I’ve been having a very hard time with my conscience this week. I bullied a friend into complaining about a bad wax job that left button grass plains sprawling across her legs. Eventually she proudly declared that having complained (politely and constructively), the proprietors of the house of wax sought her advice on what could have caused the problem (she thought inadequate lighting), and they are attempting to rectify same.
So, to my conscience. The self-same friend is now bullying me to make a complaint about a meal I had not long ago at Rockerfeller’s. The trouble is, I’m finding it really hard. Especially as time has passed, and I’m not as angry today as I was.
The scenario: Business colleague visiting from interstate. I had not been to Rockerfeller’s for a very long time and was hankering for an excuse to go back (it’s the fond memories of the affogato that gets me every time). So off we went, with visions of coffee and ice cream and frangelico dancing before my eyes.
The problem: Firstly, the large antipasto platter bore none of the promised seafood the menu had led me to expect (unless you count tiny bits of smoked salmon inside nori rolls – which I don’t). Secondly, the seafood chowder (quite delicious) came with a very 70s looking piece of home-made garlic bread (not nice) and bullets. Yes, there were bullets in my chowder! Who’d have thought? I was told they were scallops, but I know what a scallop looks and tastes like, and I certainly know the feeling of a juicy scallop exploding in my mouth. Scallops these were not. Bullets, that’s what they were.
Anyway, so I’m still battling the task of writing a polite, constructive note of criticism to the dear folk at Rockerfeller’s. How will they ever know there’s a problem if I don’t tell them? Maybe they too suffer inadequate lighting and need only to be informed. How else could anyone mistake a bullet for a scallop?