He stole the flippin' knives!

It probably seems, dear readers, as if all of the stories I'm told by restaurant owners, servers and chefs are about evil women. Sex-crazed exhibitionists. Preggie ladies who vomit. Skinny kugels with food issues.

But that's not the case. There are some weird male patrons out there too. Like this guy:

He and his wife had a standing Thursday night reservation at a top Joburg steakhouse. (Like many of their well-to-do Sandton friends, Thursday was their maid's night off.) Off they'd go, hungry and thirsty, for their regular outing - where expensive wine was consumed, expensive steaks were eaten and...

...the restaurant's expensive knives were stolen.

Yup. Every single week, the husband would pocket both of the heavy and beautifully wrought steak knives on the table. And every Friday morning, his wife would apologetically return them.

I asked the maitre d' why they didn't simply bill the guy for them each week, and let him build up a (pricey) collection. But the maitre didn't want to embarrass the guy, or his wife, and decided to stick with the visit-eat-steal-return status quo. He also confessed that this sort of thing happened often.

Egad.

And to think I feel guilty when I throw a couple of extra toothpicks into my handbag...

Making reservations...

[Note: This isn't a restaurant story, but it's funny as hell and from the hotel industry. Credit to one of my favourite wacky-client-stories websites, www.clientsfromhell.net.]

CLIENT: “Hello, I’m looking to make a reservation arriving on the 13th and departing on the 12th.”

ME: “Okay, so you're arriving on the 12th for one night?”

CLIENT: “No, in on the 13th, out on the 12th.”

ME: “So, in on July 13th and out on August 12th?”

CLIENT: “Are you having a bad day?”

ME: “What? No.”

CLIENT: “I think you might be…”

ME: “No, you’re asking me if you can check out of your room the day before you check in…”

CLIENT: “I can’t deal with this sort of negativity!”

'I only eat white foods.'

There's a top, top, top restaurant just outside Johannesburg. It's on every must-visit list I've seen published or heard spoken about. And, obviously, I'm not going to name it here. So draw your own conclusions. But - I chat regularly to the manager. And this inside story came directly from him. Buon appetito.

A large group made a year-end booking three or four months in advance. They were extremely specific about where they wanted to sit, when they would arrive, how they expected to be received, the order in which their wines would be served and what sort of waitron/s should serve them (tall, pretty, female).

On the appointed day, they drove up. In a fleet of Bentleys. Amid flurries of glowing Birkin handbags, Vuitton scarves, Bulgari sunglasses and assorted Breitling watches, they took their seats. Ordered drinks.

So far, all good. Rich, fussy, loud. But - pleasant.

And then... Menu perusal began. With a terrifyingly gaunt hand, topped with extra-long coral nails, raised into the air, one of the ladies beckoned their (tall, pretty, female) waitron over. And announced, without a drop of irony, that she would only eat white foods.

Yes, white foods. Foods that are white. Seriously.

This has to be every restaurant's worst nightmare. Worse than vegetarians, pescatarians, vegans, followers of the raw food movement, and adherents to Weigh-Less or Weightwatchers. Worse than noisy children, randy couples, queasy moms-to-be.

Radical dieters.

Kudos to this anonymous restaurant, though. Because they crafted an all-white, six-course degustation menu for her. I can't tell you exactly what was on it, because that might be a leetle too much distinguishing info for my sources at the restaurant to feel comfortable with. But I will say that there were white mushrooms, litchis, jasmine rice and marshmallows.

Believe it or not.

People are deeply strange.

Mayhem from mommies

You'd think pregnant women would be every restaurateur's favourite patrons.

They eat a lot, don't stay long (because their backs get sore and they need wees), and are likely to be serenely pleasant - because they know that, soon, they won't be eating out much at all.

Not so.

My sources tell me that preggies are the worst. Rude, dismissive and capable of one of the most dreadful acts I've heard of since beginning the research for this blog.

Here goes... (Note: If you've just eaten and you've a sensitive stomach, come back later. Please.)

Two ladies-who-lunch visited a popular suburban lunch spot. One had a littlie, aged 18 months or so. The other was pregnant. VERY. En route to their table, the preggie slapped her hand to her mouth, looked briefly green and then leaned over and, um, like, vomited.

On a nearby table.

Now, I've been pregnant. And if I were sufficiently unfortunate to have this happen to me, I'd be hugely apologetic and shamefacedly request a bucket of boiling water and a lappie. I'd also offer to pay for a new lappie, and possibly a new tablecloth, and I'd leave, tail between fat legs, to continue puking in private.

What I wouldn't do is wipe my mouth, lift my head and snottily request that an innocent waiter/bystander sort out the mess. With the words (I shit you not), 'Don't you people clean?' I also wouldn't take a seat - at another table, obviously - and then not wash out my mouth or brush my teeth for the next hour or so.

This story gets worse.

But I don't have the stomach to tell you what happened next. So I'll save it for next time. Bon appetit.

They aren't! Are they?

Take the most heinous thing you can imagine doing in a restaurant, in the day-time, in broad sunshine, in public. Multiply it by ten. And then by ten again. And you're still nowhere near this perla.

They were a pretty average couple. She in an ill-fitting sundress. He, with an unfortunate waddle. They arrived, refused a pretty and sunny table with a view, and sat in a corner, inside, on the hottest day of the year. (The owner tells me she should perhaps have known at that point that something was up.)

They ordered their meal. Ate it. And proceeded to... um... 'see to' each other. Under the table. Enthusiastically. Complete with moving shoulder (him) and hoiked up skirt (her). I'm told there were all sorts of noises. And... um... fluids. So much so that when they were asked to leave, and they left, a scullery staff member had to be bribed with R100 to clean the upholstery they'd vacated.

Both Ms and Mr Average walked out grinning, though. And more than a little rumpled, damp and... um... stained. I'm horrified. Shocked, even. And very little shocks me. Goodness gracious. Yuk.