- 整體 1
- 食物 1
- 服務 1
- 氛圍 1
Ah, my dear reader, allow me to recount a tale of culinary disillusionment that might have been plucked from the pages of a satirical farce, yet unfolded with all the grim determination of an unpolished tragedy. It began with the precision of a Swiss timepiece, for a table was reserved for the hour of 1715—an arrangement for four souls eager for convivial indulgence. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by the amiable creatures stationed at the door, whose cheerfulness gave no hint of the calamity to come. Seated with all the pomp befitting regular patrons of Harry’s Bar in Victoria, a haven where the staff have perfected the art of graciousness, we anticipated nothing less than an evening of delight.
Alas, the first omen of discord was the unceremonious eviction of four elderly ladies nearby, their dining pleasures cut short by the cold tyranny of a ticking clock. Their departure, like a funeral bell tolling in the distance, presaged our own misfortunes. The interlude between the starter and the main course stretched out like the interminable pause before a storm. When at last my main—truffled chicken, a dish whose very name promised decadence—arrived, it bore the appearance of perfection but the texture of a tragic metaphor: tough as penitence and unyielding as the heart of a miser.
I summoned the waiter, that supposed agent of solace, who whisked the offending dish away only to return with the dubious report that even a replacement fowl would offer no reprieve. Instead, he proposed a portion of grilled vegetables—a suggestion so absurd it verged on the surreal. Was this his idea of culinary reparations? One might have expected the offer of a chisel and mallet to accompany the chicken, but no, we were treated instead to a plate of arid vegetation, bereft of flavour and joy. Hunger, that relentless tyrant, drove me to bread as my final recourse.