P
PaulB
New member
Los Zarzales
May 2009
Not strictly a restaurant review but an interesting aside:
We had just got back from Palma on the last bus quite late in the evening and did not even have time to get off the bus for a quick shower and change. Therefore, in retrospect we were probably a little bit too dishevelled looking for this fine looking establishment. We certainly got this impression after we got the snootiest of filthy looks from a Camilla Parker-Bowles look-alike on a nearby table. I swear I saw her mouth “My God” under her breath. You know the sort: Over-dressed, dried-up old prune that looks like she is all dolled up for a night at the opera with a half a gallon of slap on her face. Her dress was not so much a tent as a marquee, in a hideous bright turquoise colour with a tonne of (probably fake) pearls around her withered old neck. Gok Wan would have had a job there, I’m telling you. Thank goodness my wife saw the “Just about to launch a verbal volley” look on my face in time and managed to calm me down in time before I gave it back in spades. If there’s one thing that really gets my goat (and the rest of my menagerie), it’s snobbery.
We were certainly not what I would consider scruffy. My son and I were both wearing shorts (of a reasonably smart variety), and we had spent all day travelling to Soller and back from Palma and were naturally tired, hot and sweaty, but a quick visit to the boys’ room before we sat down ensured we looked at least reasonably acceptable. Actually, come to think of it I was brown (or deep red at the very least), had two day’s stubble and probably looked like a cross between Mickey Rourke (Circa Year of the Dragon / Angel Heart, and not the post-alcoholic plastic surgery years, I hasten to add) and the anti-hero from a Spaghetti Western (in shorts). Not too bad in a rough- and-ready way girls, honestly! My son looking very much a mini-version of a bronzed, blonde haired surfer dude (his Mum’s looks and his Dad’s brains – thank the Lord it ain’t the other way around!).
I dunno, maybe Camilla was just aghast at my wife’s very low cut top (it was a very hot day after all) and sun-browned breasts. The old Senor who chatted to us all the way from Palma back to PP didn’t seem to mind, though. I thought the old boy had nodded off on a few occasions as his head seemed to be edging nearer and nearer to them as if dragged by some unseen force.
It just goes to prove there are no greater snobs than certain members of the English middle-class (that’s what she was, although she would probably like to think otherwise. You can’t buy class, love, and you sure as hell ain’t got it). Personally, I just can’t get my head around that particular mindset. Strange how I can go anywhere (and I mean anywhere) in London and not feel at all uncomfortable or out of place, and I was really surprised to get that sort of reaction here. After all, whilst being an extremely nice (even genteel) place it’s not exactly an exclusive resort, where everyone dresses to the nines every night, is it? Granted, Los Zarzarles may be considered to be one of the more up-market venues, but as I said before we were dressed reasonably for a hot Mediterranean night, it was a relatively late hour and there were only a few others in the restaurant (none of whom even batted an eyelid). Anyway, Camilla and her pale husband (poor old sod) had finished and left before we ordered our mains, no doubt hurrying home to write a very strongly-worded letter to the Daily Mail or its Mallorcan equivalent. She probably uses the story as an ice-breaker at tedious dinner parties somewhere in deepest middle-England, where she and her phoney friends still rue the passing of the Generalissimo.
This has actually been niggling away in the back of my mind for a year, and I am finally getting it off of my chest. (Apologies for the mixed metaphor).We didn’t let it spoil our evening at the time and were we served subsequently by a delightful young woman who was effortless charm personified. From reading the restaurant reviews I assume that this was the much and justifiably vaunted Yolanda. I actually experienced the best single dish of the entire stay, but that’s a story for another time.
It would be interesting to hear of any other incidents like this one (from any perspective, and in this restaurant or any others). I’m certainly no class-warrior (first-class worrier, more like) and don’t have any particular chips (or indeed, potatas bravas) on either of my shoulders, but things like this really get my back up. Rant over. My God, I’ve just seen how much I’ve typed – sorry!
I was thinking for this year maybe a nice linen jacket, smart jeans, clean (strategically unbuttoned) white shirt to compliment my tan – what do you think?
Also, can anyone tell me why they always look like Parker-Bowles?!
P.s. – My sincere apologies for offending anyone else who may bear more than a passing resemblance to Camilla (or “Horses-a***” as she is sometimes called).
May 2009
Not strictly a restaurant review but an interesting aside:
We had just got back from Palma on the last bus quite late in the evening and did not even have time to get off the bus for a quick shower and change. Therefore, in retrospect we were probably a little bit too dishevelled looking for this fine looking establishment. We certainly got this impression after we got the snootiest of filthy looks from a Camilla Parker-Bowles look-alike on a nearby table. I swear I saw her mouth “My God” under her breath. You know the sort: Over-dressed, dried-up old prune that looks like she is all dolled up for a night at the opera with a half a gallon of slap on her face. Her dress was not so much a tent as a marquee, in a hideous bright turquoise colour with a tonne of (probably fake) pearls around her withered old neck. Gok Wan would have had a job there, I’m telling you. Thank goodness my wife saw the “Just about to launch a verbal volley” look on my face in time and managed to calm me down in time before I gave it back in spades. If there’s one thing that really gets my goat (and the rest of my menagerie), it’s snobbery.
We were certainly not what I would consider scruffy. My son and I were both wearing shorts (of a reasonably smart variety), and we had spent all day travelling to Soller and back from Palma and were naturally tired, hot and sweaty, but a quick visit to the boys’ room before we sat down ensured we looked at least reasonably acceptable. Actually, come to think of it I was brown (or deep red at the very least), had two day’s stubble and probably looked like a cross between Mickey Rourke (Circa Year of the Dragon / Angel Heart, and not the post-alcoholic plastic surgery years, I hasten to add) and the anti-hero from a Spaghetti Western (in shorts). Not too bad in a rough- and-ready way girls, honestly! My son looking very much a mini-version of a bronzed, blonde haired surfer dude (his Mum’s looks and his Dad’s brains – thank the Lord it ain’t the other way around!).
I dunno, maybe Camilla was just aghast at my wife’s very low cut top (it was a very hot day after all) and sun-browned breasts. The old Senor who chatted to us all the way from Palma back to PP didn’t seem to mind, though. I thought the old boy had nodded off on a few occasions as his head seemed to be edging nearer and nearer to them as if dragged by some unseen force.
It just goes to prove there are no greater snobs than certain members of the English middle-class (that’s what she was, although she would probably like to think otherwise. You can’t buy class, love, and you sure as hell ain’t got it). Personally, I just can’t get my head around that particular mindset. Strange how I can go anywhere (and I mean anywhere) in London and not feel at all uncomfortable or out of place, and I was really surprised to get that sort of reaction here. After all, whilst being an extremely nice (even genteel) place it’s not exactly an exclusive resort, where everyone dresses to the nines every night, is it? Granted, Los Zarzarles may be considered to be one of the more up-market venues, but as I said before we were dressed reasonably for a hot Mediterranean night, it was a relatively late hour and there were only a few others in the restaurant (none of whom even batted an eyelid). Anyway, Camilla and her pale husband (poor old sod) had finished and left before we ordered our mains, no doubt hurrying home to write a very strongly-worded letter to the Daily Mail or its Mallorcan equivalent. She probably uses the story as an ice-breaker at tedious dinner parties somewhere in deepest middle-England, where she and her phoney friends still rue the passing of the Generalissimo.
This has actually been niggling away in the back of my mind for a year, and I am finally getting it off of my chest. (Apologies for the mixed metaphor).We didn’t let it spoil our evening at the time and were we served subsequently by a delightful young woman who was effortless charm personified. From reading the restaurant reviews I assume that this was the much and justifiably vaunted Yolanda. I actually experienced the best single dish of the entire stay, but that’s a story for another time.
It would be interesting to hear of any other incidents like this one (from any perspective, and in this restaurant or any others). I’m certainly no class-warrior (first-class worrier, more like) and don’t have any particular chips (or indeed, potatas bravas) on either of my shoulders, but things like this really get my back up. Rant over. My God, I’ve just seen how much I’ve typed – sorry!
I was thinking for this year maybe a nice linen jacket, smart jeans, clean (strategically unbuttoned) white shirt to compliment my tan – what do you think?
Also, can anyone tell me why they always look like Parker-Bowles?!
P.s. – My sincere apologies for offending anyone else who may bear more than a passing resemblance to Camilla (or “Horses-a***” as she is sometimes called).
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