen and the old-fashioned milkie, and I can keep busying like a bee until mid-day. Then, without suitable rest and sustenance, my inner systems begin to flag. By 2 p.m. you can forget me.

However, what this odd physiology has created is me being wide awake at breakfast while, it seems, much of the world remains asleep. And that is where breakfast comes in. One of the problems of travelling as much as I do is that it has allowed me to see an incredible variety of breakfasts right around the world, some good, some wonderful, some reasonable and some a disaster. It started years back when I had the privilege of staying at one of London’s premier hotels. It is not a place I inhabit too frequently, I must add, as I take exception to holding a mortgage simply to stay at a hotel. However, for about a year I could be regarded as a regular. I have never understood what a hotel means when it says you are a regular, although I believe anything more than about four stays in a year qualifies you for that title. Apparently regulars are a better source of revenue for these places as they are less demanding than the fleeting visitor once the regular is hooked in.

It also means the head waiter sees you as a long-lost friend. At least this was before the hotel’s latest renovation, when some wealthy type spent £220 million on the place. Before the revamp the main restaurant was a quiet affair and breakfast was, delight of delights, solely waiter service. That meant the day’s first meal took 18 times longer than usual but it also meant there was time to awaken slowly, if that was your need. You would stagger in, wobble your way towards a distant, circular, immaculately laid and clothed table while a waist coated waiter – never the head waiter - would hold your chair in precisely the right position. You would flop down and, if you wished, could continue your early morning snooze without others around being any the wiser. All the waiter would say, in a calming radio-presenter tone as you took your place was, “Good morning, sir. How are we today?”

In England, the response to this question, which is actually a form of greeting, must always be, “Very well thank you,” even if you have spent all night in terminal health decline. There is something peculiarly English about always having to say you are well to others, despite being at Death’s Door. It makes it doubly hard being a doctor when a patient’s first response to being asked how they are, is to say, “I’m fine, doctor. Thank you.”

This begs the answer, which I have never dared give, of “Why are you here at all?”

Yet for some odd reason it makes folk feel truly uncomfortable if you tell them how you are actually feeling - “Bloody awful”, “Can’t seem to get my guts right”, “The bloody prostate won’t leave me alone”, “My head is really terrible”, and so on.  Those answers are simply not appropriate in English society. Do not ask me why. However, for the non-Brit, remember never to tell the truth about your health and welfare on first request. Work up to it slowly. It helps if you can discuss the weather as well, but that is a different issue.

So one day at my posh hotel, instead of the usual, “Good morning, sir. How are we today?” I noticed my waist coated waiter had disappeared. In his place was, wait for it, the head waiter. Instantly I was on my guard. To have the head waiter take you to your table, to position your chair just so, means something big is in the air. I needed to be prepared for that.

As I flopped into position by the window, the immaculately laid table before me, the head waiter’s intent was clear. He was a mid-height Italian, charming to perfection, and leaned towards my ear almost conspiratorially. His lips were barely three inches distant; so near I could feel his warm breath.

“Could I have a word, sir?” he half whispered.

“Of course,” I replied, feeling more like a secret agent than a professional about to take his first bite of the day.

“I am talking to all our regulars, sir. We have a problem. No, it is more than a problem. This is an imminent disaster.”

“Disaster?” I queried.

“Disaster.”

“Oh, a disaster. I thought that is what you said.” Somehow this conversation had to move on and I was unsure how to do it. I need not have worried as the head waiter clearly had complete control.

“It’s the bread rolls, sir.”

“Bread rolls?”

“Bread rolls.”

This was beginning to get tedious. “What about them?” I added, realising there was something big in the air but unsure how a bread roll might be so critical.

“They want to put them in a basket and they want you to help yourself.”

“What?” I asked, largely for clarification.

“Exactly,” replied the head waiter, taking my words as evidence that I was indignant. “This situation is simply unacceptable.”

“I agree,” I replied, although actually could not quite see the problem. Help myself to a bread roll? Good Heavens! What will they think of next? Secretly I quite liked the idea but that was clearly the wrong thing to say.

“So can you write, sir?”

“Umm yes, I am able to write.”

The head waiter stuttered slightly, realising his phrasing might have been better. “Sorry, sir. That came out the wrong way. I know you can write but could you write to the management and tell them what a disgrace this is.”

“Write to say that guests should not help themselves to bread rolls at breakfast?”

“Exactly that, sir.”

“I’ll have think,” was my reply.

Well the upshot was that I never wrote - shame on me - the bread rolls did appear in a basket as help-yourself and the head waiter lost his job. A few fellow regulars decided to get involved, management could not handle the assault, and the rebel had to go. Poor chap. These many years later I can see that his heart had been in the right place. He was completely against self-service breakfasts and all they meant for the posh restaurant effect; the regular guests were the only weapon available to him. Sadly, his coup d’état failed.

i http://www.bi.edu/research/news/news-2010/easier-to-please-regular-guests-/