IN-LAWS, PIRI PIRI AND THE PERILS OF PROCESS

When the in-laws came to visit recently, we planned to go out for a nice, relaxing, Sunday lunch. Little did I know what I was getting myself into, or that it would leave me plucked and scared for the rest of my days. 

The problem arose on a day when all of Broughton's eating establishments seemed to be fully booked. As we trekked up Broughton Street, the weather got gradually worse and when we reached the summit we all looked like drowned pigeons and had to find shelter quickly. 
 
To my utter dismay, my mother-in-law pointed to the large glass-fronted building on Leith Street and said, ‘Let’s go there’. 

‘Yes,’ replied Mrs Left-Handed Tea Drinker. ’There's a new Nando's opened up inside.’
 

All I knew about Nando’s was that they sold chicken. What  would happen if I didn’t like chicken?

As we sat down, a waitress approached and handed out menus. ’Have you eaten with us before?’ she asked.

I decided to take matters into my own hands.  If I said yes, perhaps they would offer us some kind of loyalty discount.  ’Yes,’ I replied. 
 
‘Oh, good,’ said the waitress. ‘That means I don't have to explain the process. Enjoy your afternoon’. 

The ‘process’? Why do you need a process when you're out for lunch? I couldn't admit in front of the in-laws that I had made a terrible mistake, so I decided to have a look at the menu and hopefully the ‘process’ would speak for itself.

I scanned the menu for instructions and started to panic as, one by one, the members of my party decided what they were having. The drastic change of weather had obviously made everyone grumpy and hungry and they wanted to eat soon. As I waited for someone to come and talk to us, I noticed a queue forming at the main counter. People seemed to be going there to make their orders. I checked what everyone was having and headed off. This must be the ‘process’. 

At the counter I felt like I was being interrogated as I was asked a number of different questions about the chicken, flavour, sides, side sides, extra sides. The whole ‘process’ was a nightmare and I was left flustered and confused. Once separated from my cash, I was informed that I now had to go and collect the sauces, cutlery and napkins; you even had to make your own drinks. I wondered which clever person had come up with the idea of making the customers ‘wait’ on themselves. A genius, I thought, but probably a tortured one. 

As I finally settled down ready to eat a well-earned lunch, it suddenly hit me. I hadn’t made an order for myself. I wasn't able to swallow my pride and when the food was delivered to our table I informed everyone that I wasn’t hungry. I would retreat back to the heart of Broughton with my chicken tail between my legs and a very empty stomach. 

A week later, after the in-laws had been outlawed, a friend invited me out for dinner. He told me it was at that new place which had opened up in Broughton, but before he could tell me what it was called I quickly announced that I was a vegetarian and refused the offer.

He is now a former friend. Enough feathers have been ruffled to last me a lifetime.

Creative commons images: Chicken: enlavys (Browse Tux); Peppers, Dolores Minette