So Jennifer and I are in Rosebank, scouting for a decent place to eat.<\/p>\n
Nino's is out, since last time we were there, they sold us a stale
piece of week-old sponge cake, claiming it was their chocolate mousse
cake.<\/p>\n
So we're sitting across the way, at Nescafe.<\/p>\n
Nice view. Loads of hairstyles courtesy of the Misogynist Hairdressers Guild.<\/p>\n
The waiter isn't wearing a name badge. Bad sign. He takes our order.
'Siyacela eTwo glasses of water, and a lemon and condensed milk
smoothie, please.'<\/p>\n
Jennifer goes for the penne Napolitano. I order a Smoked Chicken and Avo salad.<\/p>\n
The waiter comes back to the table and says, 'No avo.' He's not making
eye contact. He's not even all that interested in taking my order.<\/p>\n
I ask him if I can substitute feta cheese. He nods. Leaves.<\/p>\n
Comes back with two differently shaped and sized glasses of water.
Thirty seconds later, brings the smoothie.<\/p>\n
I taste it. And almost spew chilled milky froth all over Jennifer. It
tastes rotten. Not merely off. Actively rotten. Disgustingly rotten.
'Jesus!' I say, trying to wipe my tongue off with a paper napkin.<\/p>\n
Jennifer takes a test sip.<\/p>\n
'Oh man,' she says, 'this is rotten! This milk is far gone!'<\/p>\n
Luckily, I've got some mints in my pocket courtesy of Graham at Blue
Moon. Ten of them kill the taste for both of us.<\/p>\n
As it happens, I've just had a warm chat with Graham. He runs a
fantastically successful stall at the Rosebank Flea Market, selling
imported British food. Which is why Jen and I are here in the first
place. We came to visit him and Claire, to show a bit of support.<\/p>\n
I call the waiter. 'Brother, I think this milk is very badly off, and
I'm changing my order. Please take this back, and may I have a strong
Milo instead?'<\/p>\n
'Okay,' he says, 'Milo.' And takes the offending specimen away.<\/p>\n
A minute or so later, he comes back. With my ex-smoothie in his hand.
Plonks it down on my table. 'The manager says there's nothing wrong
with it. It's the way it is. Sweet and sour.'<\/p>\n
'No, I changed my order, because this is off. I want a Milo, and I'm
not accepting this.'<\/p>\n
'Then speak to the manager.'<\/p>\n
'I don't need to speak to the manager. This is off.'<\/p>\n
'There's the manager.'<\/p>\n
So the 'manager' approaches the table. He's short. Intense black hair
tightly cropped. The first words out of his trap are, 'There ees
nothing wrong with that! Is sweet an sour.'<\/p>\n
Bulgarian? Ukrainian?<\/p>\n
He's got the fattest scowl on his lips. Very much a 'Punch Me Now' kinda look.<\/p>\n
I say, 'I changed my order. This tastes off. And I'd like a Milo
instead please.'<\/p>\n
Jennifer adds, 'We even had to eat peppermints to get the taste out of
our mouths.'<\/p>\n
'That's how it tastes,' he says, scowling harder.<\/p>\n
The drink sits in no man's land between us.<\/p>\n
Nobody approaches it.<\/p>\n
I say, 'You don't want to change my order, I'm walking. Come Jennifer.'<\/p>\n
And I pick up our stuff, and I'm getting up, and leaving, and I hear
Napoleon-junior muttering under his breath.<\/p>\n
'Fine. Leave.'<\/p>\n
We're halfway to the Spur in The Zone when it dawns on me.<\/p>\n
'They didn't taste that smoothie, did they?' I say.<\/p>\n
Jennifer says, 'It was the same glass. If they tasted it, they sipped
from your glass.'<\/p>\n
'And if they didn't, then how the hell do they know whether it's rotten or not?'<\/p>\n
'Exactly.'<\/p>\n