Thursday, or Lunch with Atmosphere

After all my trials and tribulations I decide to reward myself with a sumptuous lunch at the recommended Augustine Keller. It's full of old world charm with low ceilings, vaulted chambers, large refectory tables, serving mainly Austrian fare. The food is presented simply but attractively by efficient, curt waiters. I ask if they have a non-smoking area. Hurrah! They have. I sit down, take a beer and peruse my guidebook and notes while I wait for my food. I start with a hearty goulaschsuppe (probably misspelt), then some dish with some meat and things. It's all delicious but... The waiter comes back to me some two minutes into my meal. "Excuse me sir, but would you mind if we let a group of six women take the (empty) table nearest to you - you see, some of them are smokers". So, I am on the spot here. In a moment of weakness which I shall regret to the end of this blog (or a little longer than that) I say OK. The bad news: out of six, four smoke, so there is a lit ciggy at that table at all times. The good news: the smoke doesn't seem to drift in my direction that much, but I rapidly lose interest in my food, and my meal is virtually ruined. Still, as I think of what had just happened here I become resentful. The waiter did put me on the spot. Here is a table with only one guest, who is asked to veto a gaggle of six paying customers (had I said no, they would either stand quite near me while waiting for a table to become free at the smoking section or they'd have left, taking their credit cards elsewhere). I leave a derisory tip and decide to take my coffee elsewhere. Since that was my plan anyway, I set off and reach Hotel Sacher (which is some three minutes away, situated as it is just around the corner. Got to try the original Sachertorte! Now it's early afternoon, I am resplendent in my rain-soaked clothes: Blundstone hat (from my nephew Roey, a gift from happier times, when my head must have been a little smaller. What's that about?), a wet T-shirt, faded green cargo shorts, and my beloved butter coloured Crocs, not even trainers. Just the type they really like to welcome into the velvet and oak salons of this classy joint. In for a penny, in for a pound, say I and line up quietly and patiently out, in the drizzle, still smarting from the smoked lunch I had just had. The maitre-d' looks me up and down, barely able to conceal his contempt. With resignation he leads me to the table for (this one he utters loudly, almost venomously) "one person". They are very popular, and the turnover here is faster than they can cope with, so I overlook the fact that my table is still dirty from the previous guests, and the carpet around it is covered with crumbs and other tea-room debris. I order the cake and the house coffee. They arrive very quickly, but my expectations and hopes are shattered: Both items are disappointing, big time. I am despondent. I look around me. The crowd is far from glamorous. Why, they all look like me for heaven's sake. Only not in shorts. Or Crocs. So that's why I keep getting funny looks from people... I must be the person who makes the place look untidy!