McDonalds, Kensington

I received an email from a correspondent and fan, from "A Hillside in Wales", by the name of Moonroot. On studying her blog it would appear that she hails from the Celtic fringes of society and probably has little or no idea where London is, or what it is for that matter. Despite her vaguely Neanderthal-like existence on some blasted Gaelic slopes, she did come forth with a recommendation for a restaurant to review. And as befitting someone who sides with the Celtic (lunatic) fringe, her restaurant to review apparently came from the Pictish camp of the Britons.

McDonald's Restaurants are, according to Moonroot, everywhere. I hadn't noticed, but Filly reckoned the sort of person who hadn't noticed any of the McDonald's restaurants springing up was exactly the sort of vain, narcissistic, self-centred, blinkered, arrogant upper-class idiot with guacamole for brains and "very small genitalia" that she was getting sick of, apparently. She also said she wasn't going to drive all the way from Little Dozey-on-the-Wold for a pathetic little quarter pounder, when there was plenty of "100% beefcake in Bermondsey". I wasn't really clear what she was on about, so decided to make this evening's soiree a solo event!

As I was going to be dining at what would appear to be a Scottish themed restaurant, I decided to dress accordingly, and went for a three quarter length Royal Stuart tartan kilt, sporran, tweed jacket, bow tie, Glengarry and dirk stuck down my sock. On consulting with my Yellow Pages, it appeared there was a McDonald's in Kensington not more than 600 yards from my front door. Alas with no Filly to drive me this evening I had to get a cab. On arriving at the august portals of this eatery I was struck by the bright lights and masses of tourists. The management here were obviously doing something right to keep the punters happy. My full Highland regalia caused quite a stir as I entered the hostelry and I had to pose for a photo with two frightfully excited young Japanese ladies. I stood and waited to be seated, but nothing happened and so I ventured up towards the kitchens where a sallow faced youth in an ill fitting uniform stood with a vacant expression.

"How can I help?" He murmured in a quiet monotone.

"Table pour moi, not too close to the hoi poloi, chop-chop." Politneness costs nothing, I always think. He looked at me blankly.

"Is it on the menu?" he asked.

"Is what on the menu?" I was a bit puzzled by now.

"Your hoi poloi chop chop? Is it a new Chinese promotional burger I don't know about? No one tells me nothing..." Tears had started to well in his haunted blank eyes. I had to be calm and considerate at this sensitive moment.

"GET ME THE MANAGER!" I yelled at the top of my voice. "I NEED TO SPEAK TO SOMEONE IN AUTHORITY! NOT THIS IDIOTIC TROGLODYTE!" A harrassed looking Nigerian called Egbunike approached me.

"What is it you want, Sir?" I looked him up and down.

"You're not Scottish!" I said. A weary smile spread across his face.

"Well spotted. And to save you further time, Sir I am also neither Liberace, Norwegian or the Archbishop of Canterbury. What I am is the shift manager of an extremely busy McDonald's outlet and I have many customers to attend to. What is your problem, Sir?" I mentioned my problem vis-a-vis no seating being offered. He gestured towards some tables and chairs. "Help yourself." I went and sat down. After 20 minutes it became clear that the waiting staff were either non-existant or ignoring me. I stormed back up to the counter where the troglodyte still stood. He cowered away as I approached and Egbunike came to greet me. "Can I take your order, Sir?" He asked.

"I just want a meal. A pleasant meal, in pleasant surroundings." I pleaded to the man. A thought seemed to strike him.

"You would like a Happy Meal?" He said, beaming from ear to ear.

"Pleasant, happy, anything really..."

Later, at home I reviewed the evening. I had been to a restaurant called McDonald's, dressed like John Brown, had failed to spy a single waiter, had been given a cardboard box with a small hamburger inside with some salty chips and a cardboard cup full of thick pink liquid which was too viscous to suck up the straw, and been fobbed off with a small stuffed toy in the shape of a Honey Bee. And this restaurant is popular and has many other outlets? It is a sad day for a respected restaurant reviewer when it comes to this. I tried to phone Filly to fill her in, but she answered breathlessly and said she was already being filled in, and hung up. So, Moonroot - not a spectacularly good evening. Only 3/10 from Giles. Oh, and to whoever stuck the label on the back of my Glengarry that read "will drop Kilt for food" - no one found it funny.

If you know a good eatery you'd like me to try out then drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and I'll check it out. Bon appetit!