At the work's canteen

They don't like it when we call it the Work's Canteen. They prefer to call it Restaurant.

But restaurant it isn't. In a restaurant you sit at the table and they serve you. Not in our work's canteen.

Here we all queue up holding a wooden tray in our hands. Every one is equal, from Mr Topman the Director, to Scrivener the company clerk, or Monk E Rench the engineer, or Herr Kutt the visiting German beautician who comes once a month to make the women think they are prettier with a new hairstyle resembling tumble weed. He is always accompanied by his two assistants, Manny Cure and Paddy Cure; two brothers.

We all queue up and walk toward the serving counter. It is a counter about four metres long behind which are various large pots, or casseroles on hot plates.

There normally are two choices - meat and fish. Three choices actually - you can always walk away and go hungry.

It is not exactly haute cuisine; especially since the canteen is at the sub-ground of our building.

If you want meat you present your tray to Mrs Lamb upon which she places your plate; or you can ask Miss Sammi Salmonella for a fish dish. You then slide your tray along to Miss Lisa Listeria for some over-boiled-to-death vegetables, and then slide further on to Miss Mash for your potatoes (I don't know her first name). Finally you go to Mademoiselle Jolie Gateaux, (she's Italian), for your dessert and you pay Mrs Banks and go and sit down at an empty table.

Today's offering was described as escalope de veau which they had obtained from the local horse abattoir.

I like veal - my favourite. I approached Mrs Lamb and she gave me a plate with two pieces of veal. They looked delicious. I asked her, "Could I have two more pieces please?"

She looked at me in total disgust as if I had asked for something totally inappropriate.

"No!" she said emphatically.

"Oh don't worry," I said, "I'll pay for two portions instead of one!"

"No," she repeated, "that would be against the system!"

"What system?" I asked, "I do not understand!"

"If you have four pieces instead of two then someone at the end of the queue will want veal and we would not have any to give him."

"But that would surely apply even if I have two pieces only," I said, "eventually you will run out of veal and someone will have to have something else!"

"I am calling the head chef!" she said and shouted, "Mr Andy Gestion ... Mr Andy Gestion ... we have an awkward customer here!"

Bu this time I was holding up the whole queue, regardless whether they wanted meat or fish, because the counter position is tight and no one could squeeze through behind me.

Eventually Andy Gestion arrived. "What is the matter?" he asked, balancing a cigarette from the corner of his mouth. Mrs Lamb explained the situation.

"The lady is correct," he said coughing and spluttering in his serviette, "we cannot give each individual more than one prescribed portion as calculated by the computer!"

I pride myself in being a quick thinker under pressure.

"OK," I said, "a colleague of mine is joining me soon, can I have another plate of veal for him please?"

They looked at each other. Shrugged their shoulders in unison, and gave me another plate of veal.

Proud with victory I took both plates and slid my tray on to Miss Listeria for some vegetables. I asked her to put vegetables on one plate only.

"Why?" she asked, "you have two meat plates I must put vegetables in both!"

"Because this is for my colleague, whose plate this is, and he will join me soon. He does not like vegetables. He is a vegetarian and believes vegetables have feelings when you over boil them! So he does not eat vegetables!"

"But it is against the system," she said, "I'll ask Andy Gestion!"

"Oh ... Andy has agreed it!" I lied.

She looked at me suspiciously, and agreed to serve only one portion of vegetables.

I slid along to Miss Mash who insisted on serving two portions of boiled potatoes, one in each plate.

"No need to ..." I lied again, "it's been agreed by Andy Gestion and Miss Listeria over there!"

 She fell for it and let me through with one portion.

Next was Mademoiselle Gateaux. She smiled at me and said, "You weel require anozer ze tray for you to put ze two bowls of happle pie ... zis tray you 'ave is full!"

"No need for another tray," I said, "this one is OK. I only want one bowl of apple pie. Not two!"

"Pourquoi?" she asked, "you 'ave two plates of ze meat so you want two balls of ze happle pie!"

"No ... no ..." I explained, "my friend, mon ami ... he will join me soon, because I feel I am falling apart ... he does not like apple pie. So ... only one ... un ... happle pie ... please!"

She shrugged her shoulders and gave me one portion of apple pie and then proceeded to cover it with liquidy yellow custard.

"No ... No ..." I cried, "do not put the custard all over the pie drowning it within inches of its life! Just pour it gently around the pie like an island surrounded by a yellow sea ..."

"But eet eez 'ow zey told me to do it!" she said, "wat eet eez an eye land?"

"An island ... like Britain ... surrounded by sea ... Good Lord ... what has British cuisine come to?"

I walked away to pay for a meal that was more trouble than it is worth.