Enough of the wild life off the ship. Let’s talk about the wild life on the ship.
There are 140 passengers, and just four gay men (if you count us, and I hope you do)
The other two are German. They click their heels together a lot but not in a Dorothy sort of way. They are a little scary. Plus they don’t understand my humour. If I say anything amusing, even wildly funny, they look completely blank. Not unlike the rest of the world! They won’t do at all, so we are down to two.
Do Germans have a sense of humour? But I digress
On day 5, we return to our cabin to find a small black, rather ornate frame has been placed on our bed. – a rather ominous display, and we imagine the worst. Someone has died. We run through a list of possibilities. We have reached the age where the list has become quite long. But no, they are all safe. We are actually looking at a beautifully engraved invitation, again in black, inviting us to the chefs table for dinner. I hear the Fabulosity Meter muttering. But what is this fascination with black?
We have heard whispers of the chef’s table, which is hidden away in a private room behind locked doors, which again are black. The first mention of it was on day one, when we were waiting to make reservations for dinner.
Infront of us a woman was speaking down to the Maitre D. A strikingly attractive woman in her forties, around 6ft in her stocking feet, although they were always tastefully clad in red soled shoes whenever we saw her. Her posture spoke of finishing schools and modeling classes, her look spoke of a great deal of disposable income. And if she wanted to dispose of some of it she had come to the right place.
“I would like to book the chef’s table for a small party” she said, flashing a smile that would melt the heart of almost anyone. The Maitre D however had many such smiles flashed at him over the years, and knew that they preceded a request of a difficult nature. He was not going to melt. He was almost as tall as her but nowhere nearly as attractive. A large slovenly looking man, his shirt loosing the fight with his stomach for access into his trousers, and his bow tie slung low beneath his collar. His posture spoke of years in the serving industry, his look suggested a hard life in some Eastern European country, and his attitude suggested he would rather be anywhere but here.
“I am sorry, but that is not possible” he replied
This was a woman who probably used the word “no” on many occasions, especially when dealing with her husband, but she was unaccustomed to anyone actually saying it to her. And she let that be known.
” What do you mean, it isn’t possible?” The smile was gone as she looked down her long aquiline nose at the offending shabby little man infront of her
The Maitre D took pleasure in telling her. He explained that the Chefs table was by invitation only. It seats just 10 people and is only open a few nights every cruise.
“Ten people would be perfect” she said “and I want to invite the other eight to join my husband and I”
“Perhaps I wasn’t making myself clear” the Maitre D said, implying exactly the opposite, “You cannot book the chef’s table. You have to be invited to eat there”
“Well, I want to be invited” she said.
“You can’t ask to be invited”, the Maitre D told her. This was a battle of wills and he was beginning to enjoy himself. “The Captain invites you”
“Well kindly tell the Captain that I would like to be invited and I have 8 other people I would like to join me”
With that, she tucked her small purse with a discreet logo under her arm, turned elegantly away from the Maitre D, and with her Lamboutin shoes clicking loudly on the marble floor strode purposefully away to await her invitation to the chef’s table
Bitch on heels!
She never did get invited.
But why did we? We suspect for the usual reason. Gay men are the entertainment. They are expected to be amusing. If they can’t manage that, then they should at least look amused. The Germans could do neither, so it is all down to us. And we tried, really we did. But even we couldn’t do much with this crowd………………………..