The Restaurant

The autumnal sun was beginning to set over the rural Cheshire landscape as I embarked on my journey to Cambridge. The weather was kind and sympathetic to my plight, and all else being equal, this journey could be no worse. Cambridge itself has been the centre of learning for generations, and in modern times a hive of activity in the bio-tech environment. There are a wealth of small independent companies popping up, with a mutual knowledge base and slight differentiating factors. In my exam mode, a wonderful example of industry clustering.

It was one of these small businesses that became the destination of my journey, and although my knowledge of Bio-tech’s and science is lacking from the average Pharmaceutical employee, their numbers are still numbers that go up in the same order.

An old Chinese proverb states that a journey of one thousand miles begins with one step. In my case, the journey was about 160 miles and I was in a car. But the Chinese cannot be expected to know everything. They did well with the Olympics, and are best in class when it comes to Wall building.

My car deserves a brief mention. It was hired from Avis, who I can now publicly declare are rubbish and if you had any choice in car borrowing then please do not use this company. I do not get angry with the help very often, but on this occasion I was incensed to the point of perspiration. I won’t go into the details but take my word for it, go with Hertz.

Having said that, the actual car was very nice. It was an executive class Citroen which is not up there with the Mercedes or BMW’s of this world but still for a man of my simple pleasures, it purred along the M6 like a Siamese cat on a banister. So after a brief interlude on the toll road for a Costa coffee or as it should be called “Cost-alot Coffee”, I then reached my destination at seven o’clock.

The hotel was a lovely example of a hostelry in a semi-rural setting that’s main focus is business travel. But unlike many of the genre, the Felix Hotel was an AA 4star establishment and one that, at first impressions, I would be very comfortable in. They type of hotel that if you were paying for it yourself then you would probably have resided in one of the competition that was in more of a central location to Cambridge, but as I was enjoying the hospitality of Uncle AZ, it was more a case of a hearty clap of the hands and an enthusiastic “Happy Days”.

The restaurant was the hotels “jewel in the crown” and, as I have previously mentioned, due to the hotels remote nature, there was no other choice than to endure the nouvelle cuisine. I have two simple rules of thumb in restaurants; firstly, look at the price, if it makes you blow out your cheeks and chortle at the fact that at least you’re not paying, then it’s probably good; and also secondly, if it has items on the menu that I have no idea what they are, and more surprisingly have never even heard of, then again, it is probably good. This restaurant ticked both of these boxes.

The standard was exceptional. I have no complaints what so ever, it was first class. My fellow diners, however, you could have been excused to think were less than content. As it was a Monday evening, restaurants across the land complain of low numbers of covers, and the Felix was no exception. Apart from me there was only one other table in my half of the restaurant, obviously the half that was reserved for the more discerning diner.

“I must say, the pork is hardly, how I would describe, tender.”
“Is this a beetroot salad, or just slices of beetroot interspersed with chutney?”
“This fish reminds me of the course that we once had in Madrid.”
“Was it not in the Alps?”
“Oh, do you remember the charming little Auberge in the mountains, still the most favourable venison that I have ever experienced.”
“Do you know my favourite way of serving fish finger sandwiches is with a fine spread of Marie Rose sauce.”

This was snippets taken from the conversation to my right. As the meal progressed the comments became more and more pretentious. I could not help but snigger to myself at certain points and to my relief later on, thank goodness I was undetected.

As I was thinking to myself that this could be the most pretentious restaurant that I have ever been in, and buoyed by the glass of red wine that I had, I asked the head waiter if this was the usual standard of clientele that he could expect most evenings. To my relief he replied, “No. Those are the owners, and they are interviewing for the Head Chef.”

Finally the comments began to make sense, and like a clever film that had an unexpected twist at the end, it made me go through everything that I had witnessed and see it from another perspective. It now all made sense and the snobs had gone from pretentious snobs to loaded restaurateur snobs. A whole different category and one that can be more tolerated.

The moral of this story is to never judge a book by its cover. Perception can always be distorted. The wise man holds off on an opinion until he knows all of the facts.