A Lunch To Forget

“The problem with you young people is you have no respect”, I nodded in agreement with Mr. Crenshaw, a prospective client. ”When I was in the army, we were taught discipline, etiquette” he said, waving his spoon in the air to illustrate his point. We were at the Roost a five star restaurant, where I was trying to convince Mr. Crenshaw to invest in our company.
“Well sir", I said trying to edge in a word, "you can be sure that our company is a disciplined one in fact...”, I was going for the kill, “Would you like some drinks sir?” said the waiter swooping down from the bar .Mr. Crenshaw brightened .He scrolled down the list and ordered the most expensive drink. ”And for you...Sir” said the vulture, looking down his long thin nose. I straightened my tie and with all the dignity I could muster ordered a lime soda and added as an afterthought “stirred not shaken”. The waiter vanished with our orders.
From the other end of the room another one of them slid across with the menu. Mr. Crenshaw clapped his hands in delight and set about to ordering
A quarter of an hour later I found myself staring at a list of unpronounceable dishes. ”What’s this?” I asked the waiter .he looked heaven wards for inspiration and then said slowly as if talking to a toddler, ”Bread...Sir”. ”Aren't bread sticks complementary?” I asked innocently. Mr. Crenshaw and the waiter exchanged a look and burst out laughing. Mr. Crenshaw patted me on the arm in what he must have imagined was a fatherly way, snatched the menu out of my hand and ordered for me.
Twenty minutes later the food arrived. A tiny plate was placed in front of me. Complimentary starters I said approvingly.” No...Sir” responded the waiter “that is your meal”.
My ‘meal’ consisted of what looked like a bark of a tree coated in a slimy green liquid. It tasted even worse. Mr. Crenshaw, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying his steak and mashed potatoes.
I was getting desperate; I hadn’t even started my sales pitch. It was time. Nothing could stop me now .In a ringing baritone I began to speak...
Ten minutes later I stopped, breathless. ”Well, Mr. Crenshaw what will it be” I asked, hopefully. To my surprise, he burst out laughing ”My dear fellow, whatever in the world made you think I’m Mr. Crenshaw. I’m his personal assistant."
"Your bill... Sir" said the waiter, placing it by my hand, just out of reach of Mr. Crenshaw’s outstretched hand.