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This is a restaurant with two levels. The lower level contains rows of pine tables, easily carveable, with modest fireplaces at either end. On each fireplace is roasted ducks, and geese, and striped waterfowl.
The upper level is on a balcony above; a massive stone fireplace roasts any beast from boars
up to a large milch cows.
On the lower level, consumption carnage ensues. Everyone is issued stainless steel mugs, filled with cheap beer and even cheaper wine. Food is served by bulky and muscular serving wenches, ugly enough to stave off pinching, but strong enough to hold up to six liter mugs per hand. The choice of food is limited to roasted ham hocks, lamb liver, beef, flank steak, and free-range veal, and as much potatoes (in any variety) and whole grain bread as you can eat. For drinks, cheap, warm ale, such as anything Fullers makes, and cheap continental lager, such as Stella Artois. Digging into the tables with knives is encouraged, as is throwing bones to the roaming dogs (not seen during inspection days). The floor is covered with rushes, to soak up the vomit and beer. Closing time is around 11am, when the last drunken fool is slapped awake and pushed out the door.
The upper level, however, enjoys a different approach. Only the finest cuts of beef arrive at the tables, decorated with flagons of delicate white and red wines, imported direct from California. Fine cheeses, as crafted in Wisconsin, the Netherlands, (and ironically for the British) England, adorn the tables. Harder alcohol, also, is provided, for those who enjoy a shot of scotch, raki or bourbon (but not too much, as while tossing a dinner plate of garlic-encrusted squabs down on the seething underclass may be enjoyable, it is also throwing silver at swine).
The settings are laid with fine silver cutlery, and dessert uses only the freshest cranberries, kumara, and key limes.
Likewise, the upperclass enjoys a string quartet, which plays magical symphonies, protected from the lower floors by carefully laid soundproofing, to empowering their listeners with carefully wrought emotional highs, whist the delicate diners gossip and slander and gently slip hands up each other's skirts. The night ends with the gentlefolk carried into velvet-lined carriages, filled with pillows, and carted away home.
The combination of the underclass roiling below the sophisticated decadent upper class, would then double the classiness of this eatery of eateries.
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Presumably, in contrast to the muscle-bound ugly serving wenches, the servers upstairs are all supermodels?
sp. "litre" |
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//decorated with flagons of delicate white and red wines, imported direct from California// hmmm - shouldn't that be *downstairs*? Upstairs, they should surely be drinking vintage Chateaux Vin de Posh - not discount Yankee plonk. Geez - and cheese from Wisconsin? The Netherlands? Have I awoken in some parallel universe where Edam, and presumably whatever cheese "The Fonz" eats is considered "Upper Class"? |
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Likewise raki and bourbon - two drinks you are going to be hard pressed to find in all but the most egalitarian of London's Gentleman's clubs. |
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Conversely //roasted ham hocks, lamb liver, beef, flank steak, and free-range veal, and as much potatoes (in any variety) and whole grain bread as you can eat// all the rage in these post-nouveaux cuisine days - how about providing the unwashed with great piles of cheeseburgers, fried chicken - in fact, anything, as long as part of it has been cooked in a deep-fat fryer, or extruded from a machine. For drinks, I'd suggest alcopops, cider and factory produced lager. |
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Hey, watch what you are saying about cider, it's experiencing a revival right now. |
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[coprocephalous], whoops, I meant to spell it 'pint'. |
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Presumably there is a mezzanine, "Bourgeois" level where the vast majority of people dine, all rather self-consciously hoping that they wont be mistaken for belonging upstairs or downstairs. |
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Every now and then a coup is staged where those in the bottom get together and kill everyone else, before realising that they can't remember the recipe for breaded turkey drumsticks. |
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Oh, and in the cafe across the road, Bohemians listen to jazz and talk about, among many other things, the silliness and pitfalls of social climbing. |
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Just replace dripping joints of meat, with dripping joints of pasta. |
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//The Netherlands? Have I awoken in some parallel universe where Edam, and presumably whatever cheese//
I had some absolutely lovely Gouda last night but will concede that there are more flavoursome cheeses available. |
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[gnomethang] I think I still have some of that cheese wedged firmly in my cheek. |
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[z_t] - you know what?, feeling around with the tip of my tongue I realise that I do too! |
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Dohh! It's that ghastly cheap Dutch cheese again! |
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Stella cheap? I thought it was reassuringly expensive |
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//delicate white and red wines, imported direct from
California.// For goodness' sake, make your mind up. |
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am I the only one who thinks arbitrary choices of
foods separated by class is preposterous? Not to
mention class based uniforms, class based activities,
and class based everything else. How the hell is a
man better for playing tennis and eating an
expensive strip of steak as opposed to bowling and
beer? |
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They may not be the prettiest, but I'd still enjoy ravishing the serving wenches after some meat and beer. WOOF! |
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read the entire post in search of how you're gonna separate the noises... didn't find anything. You're in need of upper-level guards to beat up lower-level loudmouths. |
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Different dining-experiences at different floors in the same building, owned by the same establishment, are quite baked. |
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So, the meal is more delicious when eaten in the almost-
presence of people who don't have it so good? I think von
Trier & Leth did that to death in _The Five Obstructions_ |
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