When the Waiters Don't Want You There

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“SWEDE’S ‘ARD!” the waitress screamed as she barged her way through the swinging double doors into the kitchen. While she wasn’t wrong, the swede was rather al dente (as were the rest of the vegetables, to the point where I wasn’t sure my teeth were strong enough to handle the crunch), my family and I weren’t expecting her to tell the whole restaurant about it. We had decided to take refuge in this humble pub in the Yorkshire dales away from the blowing gales of a normal summer afternoon, but did not expect the same velocity and intensity inside as out. Perhaps we should’ve taken our chances in the elements. But it was fun to watch the other diners squirm under the withering eyes of the servers, scoffing that they’d even stepped foot in the place, as if we too were not subject to the same treatment.

While, I admit, the décor was cosy - plump, brown leather chairs, thick wooden beams, and most of the light source coming from the welcoming fire crackling in the corner - this was in direct contrast to the hostile atmosphere emanating from the human furniture. Not to mention the hostility of the food, which almost begged not to be eaten via its shape, texture, and smell. Overcooked Yorkshire puddings, dry meat that clung to the musty fork, hard swede (as we’ve already established) and, worst of all, cold gravy! This food wasn’t just a personal affront to my stomach, it was an attack on my Northern pride. I tried to wash down my distaste with a bubbly, fruity cider but, seemingly defying all the laws of physics or chemistry or whatever, this liquid was only intensifying what should never have been. We ran out of there as soon as the waitress lazily snatched the cash out of our hands. At least it was cheap.