Bunkbeds and breakfast time

TWO WEEKS ago I took the Caledonian sleeper from Euston to Aberdeen. Dinner on board, aided by a single malt whisky, was excellent, only marred by the presence of the carrots. I’ve always viewed the carrot with disdain and disgust.

The last time I caught the sleeper to Scotland was over 15 years ago. I took my daughter when she was five; she was very excited as I’d promised her she would climb up a ladder and sleep in a bunk . We boarded the train at 10pm at Euston, much later than her usual bed time. She’d gone in front of me into our cabin and immediately burst into tears.

“What’s wrong, darling?” I asked. “There’s no ladder! No bed in the sky, like you promised me, Daddy,” she said.

She was right. There was just one bed on the floor. “Leave it to me, Lily”, I said. “Daddy will sort this out, there’s been a big mistake.”

I went into the corridor and found the coach attendant.

“You’re in first class, Sir. The bunk beds are only in second class”, he said.

I reached into my back pocket and handed him a £20 note.

Five minutes later he came back down the carriage. Behind him was a tousle haired, sleepy looking young man in pyjamas, carrying a briefcase.”

“Who’s this”’ I asked him. “Och, young Mr Thompson, he’s a regular. He doesn’t mind being upgraded.” I’d tipped him to get downgraded. Possibly a first.

Two days later at breakfast in my hotel in the Highlands, I ordered an espresso.

“We don’t do espressos till 10.30,” Rory, the young waiter, said.

“I’m sorry? What do you mean?” I asked him.

“We don’t serve espressos till after 10.30,” he said. “We’ve only got one socket and the toaster’s plugged in.”

“You are joking, right? What time does breakfast finish?” I asked. “10.30,” he said.

“This is nuts! You only serve espressos after breakfast is finished!?”

“It’s the rules.”

“Am I the first person who’s ever asked you for an espresso at breakfast?”

“Oh no, they ask for espressos all the time.”

“Where’s the owner?” I asked. “He’s up in the toilet,” Rory replied.

“When will he be out of the toilet?” I asked.

“He’ll be down in about five hours.”

“Five hours in the toilet!? What’s wrong with the man!? He should be in the hospital!”

“He’s doing things up there.” “Yes, clearly he is. Is he a local man?” I asked.

“No, he’s Italian” he said. “Italian? What’s his name?” “Ron McDougall.”

“Ron McDougall! He’s not Italian! He can’t be called McDougall and be Italian.”

“Oh yes, he’s Italian alright. His daughter is called Montepuciano.”

A few minutes later, I asked another waiter when Mr McDougall would be down from the toilet. She looked at me blankly “He’s in the turret,” she said.

“The turret?”

“Yes he fixing up the turret.” “Where does he come from?” “Sydney, Australia originally,” she said. “But he now spends a lot of time in Italy.”

When he finally came down from the turret I had a word with McDougall, who did a not very good impression of being astonished to learn that they didn’t do espressos until breakfast was over. “Leave it to me,” he said.

Next morning I asked Rory for a croissant to go with my espresso.

“What’s a croissant?” he asked.

“What do you mean, ‘‘what’s a croissant?’”

“What is a croissant?” he asked. I don’t think it was a metaphysical question. “Are you kidding me?” I asked.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks exactly like the one you brought me yesterday when you couldn’t give me an espresso to go with it, because you’d got the toaster in the only plug. Is this a new series of Fawlty Towers?”

As Inspector Montalbano said: “God made the croissant to go with espresso.”

But as far as breakfast tales go, all this pales into insignificance compared to some of the tales Nobby “The King of the Breakfast Room”, the legendary retired head waiter at Claridges used to tell me. I was particularly fond of the story of the elderly regular who dropped dead over his bacon and eggs one morning.

“What did you do?” I asked. “Well, sir, we were in the middle of a busy breakfast service and I didn’t want to upset the other customers, so I left him in his chair. He was slumped onto the table so I covered him up with a tablecloth and waited until breakfast was over. Then me and Bruno put him on a trolley and wheeled him out. Of course we put some flowers on top out of respect. Fuschias, I think they were, but they might have been lilies, sir. I took them out of the vase on the table.”

He can’t be called McDougall and be Italian, I said