Harvest Moonie

1. The first big dump of the day has given me time to reflect upon last night's culinary affair. The Dumb Bell could not be a more fitting description of a 'restaurant' so steeped in the smell of mildew, a teenage athlete sat on a mountain of damp towels would be appalled. I could only assume the place had been flooded in the past month. When I asked, I was told, 'You get used to it.' I'm sure you can also get used to syphilis but I'd choose not to. Now I'll state clearly that I didn't expect much but in my mind I had a semi-romantic notion of eating in Pottery Barn, not eating in a run down farm on the outskirts of Phnom Penn. I remember visiting a Harvester years ago, and they actually said it,'Have you ever been to a Harvester before.' It added tiny unique value, but you associated the phrase with the salad cart. Ah yes the salad cart, picture it now and you'll think of The Haywain by Constable and every harvest festival you're childhood can conjure, minus the tins of out of date kidney beans naturally. In forty minutes, a restaurant of maybe 50 salad dodging British diners did exactly that. To be fair, a chef (or someone dressed in white for the occasion), popped out to blow the dust off some tomatoes and turn over the darkened salad leaves. In the past the 'Have you been to a Harvester' routine was quickly followed by an introduction to the salad cart. Perhaps in the 80's when Harvesters appeared, this felt more like an invitation to slit your own throat but in today's health conscious Britain, surely they should be queuing up? Partly the problem lies with the menu, some meals state you have access to the compost heap and others don't, resulting in sublime confusion for the diner. Things didn't get much better when my own meal arrived. When asked when I wanted some sauces, the waiter leaned over to the adjacent table where an entire family had just finished eating and snatched their used and overflowing rack of sauces off their table and deposited it on mine. Naturally I didn't go near the horror, but the same waiter was quick to pass on the same rack to the next unfortunate table. Part way through the meal, I noticed some commotion at the front of the restaurant and as I paid, I asked what the problem had been.
"Some woman tried to do a runner."
"It's hardly any surprise." I replied.