I just spent £30 on a salad
London. The land of plenty, the land of more. The land of limitless opportunities; of river boat clubs, of Southbank jogging and delicious Mexican street food. I was there recently and though, given the I was dressed like a fancy London gentleman for an interview, that I would treat myself to a London specialty. Down on the River I found a restaurant, one so fancy it barley looked real. I walked in proudly carrying my Topman backback and a hand me down suitcase, asked for a table for one (and tap water) and sat myself down.
The menu arrived and, even before browsing, I knew I would go for a modern, ‘London Gent’ type of meal. A salad. After all my body is a temple. “I’ll have the salad,” I boldly proclaimed to my astonishingly attractive waitress, “With chicken or without?” “With,” I said, after all I’m a growing man. She left and returned shortly with the dish. Well presented, delicious and arriving in a timely manner; suffice to say I was impressed. Until I got the bill. I was obviously charged for a number of things in addition to the salad. Like the view and the waitresses beauty. Next time I have a salad in London I’ll ask for an ugly waitress and a view of a brick wall. Hopefully then it’ll only cost me a tenner.