If you hear the word ‘buffet’, then you know not only are you about to be scammed by paying over the odds for horrendously low quality food (think worse than school dinner, maybe even worse than prison food) but you are also flirting with the chance you may very well contract food poisoning. Put it this way, you will at the very least end up with IBS. That’s a guarantee.

Slap some generic oriental tat on the walls; adorn shelves with laughing buddhas, lucky cats, generic Chinese character brush strokes and some ill-fitting bric-a-brac: Doesn’t matter what it is. Jarring, out of place and almost racist caricatures of Rasta men by the empty bottles of Malibu in the equally out of place bar? Go for it. Why the fuck not!

It becomes immediately apparent that the people running the joint are Vietnamese. I overhear just enough aggressive tiếng việt exchanged between two waiters to piece it together. Not to sound like a snob, but the aesthetic of this restaurant is clearly aimed at the lowest-common denominators of the lowest rungs of the British public. As is the menu. The only Chinese thing about it all is the origin of the plastic decor.

Relying on the ignorance of the clientele is hardly a great risk. I’d wager 99% of these idiots aren’t going to tell the difference between Chinese, Japanese or Vietnamese. These slobs don’t give a shit. They aren’t here for the decor, nor for any sense of authenticity. They’re here for the cheap grub apart from it isn’t exactly cheap… but it isn’t exactly good, either.

The clientele are all chavs. I don’t mean that in a classist way. Actually, yeah, in this case I do. It doesn’t take much imagination to envision the scene accurately. There are women in seven inch heels, donning clutch bags and their mini-me daughters aren’t far away, looking like exact miniature replicas. Who goes for dinner in the middle of Billing Aquadrome looking that done-up? Furthermore, who lets their 8, 9 – at a stretch 10 – year old daughter dress up like that all – let alone dress up like that for dinner.

The men are all, for lack of a better phrase, fat cunts in ill-fitting polo shirts. Belly bloat thinly veils a liver marbled in fat, doubtlessly bursting at its seams. They all don that same Tommy Robinson style yobcut and, of course, that signature, pissy cologne all geezers seem to wear. The one that smells like rotten orange peel and an overly peppery semblance of a generic man smell that’s been haunting nightclubs since the early 2000s.

Now, imagine you are here with me:

Feel that rising, ripped-off feeling before you even sit down, as you wait in a queue for 20 minutes for a table even though you booked in advance. More and more gormless chavs keep piling up in the foyer, even though it’s painfully evident through the window that it’s already cramped.

Smile through your teeth as you have parties larger and smaller than yours brush past to be seated before you, even though they haven’t booked. Stand there like the absolute moron you are, as the boss saunters about the place in a, I shit you not, 2008-era nylon England shirt – the image complete, with a blue biro tucked behind his ear.

Find yourself finally being coaxed over to a table at the arse-end of the establishment, by a waiter who seems only to be able to communicate with you in vague hand gestures.

Cringe as uproarious and obnoxious laughter rings in your ears from the feckless twats sat behind you, a din so grating on your nerves you can’t read the menu because your eyes are almost completely closed from wincing. To your relief the racket does at times stop, albeit intermittently – they can't guffaw while stuffing their gullets.

You feel like you’re in a pub – not a Chinese restaurant. Men with blotchy faces the same hue as red lobster down pints and howl at one another between mouthfuls of beige matter, fried within an inch of its life in rapeseed oil you just know hasn’t been changed all day.

You begin to feel full after what you quickly learn was just the starter. A generous serving of deep-fried matter that coats nondescript vegetables and… meat? You don’t quite know what it’s meant to be, but it fucking reeks like a dog’s dinner. Imagine a smell that lingers somewhere between slightly damp kibble and a wet dog.

Already feeling the rancid oil wreak havoc on your intestines, you try to wash away the sickly film forming in your mouth with a can of coke for which you paid £3. You quickly try to weigh up in your mind as to what feels worse. The imminent nausea from the oily food, or the knowledge that you’re paying through the nose for the privilege. You could have eaten more, superior quality food at a proper restaurant for less.

Furrow your brow as the waitress explains to you that you aren't allowed to take leftover food home with you. You are perplexed as to why but perhaps there's one explanation you can imagine... If you take it home it will cost them money! Your leftovers are supposed to pad out the mains for the next horde of carb-loading cretins.

Gross, you admit to yourself, but is there even one (1!) alternative explanation?

Finally you dash for an exit after another searing fillet is delivered to the table next to yours, pushing you over the edge. It fills the atmosphere with its toxic, pungent smoke as you make your way past groups of women dressed as if they’re out on the piss.

You finally find some reprieve, even though the outside air is tinged with a sulphuric smell. A byproduct of nearby industry, you reassure yourself, but in reality it’s more than likely down to the sewage treatment works across the road.

Then it dawns on you, not only is this why you don’t go to restaurants… but it’s why you don’t go outside. ___ Tags:

#restaurant #disaster #introvert #tasteless #badfood #food #eating