It is glorious and enlightening that we are so internationally connected these days. But, worldliness has its downsides. Culture clashes and language barriers among them. It was with great anticipation that I looked forward to my evening ‘sharing meal’ of a whole duck at the most charming gastropub in the heart of the English countryside.
What arrived, however, was a beautifully plated slice of duck with a side of duck infused cassoulet.
“Where’s the rest of it?” I inquired.
The chef looked startled. With much fanfare, he had brought out our dinners himself as this was the inaugural unveiling of this menu item. A duck debut, if you will.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“The menu description said whole duck”, I explained.
“I could not serve a whole duck,” he replied.
“Why?” I continued pleasantly but undeterred.
He went on to explain (man-splain?) that his culinary presentation included a breast of duck, its tiny leg and small squares of diced duck in an accompanying small crock of beans.
“To me, that’s a whole duck,” said the chef.
At which point the thought struck me that perhaps we were having a language problem. He was English and I was American.
“Hm,” was the best response I could offer up as I realized no good could come from dissecting differing definitions of “whole” versus “parts” of fowl.
While he did ultimately concede that perhaps better wording on the menu description would serve everyone better than the existing one, (Quite) I was hard pressed to exhibit any enthusiasm about my much anticipated meal.
Unlike the dinner companion with whom I was sharing this dinner (a hearty eater who I feared would be unsatisfied with his petite portion) who promptly and politely spoke up, dismissing any disappointment with the chef’s concoction and concluding this tense stand off with elaborate praise by proclaiming the whole dish a brilliant success.
And, to be fair, the meal was delicious. Just not as advertised.
“I hope I did not embarrass you over the duck debacle?” I asked the wife of my dining companion the next day.
“Of course not!” She exclaimed.
Why wouldn’t she say something like that? She’s English and polite and would avoid making anyone feel uncomfortable at any cost.
“It’s very American,” she said, summing up my “direct” reaction to our chef, which was in complete contrast to the behavior of the rest of our dining companions.
With a laugh she went on to explain how this incident perfectly illustrated the difference between us and them. That, I, as an American, had no reservation about challenging the norm while the rest of the table (all English) resorted to extreme politeness to maintain the peace.
She understood that I was expressing reasonable surprise at a mislabeled food product but acknowledged that the English simply do everything in their power not to cause offense.
AI completely agreed with her.
““The Englishman is “too polite” to show disappointment, upholding a stereotype of British stoicism and reluctance to cause a scene, even when disappointed.
The American is “not” [polite/complacent], portraying the stereotypical directness or assertiveness (often seen as rudeness or “getting one’s way”) to ensure the advertised whole duck is not served in a “diced” or incorrect way.”
There is, of course, something attractive about that English disposition, isn’t there? Operating on a more civil playing field. Not calling a spade a spade but politely suggesting that whatever hand you are dealt would produce a delightful or at least acceptable outcome.
Perhaps it was the clinical tone of my question- “where’s the rest of it?” – that might have gotten us (me) off to a bad start with chef. I could have been more delicate in my approach. If I approached it at all. Which I would, of course, because I am American and I was hungry and unhappy. However, it is clear an adjustment might make me more friends in the future if I could tone it down a bit and make my questions sound more like light hearted inquiries rather than disappointed ones. But I had looked up the menu before we got to the restaurant and became wildly excited by the prospect of having one of my favorite meals served exactly the way I liked it. I was just being honest.
But at what cost?
As we were leaving the restaurant the same, polite, dining partner confided that she had thought of making a personal request for more condiments at dinner, but, fearing it might be interpreted as an insult to the kitchen’s precise portioning plan, she kept mum.
“Was that before or after my duck altercation? I asked.
“After,” she said.
Noted.
Now, just to say, I would never think of expressing anything but elation during dinner at a friend’s house. I love food and I am an excellent guest. I believe a meal cooked for me is a real gift. But in a commercial environment where I am paying for a product I expect it to arrive as advertised and of a quality which is reflective of the establishment.
I don’t expect an argument or justification for a dish that falls short of expectations. And interestingly, AI says I’m right.
“If the menu simply said “Whole Duck,” you are entitled to a whole duck. Without qualification, the menu description is misleading.”
Right or wrong, AI does admit that although no one really likes criticism,
“feedback is often valued by individuals focused on growth, provided it is delivered with kindness, is well-intentioned, and comes from a trusted source.“
I was well-intentioned. Kindness is open to interpretation. And, a ‘trusted source’ I am not. One out of three suggests maybe I should have just left a note in the suggestion box to avoid embarrassment. That would have been a very English thing to do. Next time. We can all learn lessons from our more gentle international neighbors.
I was going to end this piece by saying that regardless of who is right in this clash of cultural behaviors I did hope the next time someone read that menu that the chef would have updated the duck’s description. Then, on a whim, I looked up the current menu on line. And whaddya know? He did!
Burning Daylight 