Vegetarian? “I make you chicken soup without chicken,” says restaurant manager
I had a stand-up row of the highest magnitude yesterday with the manager of restaurant called Hemingways in Skipton. It was my second and last visit to the venue, which has an outdated appearance and seems predominantly frequented by the over-65s. But I was there because my parents, who are both well past the age of 65, and one of my sisters, who isn’t 65, wanted to eat there, remembering our first visit, about three months ago, when we had all enjoyed a lovely meal.
At the time I was concerned that there were only two vegetarian options on the menu, which was as outdated as the decor and almost went so far as to offer bacon with ice cream. I jest, only a little, because it offered such dubious delights as fried mushrooms on toast, but after examining the menu closely it was revealed that bacon was lurking in the mix. Cheese was a popular ingredient, fine with vegetarians if not made with animal rennet, and a no-no for vegans. But there were no V symbols to indicate whether, in choosing a cheese dish, I would be consuming the stomach acids of a young calf extracted from its belly at slaughter. So my sister and I went to speak to the manager.
Under normal circumstances I’d have left for more contemporary and considerate surroundings, but my parents were visiting and I wanted to eat where they fancied, not where I dictated. However, the manager—a European whose accent I couldn’t place at all—was at the time pleasant and helpful, informing us of the two dishes on the menu I could eat, and showing us that the cheese used came in plastic bags festooned with the V symbol. So I had a mushroom and spinach lasagne, my parents and my sister made their choices, we all liked what we ate. The manager came over to tell us he was changing the menu very soon to include V symbols and offer more vegetarian options, and he urged us to return in just a few weeks to see the changes.
We were more than impressed. Until yesterday, when we returned and my parents ordered what they wanted, my sister decided she wanted a vegetarian option as well, and both her and I looked at the menu. No changes at all. So, a little annoyed, we ordered baked potatoes with coleslaw. “Sorry,” said the waitress, “we’ve run out of potatoes.” My sister and I were amazed that a restaurant could be so badly managed as to run out of what is a prime staple in British cuisine, such as it is. We ordered coffees, and I told the waitress what had happened on our last visit and that I was singularly unimpressed. She said she would tell the manager.
My parents didn’t really want to eat while two of their children sat just drinking coffee, but we said—quite honestly—that we were fine. That was where things should have been left, but the manager strode across the room and…
He started to give us exactly the same spiel as on our first visit. Word for word.
“Hang on,” my sister said. “You told us this last time.”
The manager was clearly embarrassed at being caught out. “What you want? What you want?” he blustered. “I make you anything on menu. Anything. I take out meat. See–”, he jabbed at the menu, “you want soup? I make you chicken soup without chicken. Simple. What is your problem, huh?”
It was with that last challenge that the manager crossed my personal tolerance line. I let rip. “My problem,” I said, my voice raised in anger, “is that you don’t, in 2008, offer vegetarians meat dishes with the meat taken out. That’s not vegetarian cooking, is it? It’s not cooking at all. Why would I want you to do that, why would I accept that? You promised more vegetarian options, V symbols on the menu, told us to come back and see the changes, and you’ve done nothing. What’s more, you’ve just tried giving us the same scripted rubbish you gave us last time. We believed you then but now we see you lied to us. Why did you tell us lies? What purpose do lies serve?”
The manager started to wave his arms around, shout mostly incoherently, and go a bit red-faced. It was as if by doing all the waving, he thought he might dissipate his own hot air.
Every single person in the restaurant was looking at us as I took him on. “This is so bloody provincial,” I said, ignoring the stares. “You have no right to start a fight with me. Vegetarianism isn’t oddball, it’s common enough these days, and your menu offers meat with everything and makes no concessions for anyone who isn’t a carnivore or doesn’t want to be a carnivore for the duration of the time they visit your so-called restaurant. You told us lies for no purpose other than to get us to visit this place again, and, when we were quite okay with drinking coffee while our parents had their meal, not wanting a fuss for their sake, you came over and started spouting nonsense which, when I wasn’t having any of it, then led to you starting a fight with me over my personal ethics. I can’t stand liars and I won’t tolerate being harangued over my dietary choices. Get with the modern age.”
More incoherent ranting came from the manager, who now had the appearance of a red party balloon. “You’re bloody stupid,” he concluded with, walking away. “You’re just bloody stupid. Get out of my restaurant.”
“Up yer arse!” I roared. “You’re a bloody liar!” At that point my father, bless him, to the amusement of myself, my mum, and my sister, told me to watch my language. It wasn’t the ‘bloody liar’ he objected to, but ‘up yer arse’. I must admit, the phrase was said with quite a degree of venom, but I still smile about that today. I apologised to my dad and then my mum and sister, but said that obviously after that confrontation I couldn’t and wouldn’t sit there a moment longer. They backed me completely—who wouldn’t, having observed the manager’s behaviour?–and we left, my parent’s food no doubt in mid-preparation. Besides, you can’t do anything else under such a circumstance, not ever—it’s not unknown for twisted revenge to be exacted by chefs through the addition of bodily substances to foodstuffs. In a temper, they don’t really have their minds on the various legal standards.
We went to a lovely Fair Trade cafe, Coffee and Creme, with vegetarian options a-plenty, and all food—meat, fish, vegetable and dairy—locally sourced and, where possible, organic. It was modern without putting off my elderly parents, and the staff were extremely friendly.
Hemingways, however, is a monstrous carbuncle. I remain livid that, to get there, we had to get my infirm father, who is not far off 90 years old, up a flight of stairs—his choice, there was a lift but he likes to show independence, and it was still very difficult—only to encounter the situation that we did. I hate being reminded that in 2008 aggressively proud and ignorant restauranteurs still exist, who do everything in one visit that vegetarians loathe being exposed to: ridicule, argument, and the offering of meat dishes with the meat taken out.
On our first visit, the manager had said his partner was a vegetarian. I expect this was just another one of his lies—that, or I pity his partner for having such an ill-informed, unsympathetic man (and a bad chef when it comes to vegetarian cuisine, which he is incapable of providing) at his or her side.
Will I leave things here? Unlikely. I think the letters page in the local newspaper is calling to me right now. But sometimes, just sometimes, I really miss living in cities such as London or Manchester. Cities have so many problems, and where we live—a semi-rural market town—is quite, quite lovely, but your chances of encountering dinosaurs in the service industries are so much greater in the sticks than they are in any big smoke of your choosing.
Yet I must not forget that friendly, sophisticated and intelligent food venues do exist across the UK—five gold stars to Coffee and Creme, for example, in showing you can appeal to traditional and more modern diners at the same time. You just have to be on your guard to avoid those that aren’t so conscientious and inclusive. It’s some small comfort to think that the manager of Hemingways is more likely than not to one day find nobody in his industry wants his dubious and extremely limited skills in cuisine and customer (dis)service, and instead lives out the rest of his working life serving high-salt, high-fat hot dogs made from pulped broiler hen remains, in all weathers, from rickety little stands outside nightclubs at 3am.
There will always be people who want to eat crap, but it is to be hoped that restaurants, one day soon, other than those serving fast food, will not be the places in which to find it. In either the rantings of the managers, or the food.
tags: argument, cities, complaints, customer service, dissatisfaction, food, old-fashioned, outdated, provinces, provincial, restaurants, suburban, towns, urban, vegetarianism
4 comments on “Vegetarian? “I make you chicken soup without chicken,” says restaurant manager”
June 23rd, 2008 at 8:04 am
i am horrified at this manager’s behavior. his insensitivity and his condescension would have driven me up the wall. kudos to you, andy, for standing your ground. i only hope the eloquence of your argument actually got through to the man; he seems the hopelessly thick sort.
June 23rd, 2008 at 8:53 am
{illyria} » Thanks {illyria}! He was, it has to be said, rather dim–which of course goes hand-in-hand with thuggish behaviour–but sadly, I doubt very much I got through to him. His skull was way too thick for that to happen! Still, after all that, we ended up at a much nicer venue that will be rewarded with our continued custom time after time. My parents, especially, are creatures of habit and once they’ve found a nice place, they like to keep going back.
It’s such bad business sense for a restaurant not to cater for vegetarians these days: invariably, just one vegetarian can be accompanied by ten or more omnivores, and the decision on where to eat is made by such groups of friends or colleagues on the basis of everyone being able to actually eat at the chosen venue. So in treating just one vegetarian badly, a restaurant can lose a lot of custom. Plus, of course, many people simply like to eat vegetarian food every once in a while, for any number of reasons. x
June 25th, 2008 at 7:04 pm
As you say Andy, his behaviour will directly effect his business. I imagine quite a few of the other diners will think twice about eating there again, they wont have enjoyed the manager making a spectacle of himself and so will probably try somewhere else next time too.
Good for you for standing up for yourself ~ as if there was any doubt you would
~ but mind your language the next time something like that happens 
June 25th, 2008 at 9:07 pm
Beautifu1 » Nah. ‘Up yer arse’ was a great way for me to conclude the argument.
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