Water for the table

I was feeling in a good mood today. I was out and about, it had started snowing and Christmas is on the way, so I thought I’d treat myself to lunch somewhere, you know. Nice.

Unfortunately, I made a bad entrance: it took me four goes to actually get inside. Pull...no. Push...no. Other door. Pull....no. Blush. Curse. Push...try and believe that nobody saw. Then I had to repeat myself when I asked for a table for one. Confidence started to drain from my unworthy body, replaced by mild paranoia.

Were they actually trying to be fully booked once I confessed that I hadn’t reserved? Do I really look a mess? I can afford to be here, I can. Now I felt awkward, like I was on a blind date with an intelligent lingerie model who’d been hoping to meet her Bruce Wayne but ended up with Bruce Forsyth.

Eventually a waitress reluctantly looked up from the book and, with a curt nod, took me to a table in a corner at the back and out of the way - although I do quite like to be near the toilet.

If I know where the toilet is I know I won’t have to ask, or make a fool out of myself by nonchalantly trying to open the fire escape, or wander into the kitchen, or fall down some stairs.

And then, as I sat down, the waitress asked me if I wanted some water for the table. Water for the table? Had I misunderstood her? She spoke with quite a pronounced French accsont. I pretended I hadn’t heard and asked her to repeat. But I was right (I studied French at Aston University). Would I like some water for the table?

I blinked to buy some precious time while my brain whirred away in the background. Did the table need a wash? Surely that was her job. Surely she should have given it a wipe down before I arrived. I pretended to ponder the question and scanned the surface for the remnants of the lunch special, but it gleamed spotlessly.

Water for the table? I discreetly lowered my gaze, half-expecting to see the four legs stood in little plant pots.

Water for the table? I’ve heard of feeding the pigeons. A penny for the guy. But what was this? How much water did the table need? How expensive was the water? The menu said £15.95 for two courses, I hadn’t factored in water for the table. The waitress was getting fidgety by now, you know, in a French sort of way. A light, cold sweat broke over me like condensation. Or condescension.

She sensed I didn’t belong there, it must have been her body language that told me. As the pressure mounted I felt the other diners stop talking, turn around and stare. A sudden hush fell over the restaurant. A palpable moment of tension. Forks froze in mid-air. My heart...so loud. Help.

Water for the table? Oh, why did I come here in the first place? I’m the only one in here below 60 anyway, the only one wearing trainers, the only one who doesn’t know what a Pithivier is. I always prefer fish and chips anyway (haddock – and skinned). I know where I am in a chippy. I’m confident, streetwise, able to deal with whatever life throws at me, although I’m not a fan of tartar sauce.

But here, here they can smell my weakness even when there’s a prix-fixe menu involved. I’m Burnley away from home. I’m Joe Calzaghe on Strictly Come Dancing. I’m William Hague wearing a baseball cap.

In the end, it was the bread that saved me. The nice smiling waiter who came along with a basket full of bread and silver tongues to take them out with. His friendly demeanour set me free from the panic. I was OK. If I was allowed bread, it couldn’t all be bad. As he carefully positioned a walnut and raisin roll at the centre of my plate, I asked the waitress if I could see the wine list. And as she turned to leave, I also asked for a glass of tap water. For me, I added. She looked slightly puzzled, but hey. That’s the French for you.