I feel ripped off

Bruschetta with Parma ham, brie and preserved fig. Not the most revolutionary combination of flavours and textures the culinary world has known. Nice enough, but as canapés go, not God’s gift to cocktail parties. And yet bruschetta with Parma ham, brie and preserved fig can take on an urgent and insistent significance, especially when one is comparing a menu on a website, say, to what one was actually served in a restaurant.

So it was that the other night I found myself poring over a pdf of the high tea menu of a Sandton-based boutique hotel, attempting to assess whether, when my contact there said the menu was “more extensive”, she was playing fast and loose with the Oxford English Dictionary. I had queried this because the high tea served on Mother’s Day was more than R100 a head more expensive than high tea served on less important days of the marketing calendar, and I wanted to know why. “Is the extra charge on Sunday purely because it is Mother’s Day or will there be additional value offered?” I asked pointedly. My contact wrote back: “It is a more extensive menu and much more elegant.” At which point I invoked the immortal Afrikaans expression viz kak en betaal and transferred R1 000 into their bank account.

Oh, I know I’m a schmuck. Hand me a MasterCard and call me Bambi: anyone that trusting deserves to be ripped off. The Westcliff was the obvious choice, but it’s a bit of a schlep to get there and I was worried about how my grandmother would handle being hauled up that hill (probably fine, and I was being paranoid). That’s why the Marion on Nicol came to mind. I’d stayed there while judging the Pica awards last year and enjoyed the experience, especially because it was free. (I love freebies and would like to devote my life to getting more of them.) Most Joburgers have never heard of it, which was another reason it appealed to me: this was my discovery, my insider knowledge. My Joburg gem.

Nonetheless, because this was not the obvious choice, I was taking something of a risk, especially after paying upfront. Joburg gem or not, the truth is, for days, I fretted about the possibility of disappointment. Disappointment terrifies me most days, and there is nothing worse than being disappointed when spending money. Buying things is an act of creativity after all: the act of choosing something out of a range of possibilities and then paying for it is one that cuts to the core of both the way we express ourselves and how we wish to be perceived by others.

So I was deeply worried that my choice would not live up to expectations. My foreboding all the way along the William Nicol resolved into the leaden weight of disenchantment as we walked into the dining area and saw the buffet. I knew immediately that I could have found a much nicer and less expensive high tea elsewhere. I wanted to cry. Not wanting to spoil things for everyone else, I kept quiet, and when the manager came around to ask whether we were happy I lied and said yes, and busied myself with making notes on what was actually sitting on the plates on the table in the corner. Lemon meringue, chocolate mousse, choux puffs, apple crumble, scones, smoked salmon sandwiches, mini quiches, meatballs and chicken mayonnaise on bruschetta.

When I got home, I looked up the menu and conducted a quick audit. My suspicions were confirmed. Rather than a more extensive menu, the Mother’s Day offering was — technically speaking — less extensive, with the Parma ham, smoked trout and mozzarella and basil pesto bruschetta conspicuously absent. I am sorry, but chicken mayonnaise does not cut it. At Wimpy, maybe, but not a boutique hotel of distinction.

Now, there was nothing wrong with the experience per se. It wasn’t brilliant, and it wasn’t terrible. The quiches were delicious and I particularly liked the apple crumble. But this is where the perception of value comes in: at R145 per head I would have been satisfied; at R250, I’m unhappy. I feel duped, and I’m angry with myself for making a bad choice. R1 000 is a lot of money for me; it’s a lot of money for tea and cake. When I think of what I could have spent it on instead, I want to cry all over again. The special occasion I’d planned was spoiled, and that’s what really bothers me. I wanted to buy a happy memory, and the one I got is shop soiled.

This is not, of course, about Parma ham on bruschetta, or smoked trout, or the white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake that wasn’t there either. It’s about a principle. That’s why I am blogging about my disappointment, mundane and inconsequential though it is, because the power to communicate my experience to others is the only power I have. Businesses that think that they can take our money with impunity should be reminded that, while their customers might dutifully kak en betaal, we can also spread the word. I feel ripped off and I’m telling everyone I know.