Tale guide

The two women accompanied by a grey-haired gentleman, had entered the restaurant and settled down two tables from us so quickly, that for a second it seemed they had appeared out of nowhere.

The elder of the two was evidently the dominant character. She spoke loudly and with a high pitched, cutting tone and anyone sitting at the surrounding tables could clearly hear what she had to say.

The younger one, probably in her late thirties, had obviously inherited the volume knob and sound bite marker from her blood line. “But Mum, I don’t like all this fancy stuff. I’d much prefer just a simple breakfast,” she countered.

Their somewhat intrusive arrival interrupted a pleasant breakfast interlude, characterised by a quiet, general conversation between my wife and I over recent developments in advances in green technology. We stopped in mid-sentence and simultaneously glanced in the direction of ‘their’ table.

“OK,” exclaimed mum in a tone of agitated agreement, as she closed the large book-like menu cards and started to stand, “but I really think you are making a mistake.” She stood such that I got the impression that mum wasn’t keen to concede and was simply playing out a routine designed to get her audience to reconsider their position. Seemingly, it would have the desired effect, well, partially at least.

The daughter didn’t move other than lifting her head to look at mum. Her overall body language and tone conveyed a sort of begrudging acquiescence as if brought on by the realisation that she needed to rather heed her elder’s wishes if the disagreement was to be brought to a peaceful conclusion. “Mother, please sit down. I will be happy with whatever they serve here. I just thought that Wimpy is so much cheaper than this place.” She waved her arm across the table exaggerating the extent of her case in point. “It’s crazy to pay these prices for the simple bacon and eggs that I was wanting.”

The gentleman had remained silent throughout the intercourse. He sat quietly and as if caught up in thoughts of a far away place. He stared down on the table, apparently oblivious of the banter going on next to him or maybe, after many years of living with these women, he had learnt to ignore it all in the interests of self-preservation.

“May I take your order please?” My wife and I were caught unawares; distracted by the goings on next door and hadn’t noticed our waitress at our table. We proceeded to place our order but not without some interruption by the ongoing exchange of arguments as to whether they should stay or go. The waitress smiled knowingly at our lifted eyebrows and raised eyes. I so wanted to suggest to our neighbours that I was quite certain Wimpy would be a much better option for them, but I couldn’t gather up the courage to deal with their inevitable displeasure at my recommendation.

Mum sat back down, “Look, you don’t have to order any of the specialities and the basic on-the-move breakfast is no more expensive than elsewhere, but I can assure you, it will be far better. And in any event, I’ll pay for us.”

This time there was a distinct air of authority in her tone, and I thought that finally, they had put their skirmish to rest, and we could all get back to our breakfasts in peace.

I turned to my wife and as we sipped our coffees, I changed the subject about which, by this time, we had lost track. “It’s only a few more weeks before the family will be with us for the holiday,” I said in an attempt to get back into our own space. She smiled at the thought of seeing them all again and started to express the warmth and joy of seeing the two grandsons who had grown almost threefold in the passing years. But the harmony didn’t last longer than that brief exchange.

“Mum, I don’t want tomato and all this extra stuff,” daughter was letting it be generally known to the wider restaurant, that she was not inclined to the ‘specialities’ on offer.

Mum came back instantly with clear and concise direction. “Order the basic on-the-move plate, one egg and crispy bacon and brown toast. Tell them you don’t want tomato, nor the mushrooms or baked beans.”

A momentary silence descended and then she looked at the old man quietly minding his own business; “Grandad!” boomed across the shop floor. Even the chef behind the bread counter raised his head.

I wondered if grandad was hard of hearing, which would explain the additional volume increase in the call to order. “What would you like?”

“What?” uttered grandad a tad perplexed.

“What would you like for breakfast?” mummy was losing patience again and for that matter, so were the other customers who were battling to hold their respective conversations.

The staff were obviously nervous to intervene but were nevertheless keenly aware of the continuous disturbance the ‘table’ was causing. They looked at each other with knowing eyes and looked at us with an expression of silent apology.

Grandad continued to look perplexed which triggered a further response from mummy-in-charge, but this time addressed to daughter. “Just order him a straight basic plate with brown toast. I need to go to the bathroom,” she announced, “place the orders in the meantime, will you?”

As mummy stood up. I thought from here on in we would enjoy a respite, that was, until daughter asked, “but what do you want to eat?” close to the top of her voice.

“Bloody hell!,” exclaimed my missus under her breath, which was unusual language for her at any time of the day, let alone so early in the morning, “when is this going to end?”

Mummy must have heard as she glared at us. I wondered if she had got the message and whether she would take it on board and realise the intrusion she and her clan had been having the past half hour, but there was no way of knowing.

“I’ll have the captain’s omelette,” she declared, whereupon she turned abruptly and stormed off and out of the restaurant.

Our meals were duly served, and at ‘their’ table, another waitress meticulously wrote down the daughter’s instructions.

Just as I thought the coast was clear, I was about to recommence our conversation when the daughter piped up and speaking to the waitress, said “no mushrooms!”

“With the Captain’s omelette, mam?” confirmed the waitress politely.

“No mushrooms with the omelette,” came the curt reply.

We experienced a temporary lull in the noise levels as we went about enjoying our chat over breakfast.

The lull was short lived.

Mummy returned and even before she sat down, she asked loudly, “have you ordered?”

I instinctively knew that another storm was a-brewing.

Initially the daughter replied “yes.”

Normally that would have sufficed, I thought, at least. But no! Mummy wanted to know item by item, what was ordered for whom; were grandad’s eggs ordered sunny side up; “Did you remember the brown toast and crispy bacon?”

The waitress finally served the three orders at the table just as we were waiting for the card machine to pay our bill. Suddenly, without warning, mummy burst forth, “where are my mushrooms? Her question could be heard at the four corners of the restaurant!

“But you don’t eat mushrooms?” exclaimed the daughter.

“I didn’t eat mushrooms until about two years ago. Ever since then, I’ve grown to like them.

“Ah!” I realised that we were actually witnessing a long-awaited family reunion!

“So, order the bloody mushrooms,” as loud as can be, a stranger three tables away, bellowed in the general direction of mummy. Most of the patrons in our vicinity couldn’t contain their amusement at this unexpected outburst.

We went on our way shaking our heads at the general laughter and mummy’s obvious discomfort.

“Oh, they certainly walk amongst us,” I said with a chuckle.

“Can you believe it?” exclaimed my wife in total disbelief.

And this is a true story...