I have another blog, Julie’s Rant, where I rant about all things evil: politics, TV, menu malfunctions and the like. In a little shameless cross-promotion, here is a recent rant on something I hold dear – restaurant noise levels.
Every time I go to a restaurant I feel myself becoming more and more like an old person yelling. Restaurants are now louder than Clive Palmer’s ties (and that’s a Julie’s Rant Fact).
Gone are all the stuff that makes you feel at home: carpet, curtains, wallpaper, comfy chairs, paintings and a working toilet. Instead there are concrete floors and walls, aluminium benches and tables, mismatched cutlery and the occasional potplant about 20 metres up a wall (I mean who is going to water that? Hagrid?).
But still I go out, as it beats cooking. And come back with a cricked neck from leaning forward to hearing what gem of wisdom my dining companion has to say (usually complaints about the noise). My throat feels and sounds like sandpaper dipped in razorblades from shouting all night.
And I have weird shouting matches with the waitperson. It goes like this:
Me: I’d like the pork and a salad
Waitperson: You need another fork and a side of lard?
This was an actual conversation apart from the bit I made up.
I don’t know who started this minimalist trend. Did it start in a zen garden (no, zen gardens are quiet!). Or did it start by some evil superchefs who wanted to punish people for not pronouncing jus? Yes! Or did it come from restaurants wanting to save on carpet cleaning costs? Yes!
I think we should only go to eating establishments with carpet, curtains and tablecloths and matching crockery. Oh hang on, that’d mean eating at home.