Maybe we should publish a praise book...

by Johnny Bull
January 13th, 2009

Years ago in Rome for the first time, my girlfriend and I had a simply fantastic meal in a bistro. After what seemed like a hundred courses of a meal that just sort of arrived without any fiddly boring ordering – bread sticks and rolls, pastas, steaks, mozarellas, roasted vegetables, fruit, sorbets, a carnival of coloured Sambuccas on a tray, a pudding trolley that took three waiters to goad into motion – I really wanted to show how happy I was without the usual patting of my stomach and a bleary shouting of, “Fantastico, er, bella…” since I had very little Italian (still do, I’m a dreadful linguist) I had the bright idea of fishing out my phrase book so I could articulate my joy as best I could. As the busy waiter bore down on our table with the bill and my credit card in his hand, I opened the book and found myself on the Hospitals section. There was no time to refine the search much, all I could do was to find a nugget of gratitude that I could use to communicate my profound joy. With what seemed like miraculous speed I fell on the pathetic and lacklustre, “Thank you, I feel much better.” I said this in such an excited and determined way that the waiters and most of the clientele burst into spontaneous applause. High fives all round. More sambuccas and tables full of animated, pointing, smiling people…

It was only when we were outside that my companion (that’s what critics say, isn’t it?) asked what I’d said to arouse such hilarity. And with a shudder I looked again at the page and realised that I might have loudly congratulated the waiter on curing my wife’s flatulence.

Oh well, it’s been over twenty years; I suppose I could pop in there again for a quick bite.

The point I’m making is this: they say the English don’t complain, they just seethe inside at bad service then go home and take it out on the furniture or whatever. It seems the phrase book is making up for all those lost opportunities.

I no longer have the wretched little lexicon of grumbles, but I remember finding it utterly useless unless you did want to moan, endlessly: “My wife smells of creosote, what are you going to do about it?” There seemed also, to be about a hundred various requests for police intervention. Jesus, what sort of holidays do most British people have? And I’m not talking about the dreary drunk tattooed chain-smoking rottweilers who shout the bleedin odds in warm parts of the European landmass. What about a Praise Book for the people who are quiet and polite, but nevertheless hell-bent on pleaure? And who want to communicate to their hosts their enjoyment of the wine, the walks, the beautiful, unbelivable weather.

Just a thought.
I might take it to Mrs Grumpy on Dragons’ Den…
No, don’t; just when I was starting to feel much better.