Where to start? Just where to start?

Following on from Ollie’s post below about QI, we headed back there today so that I could try my hand at restaurant critiquing, and to break the monotony of hours in the Bod reading about Long Haired Kings. So we go in, and I too am daunted by the doors. The bookshop itself is remarkably small. Literally, what you can see from Turl Street is what you get. The reference system is amusing, though, and a nice break from the usual bookshop. I saw for the first time Andrew Marr’s new book, which has a very disturbing picture of him on the cover where he looks less like Putin and more like Plug from The Beano. Perhaps the most interesting part of the shop was the little sign which explained that the members’ club above was by invitation only, which dampened our ambitions of joining.

By this time, it should be said, I had already commented on the fact that the situation was turning into a Frasier episode. This was confirmed by the restaurant part. After initially walking to the bar itself, it turned out we had to take a seat and wait to be served. So we made our way to a sort of upper class picnic table from Habitat that was surprisingly comfortable. The layer of dust that was all over the table and seats was less pleasant, and the appearance of random logs in an aesthetically pleasing stack by the non working fireplace was distinctly odd. The menu appeared, and having decided that 4pm was probably too late for the linguine, we settle on the “Rich and Dark Chocolate Cake”. Ollie risks the £1.69 Diet Coke, whilst I go for a coffee, which was not on the menu but turned out to cost £1.69 as well. The cake and drinks are delivered, and we dive in. My first impression was how thin and small the slice was. But I should have known better. The first bite was a miracle of engineering, as the cake was so thick, and the fork so inappropriate, that it was difficult to get a decent piece without the cake slipping off the plate, or just making a fool of oneself. The cake itself was, well, very rich, dark and chocolately. But where the ‘cake’ part was, one assumes it got lost. For what the slice seemed to be like was a sculpted piece of Bourneville (although tastier). Certainly no sponge to talk with. It was…quite interesting. As was the cream that was served with it, that I still think was crème fraiche. The coffee was mediocre, and was only one cupful, so no refills. Overall, for £12.69, including the 12.5% service charge, it wasn’t really worth it. QE indeed.

Thus Ollie and I were talking about history and the Post Office, as you do, when suddenly it all turned very surreal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shock of pink come through the movable coat racks and stumble into the seating area. Quote “I feel like a skeleton that’s come out of a cupboard.” Ollie laughs sympathetically. “I’ll buy you a drink for that.” Looks exchanged between us, Ollie graciously accepts, and the lady (we never found out her name) sits down on the table next to us. And so it begins.

I’ll let Ollie describe the conversation in detail, as for most of it I was an amused bystander, especially after she started peppering him with questions on Anglo-Saxon history, especially related to Dorset (where she had a house; her accent showed as well). Highlights include her leading on a trail to guess which company her husband worked for, with clues such as “If the price of oil goes up, I have more money – it’s the bonus you see” and, my favourite, the fact that her husband studied Applied Maths at university, which in the context of the conversation, was meant to be a more specific answer than Petro-Chemical Engineering to the area where he worked. It was when she said the company was listed on the NASDAQ that the conversation turned from good natured to just plain weird. I’m not sure why it was that sentence, since there were plenty of other weird ones, such as the definition of bushels, and the various systems of measurement for different goods. But still, it was after the NASDAQ that Ollie and I exchanged glances of bemusement with each other. For those who are interested, her husband worked for Schlumberger. Alas, it didn’t roll of my tongue.

It was just surreal. I started to burst into laughter randomly, the more I thought about what was actually happening. I had to bite my tongue and hide my face a number of times. We both suspected that something was amiss, and checked the room out for hidden cameras. At best, we might have been invited to join the QI club, at worst it was some horrible Beadle setup. And then we both realised that this had to be posted on Dayorama. Eventually, having listened to Ollie effectively go through his collection revision, and argue about when the Romans left Britain, I asked for the bill. The poor waitress, having realised what was going on, was also nonplussed about what the hell was going. She was enlightening about the club though – apparently we should try to clean Stephen Fry’s house, as that was the best chance we had. After we pointed out how the conversation we had sat through for an hour was “quite interesting”, she did suggest that they might have microphones so that they could listen and decide if we were good enough. Somehow, given the situation, it seemed not quite as funny as it might have been. A part of me (wants to) think that the woman was wired up and that the invitations are merely on their way…

We left, an hour and a quarter after we came in, and fell about laughing. It is probably the most surreal experience of my life. I should be grateful, though, as I did get a Diet Coke from the lady, I think because she felt sorry for giving Ollie one but not me. As for QI, although incredibly expensive, I shall probably return to try to the linguine, given that Ollie has to pay me back. 4 out of 10, though, seems fair.