The family and I have just disembarked the hop-on, hop-off sightseeing bus that’s been wending its way down the Cape Town coastline. We make our way past a row of sea-front restaurants looking for a lunchtime snack. We’ve had a late and leisurely breakfast at the hotel and so a light bite will see us through to dinner.
I spy a place which a work colleague has recommended. Two well-presented ladies man (or should that be wo-man?) a podium at the entrance, which disconcertingly is positioned a few steps above the pavement. I peer up at them and ask to look at the menu. They return a slight flash of surprise in their eyes (like, no-one has ever asked us that before) before one of them obliges. I just need a quick glance to confirm there’s something to satisfy the kids’ basic palates. In common with other places in Cape Town, the prices are notably cheaper than, say, London.
Seated at our table, we deep-dive into the menu. My wife comes up for air first, having spotted the seafood platter for two as the light, healthy option. There is no price next to it, just “SQ” (Seasonal Quotation, we assume). All of the prices are very reasonable so I don’t feel the need to ask for submission of a quote for prior endorsement.
We order the platter and then sit back into our usual pre-service routine i.e. each taking our phones out, checking for free wifi, finding none, and then checking something completely unimportant that doesn’t require an internet connection.
About ten minutes later, I turn my gaze from the sea view to my wife and notice the waitress who took our order crouched confessionally next to her, whispering soberly into her ear (almost like “how did someone like you end up with this guy? We can help you escape…just blink twice when I serve the sparkling water if he’s holding you against your will….).
With the waitress still crouched, my wife turns to me, as if she is my interpreter, and relays that the waitress is apologising that she didn’t tell us the price of the seafood platter and that it is, by the way, 1500 rand.
Even with limited mental forex computations, I realize something is awry, something, how can I put it, a little fishy? A quick calculation on my phone reveals this is about 90 (British) pounds. In central London I would just sigh “yeah, London”, but here it is completely out of kilter with all of the other menu items (a bit like finding out the cappuccino is, for no obvious reason, four times the price of the café latte).
“Mmm, that is expensive” I remark solemnly, suddenly realising how super uncool it must look to have started working this out on my phone.
“I can ask the kitchen if they can stop the order and you can take another look at the menu” ventures the waitress in a helpful, solution-driven tone.
“Oh, ok, you can do that?” I say, about to take her up on the offer.
Strangely, given her suggestion, she seems alarmed by my response and adds “actually, the prawns are on the grill”. I take this as code for “I wasn’t really expecting you to stop the order, I’ve messed up massively by not telling you the price, but it’s going to be my head on a platter for two if management find out what’s happened”.
An image passes through my head for a second: the waitress hurtling back to the kitchen, bursting through the doors and skidding to a halt before screaming at the top of her lungs: “CODE RED! CODE RED! PRAWN EMERGENCY! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL”. I see the sous chef looking up in panic, frozen in mid-motion just as he’s about to place another crayfish on the hot grill in front of him. The head chef instructing him as if he is diffusing a bomb: “It’s okay, Johannes, just relax, move slowly, put the crayfish down, nice and slow, breathe, good, good, that’s it, easy now…” (A single bead of sweat falls from Johannes’ brow and sizzles on the griddle).
I thrown on my magnanimous voice and, with a gentle wave of the hand, conclude: “that’s fine, it’s okay”.
The platter arrives: a pretty but decidedly demure plate of food, perfect for two people religiously monitoring their waistlines. We greet it with a fittingly modest reaction. And there’s much more calamari than I’d have guessed. SQ? Must be peak season for squid.
