The restaurant was not overly busy. I was shown a table, next to two small white-haired, severe looking, old, tiny, Scottish women. When the Boddingtons arrived [for me, not them] I asked for the 'Mixed Grill, steak medium-rare'. I did not adopt the phraseology of the woman two tables away who had just used multiple "can I get" questions at the waitress. This style of ordering annoys me. It's as though a load of food is coming anyway, and the hungry woman wanted first dibs on what she could be allocated. Instead, I adopted the approach of there's no food coming my way unless I actually order it, so I used the "I'd like" ordering method. My waiter left, and I started to read the paper.
The two gnomes dithered over a menu, considering what to have. Tea was the easy part, and soup seemed not too taxing a decision. However, the 6-stone gerbils decided to ask for scones, which were not on the menu. So a minute later, the waiter left to see "what chef could do"; sounded like Fawlty Towers to me.
Unsurprised, I heard a waitress (shortly after) imparting the news - "unfortunately there are no scones today, but we have some desserts that might be of interest" (although I also caught the interesting phrase, "the Cheesecake is Madagascan Vanilla rather than the Chocolate noted on page two"). She then handed over the same menu the gerbils were pouring over when I first sat down. They decided on just the tea and the soup.
I waited for over 30 minutes for food, which was pathetic. I should have known better than to expect speedy service, after my visit on 3rd February had involved a wait long enough to have played two games of snooker. Next to me, the two white-haired gerbils exchanged such limited dialogue that I wondered if their tongues had been removed. It was like the script from 2001: A Space Odyssey (for those of you who are aware that fuck all's said).
The waiter walked in at almost half-an-hour into the ordeal, and stood in the middle of the restaurant achieving nothing, and looking in my direction. I held out my arms and hands to the side with a sort of shrug, to indicate: "What the fuck is going on here - where's my cuntin' food". [I pride myself with being able to say so much with a tiny gesture.] "It's just coming, it's being assembled now." Assembled!!! Had I ordered some sort of fucking Airfix Kit? The chef was either playing Jenga with the components of the mixed grill, or gluing bits together, or creating a Tracey Emin concoction that I'd prefer not to see, let alone eat.
The food came. It was okay. The sausage (that's right, singular) was not Award Winning so the Holiday Inn must have changed supplier, but let's not get into that again/now. The speediness of service was rarer than the medium-rare steak element of the mixed grill, but overall, the food was edible.
I left after signing the bill, ten minutes after the soup-eaters, who no doubt went to run in a wheel and nestle in cotton wool that matched their hair. All I can say in summary is: do not eat at the Holiday Inn Bolton, unless you have time to spare, because the service is slow.
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