Nov 4

I have never been one to complain, particularly in restaurants or the such, but after a visit to the Blackbrook Tavern in Taunton on Sunday evening with my girlfriend I’m afraid I am compelled to report the establishment to the Environmental Health department of Somerset County Council.

We decided to stop for food on the way home after a rather arduous day, feeling that at least we could relax, have a bite to eat and go home far more relaxed than how we had entered. But ultimately the decision cost me Monday at work, and resulted in me having to visit the toilet no less than eight times to vomit.

I opted for the Aberdeen Angus Burger, ironically because I thought it was the safe choice, and although extremely tasteless, and accompanied by an acutely stale salad, given my hunger I ate it nonetheless. To compound our misery, my girlfriend ordered a pasta dish but was told moments before it was due to be served to her that they had run out of garlic bread, so she had to make-do with regular bread, which they didn’t even have the courtesy to offer her some butter for, and even more disgruntling was the fact that they returned yet again, with the news that they had ran out of the sauce for her pasta, and could only offer her some pesto! Again, given our hunger, and the general frustration with the restaurant that had now become so manifest, we decided to eat-up and get out.

If the quality of the food was poor enough, which it truly was, I can only assume they advertised their staff vacancies in the back of Nuts, for all their decorum and manners displayed. I mean that not as a stereotype as such, but their service was genuinely abysmal, and as I said, I have never once complained in a restaurant before, which for anyone that knows me, will add absolute conviction to my disgust. When we first walked in, I went to the bar to order a drink for us both, and stood there for a few seconds when a chap walked up to the till in front of me, I waited for a “How can i help?”, or at the very least a “Hi”, some kind of acknowledgment of my existence, but it never came, he just looked up at me in absolute silence as if I had had the audacity to interrupt his busy day doing shit-all behind the bar. Throughout service he had the manner of someone who didn’t want to be there, and given that it was a Sunday evening, I can quite understand that, but if you decide to work in the public sector, you understand the responsibilities that go with that, and the nucleus of that is courtesy.

I don’t expect every restaurant worker to be the epitome of grace and cordiality, but I do expect my £20 worth of custom, £20 that helped to pay the little fucks wages, to be accompanied by a measure of consideration.

I am awaiting a response from environmental health, but I have every faith that if an investigation were to take place, they would recognise fundamental errors in their food hygiene practices. And, were it to result in a fine and/or closure, I would not feel a moments guilt.

Update!
I have now spoken to a lady at environmental health, and she informs me that if I wished to take the matter further, there would need to be evidence that 1) it was food poisoning, and 2) it was food poisoning resulting from their kitchen. And the only way to achieve that? A stool or vomit sample! Pardon my ignorance, but the last thing I thought of at 4am on Monday morning as I lay folded up in tears on my girlfriends bathroom floor was saving some for examination.

Given that my stomach is still in a lot of pain, I have a mind to send them a sample now, plopped straight in an envelope, without the paying the full delivery charge.

Still, if there’s any good that I can recruit from such a vaudeville farce, it would be that I am now a full half-stone lighter, which, if I were a girl, and there’s little evidence to suggest otherwise, would mean a successful month at Fat Club.

If only engineering justice for a shoddy meal were as simple as losing weight.