Pleasure

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Fed up with touristy fish option and Indian rubbishness, we ventured into a restaurant that caught our eye the first day in Knysna but had waited for a moment to splurge, after all that’s why credit cards exist. A bit like Victoria 1906, except they seemed to want customers, we went in. Diners were thin on the ground but we felt we should support their efforts to raise the dining bar of the local restaurant scene. It was an evening when eating out is a proper occasion, an experience, rather than merely functional, though I think they may have overdone it a bit.

I’m not sure what divides very polite service from becoming overly attentive service but here it was a hairbreadth. I also have a compulsion to say thank you after anything is done for me, which meant I was saying it a lot (for the unfolding of napkins, serving of bread, refilling of water, refilling of wine, clearing the course etc etc). Each time I said it, our waiter felt similarly compelled to say ‘pleasure’ and so we were caught in some kind of vortex of manners. It was slowly driving me mad, teetering on a Basil Fawlty style crack up. I’m being waited on so I mean it when I say thanks but please don’t pretend its a pleasure when it isn’t (picking up the bits when I’ve been attempting to eat with chopsticks? I don’t think so!). I’d rather have grumpy than ingratiating and disingenuous. I stuffed my gob full of food to smother any further thankfulness and hoped the waiter wouldn’t mind having his pleasure denied.Perhaps he was just glad that I’d stopped with the thank yous.

The chef on the other hand seemed very genuine, at least that’s the impression I got when he came and served us our bread (he must have been very bored in the kitchen). He looked a little confused when through an another unknown compulsion, on learning he was the chef, I felt it necessary to mime, badly. I think I meant to pretend I was frying food instead it seemed I was having spasm. He didn’t come back out again.

The other one didn’t bat an eyelid and this I think could be a problem. He’s so used to me that I think I’m normal. Sometimes, it crosses my mind that maybe I’m not. Spending half a day walking like a penguin after visiting Boulder’s Beach, is ok isn’t it?

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