Smiling at strangers (London)

At the Wood Green library.  

Two old men by the wall are talking loudly.  I happen to turn my head round.  They pause.  I decide to smile, to let them know I'm not looking at them on account of their talking loudly.  

A few seconds later, one of them calls out, "Hello!"  I turn my head round.  He says, "You're very nice!"

I then hear them discussing (in Greek or Turkish) women from Philippines, Vietnam, Singapore.

I must be careful not to be so ready to smile at old men next time...

(London, 2019)

The irony of it (London)

At the library featured in blog "An uncharacteristic library":

Male social worker (a different one from the usual, older man) rings a number for a lady client (in her 70s?), and hands her the phone.  

She shouts (Turkish or Greek) into the phone, then passes the phone back to him when done after a couple of minutes.  

He also bellows into the phone to the other party, "I'M PHONING YOU FROM THE LIBRARY WHERE IT'S QUIET."

 (London, 2019)

Appeals to protestors (London )

During the Anti-Capitalist May Day demonstrations of 2002, shop windows were smashed, among other things.

One shop had this notice on their shop window:  

“Dear May Day Protestors, 

Please kindly do not smash our windows.  

Thank you.”

Underneath the notice were two helpful arrows, pointing in opposite directions, with “Starbucks” below one and “McDonalds” below the other.

Another one was a letter in the papers:

“Dear May Day Protestors, 

Please do not thrash our office.  

We are perfectly capable of doing it ourselves from within.

[signed] Staff, Arthur Andersen” 

(Arthur Andersen ceased operations in 2002)

(London, 2002)

Advice from a man (London)

The floating pub kitchen ran out of fish fillet for the fish and chips dish, so I was sent out to the cash and carry place (selling to caterers, not to the walk-in public) to buy some.  It was my first time there on my own.

Picked up a trolley outside — like one of those airport trolleys for conveying luggage: flat and long.  Customers obviously buy in bulk here.

Had difficulty pushing the trolley through the entrance.  It was reluctant to move forwards, and kept veering left into the wall.

An employee who spotted this — an Indian man in his 50s — said to me, "Don't push it.  Pull it along, like you would a husband, and it'll follow you."

(London, 2019)

*See also Marital bliss series (1-6)

Wrong-footed again! (London)

A young lady customer came for three pints.  

I: “How many are male drinkers, how many female?”  

She: “Two male, one female — me.”  

I: “I’ll give the men the jugs, and you the tall elegant glass then.”  

She: “No, let’s do it the other way round!”  

I: “You've wrong-footed me!  That’ll teach me to be so sexist!”  

We had a good giggle over that.  I’ve been telling other customers this tale since.

(London, 2019)

Outdone in my own attempt to surprise people: 01 (London)

At the Wood Green pub, whenever I see a birthday crowd celebrating during my shift, I'd ask for the birthday girl/boy to be identified, then go up and sing the Happy Birthday song in Mandarin to her/him.  Always goes down a treat, as they recognise the music although they don't know the language.  It usually earns a round of wild applause, with everyone enjoying the surprise as much as the birthday girl/boy.

On two occasions, I was the one to be surprised.

The first one was over a year ago when, after I started singing the first line to the birthday girl (an English girl in her 20s), she then joined in with the Cantonese version.  We finished the song together, me in Mandarin, her in Cantonese.  She'd attended school in Hong Kong in her teens!

The second one was last week when I was helping out at the floating pub moored on the south shore of the Thames.  On the upper deck was a big group of mainly Spanish speakers, celebrating someone's birthday.  When I finished singing the song to the birthday girl (a Spanish speaker), she turned round and said, "谢谢你，阿姨 / xièxie nǐ, Āh Yí / Thank you, Auntie!"  I was so taken aback: "你会说中文！你怎么会说中文?!? / You can speak Chinese?  How is it you can speak Chinese?" She said, "当然啦，我在北京住过三年! / Of course, I'd lived in Beijing for three years!"

(London, 2018 / 2019)

Outdone in my own attempt to surprise people: 02 (London)

Writing the birthday song blog, I’m reminded of what I tried to do to Satoshi Kitamura, a (now very famous) children’s illustrator friend of mine, back in 1981.

I’d come across a trick cigarette lighter in a magic tricks shop.  It squirts out foam when the user depresses the little lighting lever.

When Satoshi came round the next time to my flat and was about to have a cigarette, I handed him the lighter.  For some breath-stopping seconds, he examined it (he must’ve suspected something), turning it round, so that when he depressed the little lever, the foam went all over ME!

I never tried that trick again on anyone after that.

(London, 1981)

Humorous adverts and signs (UK)

One advert from a shop or department store used to say, "Shop Till You Drop."  

A while later, along came a supermarket delivery service advert, saying, "You Shop, We Drop."

Vans that collect/deliver cash from/to banks have a sign on the back door, saying, "No cash is left overnight in this vehicle."  

Some time later, white vans (often used by construction workers such as plumbers and electricians) started carrying a sign on their back door, saying, "No tools are left overnight in this vehicle."  

A few days ago, I saw a supermarket delivery van with a sign on their back door, saying, "No baguettes are left overnight in this vehicle."

(UK, 2000s)

The silk saris for the orphanage committee members (Fourcès, SW France)

The village of Fourcès had a charity committee set up for raising funds for an orphanage in Kerala, S.W. India.  They decided to deliver the money in person rather than post it to the orphanage, to see the place for themselves and have an exotic holiday as well.  

My host Anne took me along to one of the committee meetings, armed with saris for the members to try on.  We were a bit late in setting out.  

Upon arrival at the village, Anne went straight up a flight of stairs behind a door, walked into a room, and started to spread out the saris on the side table for people to take a look and try on.  

Then, we turned round to find seated around the big table in the middle of the room were a bunch of big beefy men, all eyes trained on us, wondering what we were doing there.  

It turned out to be the hunting committee having their meeting — we’d gone to the wrong place.  Anne apologised, and we scooped up the saris and left in a hurry.  

Those big beefy men must’ve felt most relieved at not having to try on our silk saris out of politeness.

(Fourcès, SW France, 2007)

An uncharacteristic library (London)

The library I frequent gets used by a large group of mainly-old men from eastern Mediterranean countries.  This area has a large population of people from Greece, Turkey, and Cyprus, and is full of restaurants serving the cuisine of those countries, as well as a handful of 24-hour greengrocers, which makes it a vibrant and lively neighbourhood.

These men, often numbering ten or even 14, will converge on two or three of the big round tables, and chat loudly, as if they are in a café.  I personally don’t disapprove, because it is good that they have somewhere to go and meet friends and socialise, rather than sit at home feeling lonely and depressed.  (I wonder where the women go to?  Maybe they just stay at home and do the housework…)

The library also offers a social welfare advisory service at one end during the week, so it’s very noisy anyway, especially since a lot of people who use the service have children — often wailing loudly or throwing a wobbly.  

There is a quiet area at the back, upstairs.  It’s meant to be a quiet area, but being at the same end as the advisory service counters, I’m not sure how quiet it actually is.  

One of the advisors often comes over to my area to conduct his sessions there (in Greek or Turkish).  There’s an old lady who sits at one of the tables doing crossword puzzles, openly eating her sausages.  Homeless men (mostly eastern European) come in for a sit-down, even a nap (snoring loudly).  Other people have even come in with their takeaway food (grilled ribs, sausages) to eat there.  A lady (in her 60s?) gives Arabic lessons to a young lady, openly (at normal volume) taking her through the pronunciation drills.  Other tutors conduct their tuition there as well: Maths and English are two of the common subjects I’ve seen being taught, often on a one-to-one basis.

Occasionally, I have to go and sit at one of the old men’s tables when my regular table nearer the door is full.  A few of them now greet me like an old friend:  one in his 70s, who makes a point of raising his hand to acknowledge my presence and saying a hearty “hello!”; another one in his 50s who’s started to take it upon himself to look after my interests.

I'd arrived one day to find him and another man (in his 70s) sitting at the wall-socket end of the table, so I went for the farther end of the table.  The protective man in his 50s told the older one, in Turkish, to move to another spot so that I could sit near the wall socket.  So sweet!  If his own phone was already plugged in when I got there, he’d immediately unplug it so that I could use that socket (although there are two), even vacating his chair for my rucksack.  I’m so moved.

(London, 2018 and 2019)

Sloppy set-up

Viewers of the Game of Thrones recently spotting a Starbucks takeaway coffee cup on the table in one of the scenes brings to mind a couple of similar mistakes in Commodities, a six-part TV docudrama series on coffee, tea and sugar that I had worked on back in 1985.

My role was to translate the interviews done in China on the tea plantations, and help out with the editing in the cutting room.

At one point, we were going through the footage for me to check out the sync-ing up of the subtitles.  The scene started with a (reconstructed) historical snippet: a male tea-picker, some 200 years ago in south China, picking tea in the sun, wearing a conical straw hat and just a pair of short trousers.  I suddenly spotted that his tanned bare arms had a band of paler skin where the modern-day wrist-watch would’ve been.

When I pointed this out, the director said they’d found another one in the coffee footage.  They’d set up a scene of a revolt on a Brazilian coffee plantation, supposed to be back in the 18th century, with the coffee pickers wearing what looked like loin-cloths — presumably because of the heat — but some of the loin-cloths clearly showed a Y-front underneath!

A surprising reason for homelessness (London)

The homelessness issue has been getting worse over the years.

I don’t want to give them money because they might buy alcohol or drugs with the money, but when I offer them food, they more often than not say no.  Perhaps I shouldn’t be imposing my own standards on them — I was once offering a homeless person some chicken wings when another woman came along with a takeaway box of sushi, but the homeless person said, “No, I don’t eat that sort of thing.”  The same thing has happened with my offerings of sandwiches, fruit, chips (french fries), pizza, so I don't think it's because the homeless person is a vegetarian.

Some 30 or 35 years ago, I heard about a woman (let’s call her Mary) who’d met a homeless woman (let’s call her Jane) in a park, and started to chat to her, feeling sorry for her.  Mary went back every Tuesday to see Jane.  

One day, Jane was not there.  Mary went back the following Tuesday — still no Jane.  This went on for a number of weeks, until Mary gave up.  Maybe Jane had died, she thought.  

A bit later, Mary ran into Jane.  Mary said, “I’d been turning up every single Tuesday to see you.  Where have you been?”  Jane said, “The reason I became nomadic was I couldn’t stand all the rules governing how one should live.  I like my freedom.  Then you came along, and you set up a routine: seeing me in the same place on the same day of the week every single week.  I just couldn’t take it.”

(London, 1980s)

Give someone an inch and they’ll take a yard: 2 (London)

On my way from the South Ken(sington) Tube station to the V&A (the Victoria and Albert Museum), I decided to pop into this art-book shop en route for a quick browse.  

At the counter were two men: one behind the counter, one in front.  There was a huge stack of carpet auction catalogues on the counter, each one only about ten or 12 pages, with beautiful photos and a brief description.  

The man in front of the counter was counting them:  1, 2, 3, …

Assuming he was staff, I asked the counting man, “How much are they?”  He said, “75p,” and carried on counting.  Even for 1985, 75p was very cheap — I could treat each one as a mini-art book to look through on rainy days.

I asked, “Can I buy them?”  The counting man said, “OK, you can have one.”  I said, “I want the whole lot.”  He stopped counting, and said, “No, you cannot have the whole lot.  I’ve just bought them, so I’m already very generous by letting you have one.”  Oops.

(London, 1985)

What I say to customers: 04 (London)

I’ve been giving food to one of the doormen at the pub where I work.  Let’s call him Terry.

Sometimes it’s milk at the end of the day (which would’ve been chucked down the drain otherwise) for his breakfast cereal.  Sometimes it’s uneaten food — our portions are very generous, so customers often fail to finish the whole lot, or they order too much and don’t want a doggy bag for the rest.  

(One regular customer, a Bulgarian [?]doorman at a [?]hotel in central London, once offered me some of his pizza, saying he couldn’t finish it all, so I said, “Thank you, but can I give it to homeless people at the church instead?”  Sure enough, he left half the pizza neatly sitting on the plate, and made sure I was the one to collect his plate.  So sweet.)

I also give Terry red shiny apples that I buy from the roadside stalls near the pub.

He, in turn, offered me some fresh dates one day last year.  I asked, “Are you married?  I cannot accept dates from you if you are,” which creased him up.

Last week, Terry brought another batch of fresh dates, saying it’s the start of the season now.  They are so scrumptious that I couldn’t wait until my shift was over, so I popped one into my mouth.  An African couple, also regulars, spotted my bulging cheek, and asked, “What are you eating?”  I said, “I’ve just accepted some dates from the doorman Terry, but it’s OK, he’s not married — I’ve checked.”

They fell about laughing.

(London, 2019)

What I say to customers: 03 (London)

My pub branch gets quite a wide range of customers.  

Apart from homegrown ones, we regularly get (alphabetically) Albanians, Brazilians, Bulgarians, Colombians, Cypriots, Greeks, Hungarians, Italians, Lithuanians, Polish, Portuguese, Romanians, Spaniards, Turks, plus lots of Africans and West Indians, with the occasional Belgian, Czech, Dutch, Finn, French, German, Norwegian, Slovak, and Swede thrown in.

I always ask them how to say “thank you” in their language, and use it on the next lot I come across, which invariably surprises them (given my Oriental looks) and pleases them no end as well.

One day last year, two men sitting at the wall looked fierce and even slightly grumpy.  When I found out they were from Bulgaria and said “Благодаря ти” (“thank you” in Bulgarian) to them, their faces absolutely melted into broad smiles.  For the rest of the evening, every time I walked past them, one of them would hail me heartily with “Благодаря ти!” and a big enthusiastic smile.  (I now think they looked forbidding because they couldn’t speak much English, so they were a bit nervous.)

Because I don’t always remember if I’d met a group before (yes, Westerners can all look the same to us Orientals as well), I sometimes end up asking the same lot where they’re from.  One group of Albanians has now taken to going straight into saying “faleminderit” (“thank you” in Albanian) to me to save me asking them where they’re from.

(London, 2018)

What I say to customers: 02 (London)

The friendliness of the customers (even the new ones) at my pub branch is demonstrated by their offering their food to them when I serve up their order:  “Do you want some?”

My response:  “No, I don’t want some, I want ALL of it!”  It always makes them laugh.

(London, 2016–2019)

What I say to customers: 01 (London)

The customers at the Wood Green branch of the pub are about 60% to 70% regulars, so every shift of mine feels like attending a party where I know two-thirds of the guests.  

They tend to remember me more than I do them — since they only have me to remember whereas I see hundreds of faces each shift.  How I know they know me is from the way they greet me:  most warmly, like an old friend, with an extra bright smile, with some even actually remembering my name.

I’ve now learned to hide the fact that I may not have remembered having met them before, by adopting a set phrase that applies to both regular customers and newcomers:  “Hello!  Good to see you!”

(London, 2016–19)

How to foil selfish behaviour (France)

The English son-in-law would strategically position himself in the middle of the long dining table during a dinner party (often of 10, if not 12 or 14, people), so that food that gets passed down the table would go past him.  

He would also hog the red wine, his preferred tipple, putting it in front of him.  On one occasion, he even wrapped his hands around the bottle and said to everyone present, “This is MINE.  You can have the white wine, but this is MINE.”  I had to bite my tongue each time.

At one of these dinner parties, I was unfortunate enough to be seated opposite him — in the middle of the long table.  

On my right, however, was his French father-in-law, so I decided to have some fun.  

I grabbed the bottle of red wine and offered it to the father-in-law, who accepted with great enthusiasm.  I poured the father-in-law a full glass as the son-in-law looked on helplessly, then absent-mindedly forgot to put it back in front of him, leaving it by the father-in-law instead.  

When the father-in-law had finished the first glass, I offered the wine to him again.  

In this way, I polished off the whole bottle of his precious red wine for him.

(France, 2011/12)

The little helper (London)

I’d already clocked out for my shift but was approached by an old black lady (in her 70s??) with two walking sticks and a little boy (of six?) standing a few feet away, asking, “Is there a free table?”  

Self-service is in place for a lot of things at my pub (finding a table, fetching the condiments), but I almost never say no to a customer who asks, unless I was desperately trying to deliver a dozen dishes and there was a long queue of other dishes waiting to go out.  And certainly not to an old lady with two walking sticks.  As I’d already clocked out, I suggested, “Maybe you can look around and see if there’s one somewhere.”  She pointed her chin at her walking sticks and said, “How can I with these?  The others are parking the car.”  I asked, “How many people are you?”  She said, “Four.”  I spotted two single tables on The Stage (the section three steps up from the main area) and said, “There’re two tables there; you’re welcome to put them together.”  She said, “But there are no chairs.”  At which point, I decided to pitch in and help her, never mind the fact that I was already off-duty.  

I marched up to The Stage, pulled the two tables together, asked her to stand by them so that no one else could come along and take them, while I went in search of some chairs.

I thought I’d involve the boy, partly to give him something to do, and partly to train him to take an active part in things, not just hang around and let the grown-ups do everything for him — yes, a teacher is never off-duty!  Presenting it as a game, I said, “Come and help me track some chairs down.”  When we found one, I dragged it along the carpet on its hind legs until I got to the steps, then asked the boy to help me lift the chair up the three steps, saying, “Be very careful, slowly now,” counting aloud, “One, two, three” as we carried the chair up the steps.  Placed the chair down, said to the boy, “Right, that’s Chair Number One done — that’s for Grandma.  Three more to find.  Let’s go!”  

I repeated the whole process for the next two chairs, then said to the boy, “Now, the last one is for you.”  This was, again, to let him know that being the youngest, he comes last, and that all the previous work was done for his elders before he could start thinking about himself.  I said, “Since this one is for you, you can choose the colour, the shape, and the size!”  Our movable seating comes in three different forms:  round stools, normal height chairs, high chairs (see blog What pub customers say: 1), all — excepting the round stools — upholstered in different fabric in different patterns, some with wooden seats and backs.  

I pointed at a low, round stool, because it was his height and size, but his eyes were on the high chairs lining the wall, “I want one of those!”  I said, “Are you sure!?  You’ll be way above the table and way above the rest of the group!”  He nodded in excited anticipation — I then realised that it was precisely the novelty of it that was the attraction for him.  

By the time we carted one of the high chairs to his table on The Stage, the rest of the group (a couple, presumably his parents) had arrived, so I said to them, “He wants to look down on the grown-ups!” which made them laugh.  We put the high chair at the head of the table and he clambered on excitedly.  I thanked him for his help, and asked for his name.  He said, “Hunt.”  I said, “Wow, so I found the right person to help me track down some chairs!  You’re a chair HUNT-er!”  He looked so chuffed.  

On my way out of the building, I stopped by to check that everything was all right, then asked the boy, “Are you still happy with your throne chair, Your Majesty?”, bowing deeply.  He beamed from ear to ear.  Everyone laughed.

(London, 2019)  

How to expedite matters: 2 (London)

My pub branch tends to get very busy on Saturdays (my shift day), so customers who can’t find a table sometimes stand in front of the two kitchen swing doors (one IN and one OUT).  This makes it difficult for us staff, carrying laden and hot plates of food and finding our way blocked by crowds of people immersed in chatting, totally unaware of everything else around them.  

I took to saying, as I went past them to enter the kitchen, “HOT food coming out of that door!  Watch out!”

One day, I found that one particular group of customers didn’t pay much attention to my exhortations, and kept re-grouping outside the kitchen doors once we’d gone on our way.

So, I changed my message, “HOT food AND KNIVES coming out of that door!  Watch out!”

It worked.

(London, 2018)

Contactless healing: 2 (London)

Update 010319:  

Further to my blog Contactless healing: 1, Kayden, another regular customer who'd been suffering from some knee cartilage problem and even started to use a crutch a month or so ago, has just told me that she started using my method and her knees are now good!  Wow, wow!  So happy!

(London 2019)

Update, 2022:  Ran into Kayden three years on.  Unfortunately, the good effect did not last.  She was back on crutches.  I don't expect a miracle cure -- just pain relief that's free (of charge and of chemicals), and that is within one's own control (to a certain extent).  Control in the sense that one can do the L-form exercise in the middle of the night or whenever the pain is bad, for any length of time, as often as one needs, etc.  Even if the relief is only for a few days, or a few hours.  A little pain relief is better than nothing.  And to not have to resort to painkillers (even if they were free, which they are not for the under-60s on prescription), or depend on someone else to come and do it (e.g., massage).  Has to be better than having to put up with the pain in helpless surrender.

Contactless healing: 1 (London)

I’m building up a bit of a reputation for healing with my massage.  

One day, one of the pub regulars told me he had done something to his wrist.  As I was still on duty, I couldn’t sit down and work on it, so I tried to help him establish where the epicentre was, so that I could teach him how to work on it himself.

A few minutes later, a chap from a group of regulars came up and said, “What were you doing there just now?”  He then told me he had a bad problem with his foot.  He’d somehow managed to get hit quite badly in the calf by a higher step on an escalator (how does one end up being hit in the calf at all by a step in an escalator?!?).  The injury spread to his foot, which then swelled up quite badly, to the point that he was having difficulty standing.  He worked long shifts (some ten hours or so), being on his feet all the time (as a store security man or something), so the pain was getting unbearable.

As I was still on duty, and looking at his foot would entail his removing his shoes and socks, I decided to give him some preliminary basic remedy: 

“Lie in bed with your feet up against the wall, forming an L shape, with the top of the L being your feet, and the bend in the L being your backside.  This will make the blood flow down your legs and take the pressure off your feet.  It’s non-chemical, and free, and should at least help ease the swelling for now.  We can look at your foot another day when I can.”

This is something I’ve been doing since age ten.  Putting the feet up against the wall sends a very pleasant tingling sensation down the legs to the thighs, and is particularly good for relieving aching feet and legs.  I do this regularly after my eight-hour pub shifts, for about ten minutes before going to sleep, and sleep better for it.  

I've taught this to lots of my pub colleagues, one of whom — a 19-year-old young man — told me recently it is very effective and he does it regularly now.  (I mention his age and gender only because young people, especially men, don't tend to go for such things.)

A few weeks later, one of the friends of the swollen-foot man (called Kamal, I was told) came in with his group for a drink.  He came up to me and said, “Oh, you remember my friend who’d asked you about his swollen toe and you taught him that exercise?  The problem’s gone now.”

Wow, that was better than I could ever imagine or hope!!  I hadn’t even got round to looking at his foot and assessing the problem.  Best bit of news I’ve had in a long time.

What's particularly brilliant about this method is:  it's free of chemicals, free of charge, and can be done for as long or as often as one can or wishes.

Update:  About three weeks later, after Christmas, I saw the friend again and asked after Kamal.  The friend said, “Kamal’s been doing the exercise you suggested.  Problem’s not come back.”

(London, 2018 & 2019)

Contactless healing: 3 (London)

Update 070319:  

Further to my blogs Contactless healing: 1 and Contactless healing: 2, another success!!

Spotted kitchen colleague Gikita’s swollen ankle Saturday last week while she was changing out of her uniform after finishing her shift.  As it was due to a hairline fracture, I couldn’t give her a massage (sprained ankles were my first speciality in massage, from the age of ten), so I asked her to try my L-form exercise.

Went to do an emergency shift last night.  Gikita said she’d done the L-form twice since being taught it last Saturday.  The swelling and pain reduced by 20% after just one session of the L-form exercise.

(London, 2019) 

Stereo-typing: 1 (London)

I once had an evening class student called Rob, who was in his twenties at the time, slim, with the sweetest little-boy smile and a gentle manner, and dark-skinned (being of Jamaican Indian parentage).

He is an international-class kungfu referee, and we used to have animated conversations about kungfu moves and training sessions in our post-lesson pub sessions.

One day, he nodded off on a very late train back home to Luton.  

At some point, he felt a tap on his shoulder.  Even in his dozy state, his kungfu training made him react instinctively.  When he opened his eyes next, he saw that he’d floored the man, who was lying in the aisle, saying, “Hey, man, I was only trying to inspect your ticket!”

The only other people in his carriage — a young white couple — then quickly moved away to another carriage.  

(London, early 1990s)

Stereo-typing: 2 (London)

Rob was refereeing a kungfu competition in Wapping, in the docklands of London, and invited me along to watch.

I got there late — as the docklands area was a bit of an alien territory in those days — so everyone was standing to attention, waiting for the signal for the competition to begin.  Rob and his two fellow male referees — both his disciples — were already seated on the stage set up for the judges.

When he spotted me, Rob waved me up to the stage, indicating the spare chair he’d reserved for me — next to him!

As I crossed the huge gym hall, and walked up to the stage to take the seat next to the three male referees (one black, two white), the whole hall went silent, with all eyes following my progress with awed reverence.  They must’ve thought I was the chief referee, being the only Oriental (and therefore the most likely person for kungfu!), and were probably also most impressed as I’m female!

(London, early 1990s)

Stereo-typing: 3 (London)

Another evening class ex-student of mine is a Gambian called Victor.  

Victor is very friendly and sociable, but he is very dark-skinned and has a tribal-ritual type of scar across each cheek, which makes him look a bit menacing.  Sure enough, he was cast as a baddie in a Jackie Chan movie (or two??)!

American ex-student Jason told me he was walking down Chinatown’s Gerrard Street one day when he caught sight of, ahead of him, a Chinese couple holding a young child, with a black man standing opposite them, apparently in a conversation with them.  As Jason got closer, he heard fluent Cantonese, but the Chinese man’s lips were not moving!  The fluent Cantonese was coming out of the black man’s mouth!  The black man was Victor.

Victor teaches kungfu and Cantonese.

(London, 1980s)

How to discipline the customers: 2 (London)

Customers often use the menus as place mats, which means they’re either ruined (if they’re the one-sheet paper menus) or we have to wipe them down (if they’re the harder, cardboard type) to get rid of sticky dried-up alcohol or food stains.  Either way, it’s a wasteful practice: un-ecological and un-ergonomic, not to mention uneconomical.

Professional etiquette prevents me from telling them that the menus are not place mats — let alone telling them off for leaving sticky marks on them and making extra work for us — so I try as much as possible to subtly raise their awareness by saying, when I approach a table with plates of food: “Let me clear some space for you.  Can you hand me the menus, please?  Now, that’s much better, isn’t it?”

Last week, I delivered food to a group of four men in their 40s at Table 14.  One of them, when asked to hand me the menu, said, “It’s OK.  I’d like to keep it here.”  I took the opportunity to sneak my message in, “Well, menus are not really place mats,” but he insisted he’d like to leave it there — this exchange was all done in a civil manner, by the way.  I let my eyes linger on the menu for a few seconds before putting his food down on the menu-turned-place-mat, then looked dolefully at the plate of food sitting on the menu before I walked away.

A few minutes later, when I went back to them for the routine check-back (for quality of food, in case there are complaints), I saw that the menu had gone from under his plate.  I said, with my usual good-customer-service bright smile, “Oh!  You’ve lost your place mat!”

He said, with a contrite look, pointing at the menu now sitting on the chair beside him, “You looked so unhappy about it, so I thought I should remove it.  I’m so sorry.  Will you forgive me?” 

Haha, the trick worked!!  I was very touched all the same.

(London, 2019)

How to discipline the customers: 1 (London)

One of the two elderly ladies at a table had left her small rucksack on the floor in the aisle.  I asked her if she could move it out of harm’s way, explaining that I’d tripped over someone’s rucksack strap a while back, incurring a fortnight of lost earnings as a result of the injury.  

This is what I’ve taken to doing — requesting and explaining to the customers — not only to avoid another accident but also to make them more aware of the consequences of their leaving their bags lying around with us moving in between the tables delivering heavy plates of hot food and collecting empty glasses.

The owner of the rucksack picked it up, thumped it down heavily under her table, and said in a gruff voice, “NOW you WON’T trip over it!!”

I told colleague Jennifer about this.  She said, “What I do is to deliberately walk into their bags, then go innocently, ‘Oh, I didn’t see that!’.”  When I first started at the Baker Street branch, I did use to purposely accidentally trip over outstretched legs and feet, just to raise their awareness, but I’m now six years older and don’t have the physical dexterity nor the confidence to do a fake trip.

(London, 2019)