Staring back at me from the mirror is a face I hardly recognize. I must look 61 to those around me … tired and worn out from the raucous nightlife of our London vacation. I am in the restroom of Poncho’s, the Mexican eatery on the fifth floor of Harrods’s in the West End. We are here for our last dinner out before we depart for home. I glance to the right and sense a comfort washes over me when I spot the familiar sign above the lavoratory:
ALL EMPLOYEES MUST WASH THEIR HANDS THOROUGHLY AFTER USING THE LOO. [signed] P. PILATE, THE MANAGEMENT
I strolled back to our table and noticed the large group in the corner of the room that had been seated while I was in the WC. It was a baker’s dozen of them, loud, but not rowdy. The guy in the middle was definitely in charge and seemed to be making a presentation to the group. My guess is that it was one of those pharmaceutical meetings where the rep wines and dines a bunch of doctors to solicit their business. The rep seemed to be making a toast … holding up what lookedto be a Bloody Mary and gesturing to the other guys. It must have been a good one because he passed it around for everyone to taste. Man, were they ever smacking their lips … I could hear it all the way over at our table. Same thing with the bread. From where I sat, it looked like a sourdough loaf, which seemed really odd for a Mexican Restaurant. Whatever, everyone tried it and not a one put any butter on it or dipped it in olive oil.
We were just getting our nachos when I noticed a waiter bringing the rep a small platter. He had ordered appetizer special, fresh sardines, grilled. It was served on a bed of lettuce with two small loaves of bread. The waiter sat a large jug of water beside it. I know you think that I am crazy, drinking or senile, but the next time I looked over, everybody is putting away the sardines and drinking wine. I swear to you that I never saw another waiter bring additional platters nor the first glass of wine. It is a complete mystery to me.
Later in the evening as we were getting ready to go, I heard shouting from the other table. They must have been confusion over a raffle drawing or something cause one guy was shouting, “Not me, not me”, and the rep was babbling about roosters crowing, and everyone was staring at this one guy suspicious-like.
I confess. I am bad about eavesdropping on the conversations at other tables when I dine out. I didn’t catch it all. The rep definitely was Mexican … dark complexion but very little accent. I can’t remember what they kept calling him for the life of me, but to tell the truth, I thought he was Fabio at first. I don’t think he ate out that often because he didn’t seem to know how much to tip. The rep kept telling them to set aside 10% of what they had. I thought this was a little low.
We headed out. I glanced over my shoulder and the group seemed to finishing up as well. They had all stopped hugging one another and someone had popped out a camera for a group shot.
So long fictitious London. We had a BLAST.
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