As promised, today I’m writing about the time my best friend and I managed to spend $140 on dinner and became friends with a twelve-fingered waitress.
In order for you to truly understand why this momentous event is, in fact, momentous, here’s what you have to know:
During this trip across the pond, my two friends and I were suddenly filled with an insatiable hunger. We had to eat every three hours on.the.dot. And I’m not talking about little snacks. No, no. I’m talking full plates of fried fish, thick chips (those are French Fries to you uncultured Yankees), full pints of beer, and mashed peas—which aren’t as nasty as they sound. OH! Then there were the breakfasts of toast, baked beans, grilled tomatoes, scrambled eggs, and coffee.
If we didn’t get the these giant man feasts? Unleash the hangry monsters from America. Move over football hooligans (that’s soccer to you Yanks), our stomachs were ready to kick. some. ass.
Ready for that teen movie montage but with hungry monster adults?
Now, that that’s out of the way, let’s continue.
If you know anything about me, you know that I can never eat like this. Not because I’m worried about keeping my figure. Let’s be honest, that goal died years ago… but because I have some not so “cute” issues with yee ol’ tummy. Read about the burrito fiasco of 2015 here.
Anyway, the miracle of London was that these thunderstorms in my belly seemed to no longer exist! Talk about GAME ON. Food could “spice up my life” and I would still be ready to have another curry within the hour.
On our last night in the Queen’s land. My best friend Cienna and I said goodbye to our fellow traveler, Haven, and went on our own to paint the town red (or at least a nice mauve).
Here’s what to keep in mind: Haven is the responsible one out of our trio.
After our goodbyes, we checked into one of the trendiest hotel’s I’ve ever stepped foot in, The Hoxton in Shoreditch. We were welcomed in by a sexy piece of Brit at the font desk. Yes, I did have to fight off the young gay man in order to get him to assist us. And yes, I am proud of it.
Once we were all settled in, we decided to go see Gringotts … I mean, Harrods (honestly, they’re the same thing).
There, we proceeded to spend upwards of $80 on important things like a pen with the name Harrods on it…
After spending a hour or two in this incredible maze of material goods, it suddenly hit… the hunger. Yes, you guessed it. It had been far more that three hours since we’d gorged ourselves on fried potatoes and we needed food. STAT.
While in San Francisco, I’d gotten a recommendation from a real fancy lady for a restaurant in London called Portland. Yes Alanis, that is ironic.
So we looked it up, and Open Table said we could make a reservation at 10pm. It was around 9pm at this point. Cienna suggested we just head there instead, and see if they could seat us earlier. With our stomachs growling and our heads woozy from a full 4.5 hours without a massive meal, we grabbed a car and went to the little restaurant.
When we got there, the host answered the door and shook his head when he heard our plan.
“Sorry,” he said, “we’re all full for tonight.”
Not even a cute British accent could subdue the disappointment we felt at those words nor could it quell the little monsters in our stomachs and demanded to be FED.
We stepped back out onto the street, hearts full of despair, and pulled up Yelp. There had to be another place to eat nearby. Right? RIGHT?!
Wrong. There was absolutely nothing.
Desperate for some sort of sustenance (yes, I know there are starving children in Africa and I’m a brat, but we were SO HUNGRY), I pulled up Portland’s website again (No, not the state. The restaurant. Though how cool would it be if we could make reservations for Portland, the state, and just like reserve it for an hour or two… Portlandia, I’ve got your next amazing skit right here!)
Back on topic: That 10pm reservation was still showing up as available! Should I just book it? Perhaps they kept a few spots open just in case someone made a reservation. I clicked the button.
As I made the reservation, I noticed the hours listed on the website. Portland closed at 10pm… (Oh, god. Now I’m wondering what it would be like if an entire state closed at 10pm. Crazy.)
WHY in the Queen’s name would they have an Open Table reservation available for that time if the restaurant wasn’t even going to be open?!
The hunger was really boiling at this point.
That’s when we spotted it. An English pub right across the street. And I’m talking a classic, Notting Hill-esque, straight out of a Jane Austen novel, English pub. I think it was named the Farrier or The Horse and the Hound. Something that made you go, oh my god. I’m in fucking LONDON.
We ran inside and sat down at the bar staring desperately at the young bartender. He strode over and casually asked us what we’d like.
“Food!” We cried, because Americans aren’t obnoxious at all… #Trump amiright?
“Sorry,” he replied trying not to show his dislike of the two obviously well fed, gluttonous girls in front of him, “kitchen closes at 9pm. All we have are some crisps.” For you Yanks out there, crisps are fucking potato chips… those were NOT going to quell the demons that were raging inside of us.
So, we ordered two ciders and drank down our sorrows. Remember, we had not eaten for about 5 hours, and in London, that means we’d been starving ourselves for at least a full day! By the time we finished these drinks, we were already a tiny bit tipsy. That’s when the older bartender came up to us and asked if we were ready for another. “It’s Friday!” he exclaimed, “You ladies have to have another!”
“If I have another,” Cienna told him, “I’m going to end up passed out on your floor.”
So he poured us two more.
That’s when my phone began to ring…it’s them! It’s the restaurant. I panicked. Thrusting my phone at Cienna, I demanded that she answer.
“Hello? Yes, this is she. Oh, sorry. We thought you closed at 10pm. Oh? That’s when your last seating is? Yes, well, we’re right across the street. We’ll see you in a bit.”
Downing our fresh glasses of cider—not the best idea for us—we paid our bill and ran across the street where the same host opened the doors and welcomed us in. We were seated at a small table in the middle of the restaurant and a waitress with a pixie cut and a bad attitude (or maybe she just wasn’t thrilled to wait her last table on two drunk Americans who couldn’t seem to stare straight at their menus) came to take our orders.
The remainder of the evening’s escapades (including tears at the sight of a pencil-sized lobster appetizer, the contrasting size of our bill, and our debate about a twelve-fingered waitress who pretty much saved our lives) will be in tomorrow’s post. Tune in then!