“MORE BREAD!” the old duffer bellowed, raising his hand and snapping his fingers. The waiter responded by mentally rolling his eyes and for the third time delivering the bread basket of petit baguettes and sourdough slices baked that morning. I even wondered why he didn’t fully commit with a booming “garçon”. Maybe he had some manners after all.
The duffer and his two chums, evidently all veterans of the square mile, slathered the delicate rolls with rich fatty butter and shovelled it down their gullets as if life and indeed limb depended on it. I waited for the carb attack.
This trio of ancient ruin, were straight from Machiavelli’s courts and in a restaurant where once, long ago, their behaviour the norm. Today they brought a dark cloud to a lively lunch filled room of elegant people who gracefully ignored but silently “tutted” them.