Perhaps it’s a lost chapter in Freud’s The Ego and the ID, but what he or she is ordering, is a greatly underused insightful tool into someone’s personality. Obviously.
Recently I was sitting alone at the the bar in The Gilbert Scott. Next to me was a guy and with a face I’ve seen thousands of times before. For some reason, in a Debrownian moment, I decided I’d be able to guess what he’d order from the menu. So I did, and every time he ordered something else, I got it. His face told me that he’d have steak with béarnaise sauce, chips, glass of red, average flirt with waitress, double espresso, Marlboro red to finish. You know, that kinda guy. Voilà.
So here’s my foolproof and highly useful guide to who’s ordering what:
You’re a lothario, you think you’re Mick Jagger. But you’re not as fertile, so reign it in. You enjoy Roxy Music, mostly wear a blue blazer and ice white jeans.
You’re a player. Keep your game tight. You’re pretty fruity too. All are welcome.
You write for The Guardian. You have a good beard and a strong collection of checked shirts.
You are a multi millionaire Jonathan Ross type. You’ve no idea how you made all your money and neither does anyone else. You wears Crocs to the theatre and pyjamas in bed.
You are a mummy’s boy.
You are French and excellent in bed. Take people home, share your talents, then say.. ‘Non, Je ne regrette rein’
You are pale white due to your job in The Mafia.
You are a DJ.
You work at a Hedge Fund.
WOW. Where to start? You’re a member of Mensa. You’re the missing link. You transcend class, you cockney-toff. You’re on Kofi Annan’s and Craig David’s speed-dial. You’ve got the Midas touch and you’re clumsy. You order prawn fucking cocktail and you don’t even care.
You are having an affair. Finish the sandwich, leave the hotel, then finish the affair.
You write a blog. Get a life.
You are Sting.
2 thoughts on “You are what you order”
Well you sailed close but just managed to clip the stern.
You see I love lasagne almost as much as I love my mum.
However, on prawn cocktails, you’re way off. Less James Bond, more James Beattie. They’re so treacherously safe if I see one being wobbled towards me, distracting me from my stream of thought of how I can fake being pleased for these newly weds when I always hoped I’d get to shag the bride, my heart sinks.
They’re so distinctly average and severely undangerous. Less J-Pax, more Nicky-Campbell. A safe bet for a Sunday morning interview but never going to tell the Archbishop Desmond Tutu to f*ck off.
Keep up the good work.
haha…I love onion soup !