Stakeholder

For the past few weeks I have been on holiday. Despite the frequent interruptions from work, the strength of sterling, swine flu and terrorist attacks in Spain, it really did seem like a holiday. And for once my golf really did improve and it was not on a simulator or Wii.

During my sojourn, what struck me most was the service. Yes, it really was service. With few exceptions, when you come from Ireland or Britain you have pretty low expectations when it comes to service. We tend to be grateful for the simple things, like being served in the same hour you arrive, like being noticed over the checkout girl’s banter, like someone giving you the right change. Yes, for all the crap about the Ireland of welcomes, we don’t really give people a reason to visit.

Last week I sat in a restaurant in the Puerto Banus, a proper restaurant, not a fish and chip emporium or all-English breakfast guaranteed place.

Next to me sat an elderly couple with their two grandchildren. They were rather insufferable. The grandmother insisted on giving loud and inaccurate lessons in Spanish to the children. It was not quite Manuel for beginners but close. The real funny bit came when I overheard the order. The two seniors ordered fish but no vegetables because they are not quite English the way they cook them in Spain. By the way the restaurant was Italian.

Then, the hilarious bit. When the children asked what was tortellini, the grandmother answered it was a four-cheese pasta. She went as far as asking the waiter to describe the four cheeses. In fairness under the heading ‘stuffed pasta’, there were four choices of pasta and two choices of sauce. The sauces were sage and butter and four cheeses.

When the orders were received, the grandparents were aghast. The pasta, ie the tortellini was stuffed with meat and while the sauce was indeed four cheeses, they said they did not order stuffed tortellini but four-cheese pasta. The waiter with good grace showed them the menu, which was in English but in typical British fashion, the couple were having none of this logic. This was not what they ordered. They looked to me. Unfortunately I brought no comfort as I too had ordered the same dish. Then entered the European idea of service. The waiter immediately apologised, though he had done no wrong. He offered not only a change of dish but that the half-eaten tortellini would not be charged. The senior gentleman looked at me knowingly and said, you can’t be too careful with these foreigners.

Now imagine the scene in Belfast or any other Northern Ireland town. Imagine getting what you ordered and then returning it half-eaten because you did not like it. Imagine the response of the staff. Imagine not being charged for it. Imagine leaving fulfilled. Hard to imagine really? The fact is that despite the guff, we don’t have a service culture. If it was not for the migrant workers, our idea of service is akin to the communist diktat of take it, like it or leave it. The Irish say they don’t complain, they just don’t go back. I think that is probably a fair summation of our complaints process. We don’t like to complain, well at least not in the restaurant. But give us the opportunity to mention a bad meal or experience at home to friends or family, every detail is recorded in full Technicolor.

Apart from being over-priced, the concept of Irish hospitality is nearly an oxymoron. It’s by and large of poor standard, badly delivered and uninspiring. The back slapping that goes on within the sector is about as sincere as Dale Winton’s tan is real. There is very little to endear one to the Irish version of hospitality. Even in our most prestigious eating establishments, they tend to make us feel that they are doing us a favour by letting us eat there.

Part of the problem here is that no-one really thinks that being a waiter is a career. It’s a stop-gap at best or a slightly better option than unemployment.

In Ireland, north or south, these are challenging times for the economy and frankly our product is overpriced and underwhelming in terms of service. Too many times our experiences are all too memorable for the wrong reasons. If this really is the Ireland of welcomes, then Mosney must be Marbella.