I hadn't seen my niece for more than two years, but here she was, in London with her new husband (not that she had an old husband, you understand. He is new as in they have only been married three months.)
We met up for dinner at a nice restaurant in a nice part of town, convenient for their hotel, convenient to home for us.
We ordered cocktails before dinner. This is a nice treat, something I don't often do.
The staff bring the drinks to the table. Three drinks are placed on the table.
"And yours in the negroni?" the waitperson asks.
"No, I ordered the spritz," I say.
The waitperson frowns. "There must be a mix up. I will check."
My spritz arrives a few minutes later.
We order food. I order the cod because it comes with roast fennel, and I like fennel.
The food takes the best part of an hour to arrive but we are talking and don't really notice. Although we do note the restaurant informed us we have a 1.5 hour slot and need to clear the table by a certain time.
"We can't leave the table if they haven't brought the food," we all agreed.
The food arrives. I can tell my plate has sat for some time under the light at the pass waiting to be delivered to the table because the pea shoots garnishing the plate have withered, while they still look fresh on everyone else's plates.
Whatever. It's only a garnish.
We start to eat.
My roast fennel is tough like leather. It's cooked, but my knife can't cut it. I am leaning my weight on my knife and sawing at the fennel to cut it. It's a lot of effort and I am disappointed and annoyed. But everyone else's food is very nice and they are enjoying their food so I take a breath continue sawing at the fennel. I don't want to be the whinging old aunt.
We decide to order dessert.
There is really only one good dessert option and that's the cheesecake.
"We don't have any cheesecake left," our waitperson informs us.
We are all disappointed at this news, and study the menu looking for the next best option.
I decide to go out on a limb and order affogato. I've never had it before but I've seen other people have it in restaurants and I like the theatrical idea of tipping hot coffee onto cold ice cream.
The desserts come out.
Our waitperson puts down a bowl of coffee coloured soup with white lumps in front of me.
"It's not…" they start to say, but then abruptly leave the table.
Not only has the hot coffee been poured onto the cold ice cream for me, I get the impression this was done some time ago. Hence the tepid coffee flavoured soup they served me.
But my niece and her husband are enjoying their dessert and again, I swallow down the disappointment, not wanting to be the whining old woman who has an argument with the wait staff when we are supposed to be having a family dinner. I won't see my niece again for a few years. I don't want to spend this time in discussion with the waitstaff about the proper way to serve an affogato.
The plates are collected and no one asks, "How was your food?"
The bill arrives and Husband pays it, doing the final interaction with the waitstaff.
We leave.
But I feel cheated that everyone enjoyed their meal and I did not.
My question, at what point should I have complained?
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