Outback Sophistication

Roaming Brighton the other day (8 May) thought I would visit Harry Ramsden’s opposite the seafront, my grumbling stomach craved a meat pie and chips combo. It took so long for the food to arrive I wondered what sort of Fawlty Towers mayhem was taking place in the kitchen. I was left with little choice therefore to take in the ambience and eavesdrop on any interesting conversations. To my left sat a gay couple, sharing a plate of chips and I’m not kidding, a savaloy. There was plenty of knee slapping, head rocking back antics and hand clapping, attention seeking? Just a little.

An Australian couple in their 60s sat further to my right. With only three tables to serve it still astonished me that my meal was taking so long, it was now 25 minutes and counting, the ice cubes had already melted in my Diet Coke and I was beginning to palpitate. I was however intrigued by their conversation. The Aussie male was wearing khaki, matching tops & bottoms and had something ridiculous to say about nearly everything on the menu, the Aussie female would nod an occasional acknowledgement. The Polish waitress, exhausted, replied with a straight face every time.

Straining his eyes he began by questioning the pie section then looked at his partner and said “I dunno Carol, this steak & kidney pudding, is it a dessert? I just need to know.” His stupidity time warped me back to the 70s and a Dirty Harry scene, the well do you feel lucky punk scene, and as Callahan walks away, the shot black dude on the floor says “I gotsta know”, Harry obliges by firing on an empty chamber.

The Aussie male then went on to ask if the cutlery came warmed up! Astonishing remark, what a dick. Still waiting for my food I was reminded of Bernard Cribbins in the Fawlty Towers Spoon scene in “The Hotel Inspectors”. When The Aussie male’s dessert finally arrived, something and custard, he managed to hoof down the something pretty quickly. Bearing in mind that custard, once served in a bowl, tends to cool down after a while, and I’m sure this has been proven scientifically by greater minds than mine, but whilst still chewing the last of the something, he raised his hand and summoned the manager. As the Latvian manager stood over the Aussie male, beaming and waiting to please, he became aghast as the Aussie male stuck a finger in the custard and exclaimed it wasn’t warm enough. The manager, stunned I would have assumed, took the bowl of custard away, hopefully pissing in it before returning the microwaved dish (I heard the “ping” it was that quiet in Harry Ramsden’s) back to Aussie male.

He then proceeded to taste the custard like a wine connoisseur, nodding his approval before dismissing the Latvian with a wave of the hand, omitting any eye contact. Extraordinary! My food, when it finally arrived, was spectacularly delicious, but by then the gay couple and the Aussie pair had departed, leaving me alone in a great mausoleum.