My daughter Jessica and I went on an outing to the Tate Gallery to
see the Pre-Raphaelite Exhibition. An important point to this tale is
that I am sufficiently old-fashioned and middle-aged to dress up
when visiting our capital city, although studying the masses hurrying
by, my assumption that others feel the same way I do, is misplaced.
Those who went to the exhibition will remember the enormous
crowds it attracted; more that 300 people every hour going through
the rooms was the figure stated on the wireless. I had to queue so
long to see the ‘Light of the World’ that Jessica got fed up and went
off on her own. We were reunited about three hours later, spiritually
fulfilled but bodily exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. We searched for
the snack bar but long before we saw it, we saw the queue, four
deep, going in its direction. We had little time left, and as I had seen
a sign for the restaurant we decided to try there instead. Here there
was no queue. A manageress approached us, looking us up and
down. She said frostily: “This is the restaurant. The snack bar is down
the passage.” I told her of the queue, that I was in a hurry, and
pointed out that I could read and knew therefore that I was in the
restaurant, and that I wished to sit at a table for two people. “There
is no table for two laid” she said, “Never mind, we are not fussy” I
said, “we will sit at a table laid for four”, and did so.
The restaurant was only half full and there were plenty of waiters
standing about but it seemed that Jessica and I were invisible. We
studied the menu and made up our minds. But no one came to take
our order. A sort of silent pact seemed to have been made by the
waiters: leave the old bag and daughter to stew. Eight young
businessmen were sitting at the next table, guffawing, and swilling
down bottles of chilled Sancerre. Indeed, they commanded a great
deal of attention, but when I tried to catch the waiter’s eye,
somehow, he just did not see me. After half an hour we got up and
left. We bought sandwiches at a café down the road and ate them,
reflecting, on a seat overlooking the Thames. Jessica was stoical but I
was enraged. I asked myself these questions about expensive
restaurant hostility to women:
Are they worried women will not be able to pay the bill?
Do women lower the standard of the restaurant by the lack of male escorts?
Do women look like prostitutes?
Do women understand the tipping system properly 10% and all that.
Do they think women will not buy wine which is where they make their profits?
To these questions, I do not know, even yet, the answers. And
probably never will.
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