It might be nascent hospitality at a cultural level, it might be the commercial acumen to never wave away a punter with money to spend. But they sure as hell don't turn you away. The way they can pack an extra booking into an already rammed room defies all known laws of physics. The maitre d', an individual with the combination of genius and rat-like cunning only bred by a lifetime of restaurant service will snap his fingers and a fully-laid table will be carried high over the heads of the throng and placed perfectly for you with a murmured "I'm sorry, sir, we are busy" and the first carafe will be on the house. It's somehow possible to turn up at the busiest restaurant and ask for the most ludicrous table combination (8 people, three arriving later and two high chairs). Along with the Greeks and Spanish, the Italians have pioneered the bizarre idea of what we might call "diner-centred eating". It's no coincidence that Polpo is an Italian restaurant. Bookings in fact, are what make us cattle and keep the restaurants firmly in control. It enables the restaurant to move diner units from the feeding station through to the pecuniary extraction phase with the most cold-blooded efficiency outside of an abattoir. Rigid bookings lists maintain the illusion in the punter that they're lucky when they finally land the dead deuce by the swing doors. We've grown to love the illusion that we're in control as we negotiate our reservation - though it's nearer the truth that the silken-toned door droid is operating a complex system of social air traffic control, guiding you safely into a harmless 'slot' while keeping others open for almost anyone more important. ![]() Polpo Soho has caused quite a few raised eyebrows among critics (both the paid and those doing it for love) for their decision not to take bookings. We drank quite a lot of their wine and at no point did I receive anything even resembling apology.Īm I, you're probably asking, going to use the next seven hundred words to publicly revenge myself for this outrage to my dignity? Am I hell - I had a bloody marvellous time and I'm going back next week to be treated just the same. I had to fight my way to the bar while busy staff forged their paths through the crush. ![]() Though we arrived at a reasonable time, we were forced to queue for just over an hour, packed shoulder to shoulder with jostling punters. A couple of weeks ago we went out for dinner at a well-reviewed, newish restaurant.
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