The Cottage Smallholder

Photo: wine in cooler

In the early eighties I worked part time in a French restaurant on Lavender Hill, London.  It was a really long day for the restaurant proprietor. He had to be there at 8:00 am to take in the fresh food delivery and we were often still waiting for diners to leave at two in the morning. This was not the sort of place that sweeps up around the final lingering tables.

As a waitress I started work at 6:00 p.m. All the staff ate together and we were allowed one alcoholic drink before the service began. Having studied the alcohol content of all the bottles in the extensive bar, I always drank a small glass of Benedictine (high!).

It was the sort of restaurant that really put the needs of the customer first. We were taught to recognise diners by name and how to give good service and get the best tips. This was basically assessing what each table needed and wanted, and was done when we brought bread rolls and complimentary pork Rillettes.  The way people accepted these set the tone for that table for the evening. Some people wanted to be left alone, others wanted help with the wine list, others wanted to chat.  Apart from good service, every table wants something different from a waiter or waitress.

If we weren’t serving we stood behind the long bar and watched for any sign that a table needed attention. If you cannot get the attention of a waiter or waitress in a good restaurant, I can assure you that you are being deliberately ignored. With a bit of practice, a waiter can spot a raised eyebrow at a distance of sixty feet.

One day, a lone woman booked a table. She arrived wearing a soft black leather trouser suit. She was sparky and gutsy. She ordered mussels, followed by rack of lamb.
“And what would you like to drink with your meal?”
She passed the extensive wine list back to me.
“I don’t know any of this wine. Have you got some of that Mathews stuff?”
My mind whirled. Was Mathews a wine importer or a brand?

Then as I turned over the word Mathews in my mind I twigged that she meant Mateus Rosé. A blended wine that would have had the rather pompous wine buyer frothing at the mouth.

I lied. “Yes of course we have.”

Within seconds I was shooting out through the back door and clambering over the fence behind the restaurant. I raced down to the wine shop at Clapham Junction and bagged a bottle of MR.

She tipped extremely well and became a regular. She arrived one day with an attractive man also dressed in soft black leather and, although she never dined alone again, they always drank that Mathews stuff.

I was a toymaker at the time and I’d put the wheels on my wooden cars and trains when I returned from restaurant. I sold them on Saturdays at Covent Garden Market. One Friday evening the soft leather couple were in the restaurant. As I gave them their bread rolls and Rillettes she mentioned to her friend that she had been kept awake by this banging every Friday night.
“I can’t understand where it’s coming from. At first I though it must be someone laying a carpet. But they can’t be laying a carpet every Friday night! It’s gone on for months and it’s driving me out of my mind.”

I cringed away and repaired to my place behind the bar. I remembered that I’d seen her in my road. She must have the attic flat adjacent to mine. I thought that it was best to come clean so when I served the starters I announced.
“I am the hammer banger that disturbs your Friday nights.”
They looked astonished.
“I must apologise. Because no one complained I thought that no one could hear.”

They were charming, left an extra large tip and I never put the wheels on my toys again after work.

And we always kept a few bottles of that Mathews stuff for when they dropped by.