Vanity Unfair

‘This despicable establishment needs to be held to account. You are responsible for destroying future memories, the stories one tells one’s grandchildren. You ruined what should have been the happiest, most significant night of my life…’

Benjamin Coben-McGinley, the third’s, two fingers punched the keyboard hard enough to bruise. Every strike rippling the surface of his double espresso as it vibrated through the antique, hand-carved mahogany writing desk that once belonged to William Makepeace Thackery. He winced as the brim of the small white porcelain cup antagonised the cut to his swollen lower lip.

Meow

“Ouch, down Queenie,” he shoved the purebred Persian off his thighs, his cashmere bathrobe no defence against her claws. Why anyone would choose a cat over the obedience and companionship of a dog is baffling.

Queenie posed, tail fluffed, blue eyes glaring up at him and produced a short but enunciated hiss. Strutting to the leather armchair, the deathbed of the second Benjamin Coben-McGinley, she leapt on the seat, extended a paw behind her neck, and licked her butt. Benjamin was certain the cat chose that seat purposefully, to bait him into a reaction that would cement Winnie leaving him.

Even the damn cat couldn’t raise his temper the way last night’s disaster had, he’d tossed and turned regurgitating it instead of sleeping, alone. At five am he admitted defeat and surged to his home office to pen his most scathing review yet. They were going to regret everything, rue the day they dared destroy a Coben-McGinley’s plans. He had made his personal assistant go through each specific detail with him, repeatedly, to guarantee nothing was overlooked.

“Antony’s arranging for my belongings to be packed and collected, and my sister’s coming for Queenie this afternoon.”

Engrossed in his anger, Winnie’s voice startled him. She was standing in the door-frame, half its height and dressed for horse-riding; he’d always loved her in jodhpurs.

“Do not leave Winnie, please, I am composing a review, that horrid place and all its incompetent, insolent staff will pay, I promise,” his voice sounded whiny but then something about bathrobes absorbed masculinity.

“It’s not the restaurant. You can’t see it. It’s like you think people exist because you’ve opened your eyes. And you’re such a joy vacuum, you just suck it in and stamp it to death. I promised to sleep on it, I have and I’m more resolute.”

“You cannot be more ‘resolute,’ you are or you are not resolute.”

“Goodbye, don’t call me.”

“No, you do not leave me, come back. Now. I have not finished explaining why you are wrong.”

#

The night before

In the back of the car, Benjamin had, he thought, debonairly bestowed a black, silk eye mask and insisted she put it on. Taking her sight seemed to steal her voice too, as they travelled the short distance across the city only car horns conversed.

Winnie wrapped her arms around his, it felt like being squashed by an octopus. Her six-inch heels, another of his demands, clacked against the restaurant’s shiny floor tiles.

“You are walking like you’re traversing the moon, walk normally, it is drawing attention.”

Tableware clanged, steam blasted into the air and meat spat and sizzled in hot pans, glassware pinged and hundreds of chattering voices competed with the live jazz trio suspended on a stage above the open-plan circular room. Benjamin looked everywhere, taking in the spectacle, breathing in the mixture of open fires and lilies.

He headed for a severe looking woman with orange lipstick and a dress that reminded him of a barcode. Winnie was pulled, clacking alongside him. Taller than most men, he reassured himself, the greeter looked down her long, pointed nose, eyelids bench-pressing fake eyelashes and lips set to a smile.

“You have arrived at—”

“Wait,” Benjamin said, holding a hand up to the woman’s face.

“Darling, prepare to be elated.” He removed Winnie’s blindfold.

“—Mon-u-mental,” she shouted above the people, the open kitchen, and the band. Every free-handed, barcoded member of waiting staff snapped their heels together and clapped above their head, like the instigation of a group tango. 

Fixing her hair, Winnie looked around then back at Benjamin. She must be shocked into silence, bless her, cannot believe how lucky she is. Benjamin couldn’t wait until they were at the table to ask, leaning into her as the maître de escorted them.

“So, can you believe you are here?”

“It looks great, very modern, lots of atmosphere.”

“Well, I expected more of a reaction. I went to a lot of trouble to get the reservations; you have been begging me to bring you here for months.”

“I haven’t even heard of this restaurant, but it looks fun. Thank you so much for going to the effort, I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful night.”

As a waiter approached the table with their pre-arranged bottle of vintage champagne, the floor spun, revolving around the glass entombed kitchen at the centre. When it stopped, they had a view of a sweaty junior chef in his glass case; with menus and full flutes of champagne in front of them. As Winnie lifted her glass to toast to the evening, Benjamin took it gently from her fingers hovering it under her nose so she could first ‘appreciate the notes of brioche and white cherry.’ He then explained the tasting menu was seven courses all chosen by the head chef, Donal Ponpomdeux himself and inspired by a night in the wilderness. A detail Benjamin had appropriated from one of his mother’s glossy magazines.

“This isn’t vegan,” said Winnie, even the desert was set with gelatine.

“We are not vegan.”

“I’ve been vegan for almost fifteen months since I watched that documentary on animal cruelty. You don’t remember?”

“Make an exception, do not be selfish, it is a special occasion.”

“It’s a Saturday, can the animals ask for an exception to being murdered?”

It was an insignificant blip; Benjamin wasn’t unreasonable he’d allow the restaurant an opportunity to meet their requirements.

A tray of beautifully presented hors d’oeuvres were placed before them. Benjamin wriggled in his seat, eyes focused on Winnie, desperate for her to find it. He gulped his whole, which given they were vegan and smelled of musty socks, was probably in the best interests of his tastebuds; Winnie, however, was nibbling at them.

“They will have to name this table after my family with how long you are taking.”

Winnie ceased picking at the final blini, returning a dismantled version back to the platter, excusing herself for the bathroom. Benjamin was on his feet in seconds, hunting for the maître de and inserting himself in front of a middle-aged couple being taken to their table.

“What do you mean the chef put it in the hors d’oeuvres, impossible, you are lying, we just ate them and there was no ring, I assure you. If you have lost a fourth-generation heirloom worth more than this entire building, you will pay off every single penny of it, even if it takes the rest of you and your children’s and your children’s children’s lives.”

A short woman, with her gaze seemingly fixed on her feet, tugged on the head waiter’s sleeve, and mumbled to him in Italian or French, or some other foreign language.

“Ah, I apologise profusely Sir. This is a terrible mix-up. I can assure you that your precious heirloom is not lost and we are retrieving it. The chef was confused by the last-minute change to the vegan hors d’oeuvres and placed the ring on a smoked salmon blini for another table.”

The sound of hacking and spluttering made Benjamin peer around the accented idiot. Numerous staff members were flocking to the same table. An overweight man in his late forties was yanking at his tie, his face a shade of varicose vein purple. He struggled to his feet and then slammed his top half down and down on the edge of the table. His dining partner, equally rotund, was clasping her over-sized handbag to her chest like a life vest, panting heavily and yelping for someone to ‘help my Roger.’

“That is him isn’t it, he has my ring and you have allowed him to bloody swallow it. Your utter stupidity means my family ring will be lost inside his giant gut. If you expect my future wife to wear it after he has passed it, you are insane.”

Benjamin pushed his way past the head waiter, heading for the man choking. Staff members hoarded the table. Where were they five minutes ago? He elbowed his way between two of the smallest ones.

“Spit it out, tell him to spit it out. Immediately.” Arm extended and finger pointing; Benjamin was furious. A tall, spotty waiter was wrestling the fat ring thief, arms locked from behind around his girthy mid-riff, thrusting, lurching the man off his feet, and repeating. The purple-faced man’s eyes were streaming, mouth dribbling pools of foamy spit all over the place. A ghastly sight.

Clunk, dur dunnnnn. Gold with a large garnet stone encased by multiple diamonds, the ring shot from his throat, smacked the table, slid, and spun to a stop. The man’s hacking of phlegm onto the floor was the last thing Benjamin could tolerate witnessing, astounded by the staff’s collective ignorance.

“Someone clean it, quickly, before it is tainted forever.” His small, balled fist slammed against his short leg.

The maître de appeared at his side, nodded to one of the staff members, placed an uninvited arm around Benjamin’s shoulders and walked him back to their table, where Winnie’s pinked face awaited him. Being so slight, she often looked swamped by the furniture holding her, but she looked shrunken.

“We should leave,” she said, her eyes fixed on the head waiter.

“Do not look at him, he is the reason your engagement ring was just down someone’s gullet. Do not worry though, I have fixed it.”

“Sir, madam, we would like to extend our apologies again and, hopefully you’ll give us another chance after your meals tonight are complimentary. I understand this cannot replace a special moment, but we hope it goes some way towards recompense.”

“That’s incredibly kind, thank you. How is the gentleman who,” she tapped her throat, cheeks deepening to crimson.

“What about the wine?” Benjamin interjected.

“I want to leave Benjamin, thank you Marc for everything, but I think it’s for the best. Please can you send my best wishes to the poor man for his recovery.”

“Yes, of course madam, I shall collect your coats and have your driver called.”

Benjamin protested, arms folded, but Winnie was already on her feet and heading across the floor. Swigging the rest of his and her glasses of champagne, he grabbed the bottle and downed it. A waiter arrived at their table with the ring box and another un-chilled bottle of their champagne as a gift. Snatching both, Benjamin stormed after Winnie, shouting to her across the restaurant and scowling at diners that looked. Winnie paused, she didn’t turn, but at least she was waiting for him.

The jazz trio’s improvisation like brawling bees above his head as he stopped to tear the foil from the bottle. He yanked the cork, it exploded, booming, cork shooting out of his sight, foam everywhere. Winnie turned, just as the double-bass player’s arco slammed down like a javelin, striking Benjamin’s neck, and shoulder. As he fell forward, bottle smashing, Winnie ran toward him. The floor spun and trapped her stiletto heel, dragging it off her foot. Balanced on one leg, she removed the other shoe throwing it in front of Benjamin’s floundering form and continued barefoot to the exit.

Covered in tepid champagne, no fiancée, bruised, blood from a cut lip adding metal to his tongue and stomach groaning with hunger, Benjamin concluded Monumental was the worst example of the service industry he had ever experienced. They deserved every zero of the star-review he would give them.

#

Back to the morning after

Eight am and Benjamin couldn’t get the full thrust of his emotion into the review. After finishing a third double espresso, he called his mother. She understood him better than anyone, even when each of his words tried sprinting to the finish line before its predecessor.

“Mummy, she has left me…if I am too good for her, why is she the one leaving?”

The memory as fresh and raw as the sushi he’d eaten off the naked breast of a woman named ‘Sapphire’ in Tokyo, he relayed the events to his mother. They composed the review together, then awaited a response.

#

The Manager of Monumental responded to your review.

Dear BigBen98££££££,

I am disheartened to hear about your “despicable” visit to our Michelin-starred, award-winning dining experience. Customer care is pivotal to our business ethos and our team pride themselves on excellence in this arena.

I am sorry that you feel we did not deliver excellence and would like to invite you and a partner (please feel free to bring a relative or your butler, someone obligated to tolerate you) for a complimentary evening with us. As my head waiter, Marc, explained to you when we offered your evening’s meal and alcohol for free, we deeply, unreservedly apologise for our mistake with the engagement ring. Working hard to rebuild trust in rare situations where a customer feels so aggrieved is important but, I admit, extending this to you feels masochistic at best. I will also understand if you are reluctant to return due to the scene you caused whilst leaving. Numerous diners and staff witnessed it and no doubt it will be indelibly marked in their memories for years to come. Please do not let this put you off though, our staff are highly trained professionals that wouldn’t dream of sniggering or requesting selfies (you are reaching infamy status here already).

As for your statement that my staff are “incompetent” and “insolent,” I must contest this. We embrace all reviews as opportunities to improve the customer experience. I interviewed all staff members involved, reviewed feedback from other diners (rather a lot mentioned you even though you never made it past hors d’oeuvres) and watched all footage from our restaurant cameras.  

I have concluded that any situation where you are not centre of attention getting exactly your own way, you twist into an alternative reality where other people are incapable or rude. Normally, I would ignore this level of imaginative thinking, but to entertain all those inquisitive people reading this and reassure them you’re spouting nonsense, I suggest not acting like a five-year-old. Your piece de résistance had to be stomping your feet, shaking your fists, and screaming at staff members for providing lifesaving first aid to a fellow diner instead of coddling you and only you. You really should be quite ashamed. And, not that you asked, the lovely gentleman who nearly choked on your family heirloom, is doing very well.

Please contact me directly if you would like to discuss this further or take up my offer. I understand you may not still be in contact with her, but jic please do pass our best wishes to your fiancée, wait girlfriend, ex-girlfriend…the delightful young woman that could do astronomically better than you.

The End.