Seated’ before being called to your table by a female voice that could cut steel plate at 10 yards.
You were never ‘table for two or four’ – you were always a ‘party’.
‘Hince – party of one – this way please.’
After being seated by ‘Hi – I’m Sherri – your hostess today’ with her far-too-cheery attitude for this time of the morning, you were then engulfed in the shadow of large hair and sucked into the void of the gaping smile of: ‘HI I’M BOBBI! And I’ll be your waitress this morning – how you guys all doin’?’
‘Can’t you see I’m a bit hungover this morning?’ Just in case you forgot Bobbi’s overwhelming introduction, she’d be wearing a palpable plastic name badge on her starched uniform to remind you – from a distance of up to 50 feet. She would already have the mandatory pint glasses of iced water in hand and, as we perused the rigid laminated menus, she would rattle off the breakfast specials, literally rattle them off, through teeth braced with a scaffold of dental metal.
Amid the confusion of choice, the waitress remained, bouncing round the table like an oversized Barbie doll on speed.
‘ OK, OK – what can I get you guys? ’
‘I’ll have eggs please.’
‘How d’ya wan ’em – boiled, poached, scrambled, over easy, sunny-side-up or an omelette?’
‘Bloody hell! What a choice!’
Protracted discussions follow about whether I want my sausages as ‘patties or links’ with nine varieties of potato – and grits? Orange juice came in small, regular, medium, large or jumbo size? Then we get to the hot beverage…
‘Great – and kin I git coffee fir yuh all?’
‘No, I’d like some tea.’
‘No problem, iced or hot?’
‘Well, hot of course!’
‘Cream or lemon with that?’
‘No, milk – cold milk!’
‘You mean half and half?’
‘NO – MILK – the white liquid that comes from cows!’
‘OK, sir, I’ll see what I can do… and will that be separate checks?’
‘No – we’ll pay cash!’
‘You got it! Hey, you guys are a riot – you’re all a band – right?’
‘Yeah – right!’
‘And be sure you have a nice day now.’
Why would I want to have a nice day? In the Land of the Free do I not have the right to be melancholy? And a cup of American tea was a poor substitute for our national drink.
Despite the differences, food in America was very appealing for a young visitor with a not-yet-discerning palate, but industrial-strength digestive system. This was the 1970s, when a sophisticated night out back home was steak and chips at the Berni Inn. Not Texas steaks, that fell off the side of your plate, and if you ate all of the first one the second came free.
I had never seen or tasted hamburgers so good. Or big. They needed both hands to hold and came with fries, salad and familiar garnishes, plus some suspiciously long, pungent, green warty things on the side. Better leave them there!
When the US promoters offered Fred a hamburger as the band meal, he replied with his usual aplomb: ‘A hamburger? You will bring me a steak!’
They did.
On to dessert…
Jello is the substance in the US that we Brits call ‘jelly’, normally seen at children’s parties – and on one occasion in the tub of a Holiday Inn hotel guest bathroom. One balmy summer’s evening in 1980 in Charleston, West Virginia, a local lass, upon being invited to a crew member’s room for a nightcap or such, confided that her fantasy was to be putnaked in a bathtub of liquid cherry-flavour jello and to allow it to set around her. She also wanted sprayed whipped cream to be included in the ‘dessert’.
Not wishing to disappoint the young lady, a local cab company was rapidly called, and the driver dispatched to the local 7-Eleven store with a fistful of dollars and instructions to get a receipt…
While our cabbie was grocery shopping, the game young girl asked to be tied to a chair with some velcro straps normally used for securing cables
You were never ‘table for two or four’ – you were always a ‘party’.
‘Hince – party of one – this way please.’
After being seated by ‘Hi – I’m Sherri – your hostess today’ with her far-too-cheery attitude for this time of the morning, you were then engulfed in the shadow of large hair and sucked into the void of the gaping smile of: ‘HI I’M BOBBI! And I’ll be your waitress this morning – how you guys all doin’?’
‘Can’t you see I’m a bit hungover this morning?’ Just in case you forgot Bobbi’s overwhelming introduction, she’d be wearing a palpable plastic name badge on her starched uniform to remind you – from a distance of up to 50 feet. She would already have the mandatory pint glasses of iced water in hand and, as we perused the rigid laminated menus, she would rattle off the breakfast specials, literally rattle them off, through teeth braced with a scaffold of dental metal.
Amid the confusion of choice, the waitress remained, bouncing round the table like an oversized Barbie doll on speed.
‘ OK, OK – what can I get you guys? ’
‘I’ll have eggs please.’
‘How d’ya wan ’em – boiled, poached, scrambled, over easy, sunny-side-up or an omelette?’
‘Bloody hell! What a choice!’
Protracted discussions follow about whether I want my sausages as ‘patties or links’ with nine varieties of potato – and grits? Orange juice came in small, regular, medium, large or jumbo size? Then we get to the hot beverage…
‘Great – and kin I git coffee fir yuh all?’
‘No, I’d like some tea.’
‘No problem, iced or hot?’
‘Well, hot of course!’
‘Cream or lemon with that?’
‘No, milk – cold milk!’
‘You mean half and half?’
‘NO – MILK – the white liquid that comes from cows!’
‘OK, sir, I’ll see what I can do… and will that be separate checks?’
‘No – we’ll pay cash!’
‘You got it! Hey, you guys are a riot – you’re all a band – right?’
‘Yeah – right!’
‘And be sure you have a nice day now.’
Why would I want to have a nice day? In the Land of the Free do I not have the right to be melancholy? And a cup of American tea was a poor substitute for our national drink.
Despite the differences, food in America was very appealing for a young visitor with a not-yet-discerning palate, but industrial-strength digestive system. This was the 1970s, when a sophisticated night out back home was steak and chips at the Berni Inn. Not Texas steaks, that fell off the side of your plate, and if you ate all of the first one the second came free.
I had never seen or tasted hamburgers so good. Or big. They needed both hands to hold and came with fries, salad and familiar garnishes, plus some suspiciously long, pungent, green warty things on the side. Better leave them there!
When the US promoters offered Fred a hamburger as the band meal, he replied with his usual aplomb: ‘A hamburger? You will bring me a steak!’
They did.
On to dessert…
Jello is the substance in the US that we Brits call ‘jelly’, normally seen at children’s parties – and on one occasion in the tub of a Holiday Inn hotel guest bathroom. One balmy summer’s evening in 1980 in Charleston, West Virginia, a local lass, upon being invited to a crew member’s room for a nightcap or such, confided that her fantasy was to be putnaked in a bathtub of liquid cherry-flavour jello and to allow it to set around her. She also wanted sprayed whipped cream to be included in the ‘dessert’.
Not wishing to disappoint the young lady, a local cab company was rapidly called, and the driver dispatched to the local 7-Eleven store with a fistful of dollars and instructions to get a receipt…
While our cabbie was grocery shopping, the game young girl asked to be tied to a chair with some velcro straps normally used for securing cables
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