Someone at a dinner party asked me if I had any humorous stories to relate from my time in the hospitality industry. It's not an uncommon request, and by relating tales of his time working in hotels one of the other guests reminded me of an incident that occurred many years ago . . .

I was invited with a number of senior hotel managers to the opening of a new, luxury hotel that had just opened in Queensland. We were asked to test the facilities and give our impressions of the experience. The place was very pretentious. I prefer to stay in relaxed, casual lodgings and began to get irritated at the cool formality of the staff and the tacky, overstated opulence of the surroundings.

The GM of the hotel invited all of us to a special dinner in his fine dining room on the last night of our stay. By this stage I was dying to get home and was sick of rich hotel food and having to play safe politics with all my peers. Everyone was trying to score points off each other like a bunch of school kids.

We arrived at the dining room, a dark wood panelled room full of antique furniture and soft lighting, to be greeted by what seemed to me to be the whole staff of the restaurant lined up in immaculate uniforms. It was obvious the GM was out to impress us by spending the whole of his first month’s marketing budget on the dinner. When all you're craving is a McDonald’s hamburger, you can observe these things with a detached fascination.

It was right over the top. Everything was silver service from gleaming trolleys and half of the meal was cooked with great ceremony at the table. It seemed that there were two staff for every VIP guest. Meanwhile, the general public had to be content with a staff ratio of one to every one hundred and fifty — and they were paying for their meals.

The staff were coldly efficient and ruthlessly formal; I could see right up their noses most of the time. The only saving grace were the wines — they were superb. The best vintages from Europe and Australia. Uncharacteristically, I kept my mouth shut and imbibed steadily, praying for it all to come to an end.

It went on and on . . . course after course. The GM was in his element, lauding it over his captive audience and pontificating about bringing European standards to us uncouth Australians. I bit my tongue, determined not to commit some social atrocity. It turned out I didn't have to say a word.

Pierre, ze snooty head waiter, trundled up to the table with a gueridon trolley and announced with a flourish that he was going to prepare ‘crepes l’orange’. I'd seen this done several times before and it's usually a very good show. The main idea being to cut the skin on an orange so it hangs in a spiral then pour flaming cognac down the orange and onto a crepe. They dim the lights for the occasion.

Pierre got the first part right by cooking a perfect crepe in one pan and heating some cognac and orange juice in another. He then jammed a fork into an orange and carefully cut the skin in an even strip about one inch wide with a small, sharp knife — it hung in the requisite, perfect spiral. With an artful flick of his hand he lit a match and flamed the pan of cognac in preparation for the tricky bit.

Then his luck deserted him. Instead of holding the fork on a downward angle so the orange was lower than his hand, he held it upward so the orange was about four inches higher. To my horror he poured the flaming cognac onto the orange. Naturally, the burning cognac took the path of least resistance — straight down his arm, instead of down the orange peel spiral. The blue and yellow flame looked strangely beautiful as it engulfed his entire sleeve. There was a moment of silence.

Then all hell broke loose. Pierre let out a blood curdling scream and holding his arm aloft like a burning brand he sprinted the considerable length of the dining room leaving a dark smoke trail. In the ambient light it looked liked one of those afterburning F-111’s you see at an airshow — quite spectacular. It's amazing how staff part like the Dead Sea when a flaming man bears down on them.

He flew straight through the kitchen swing doors at full tilt, bowling a waiter with several plates for a six in the process and adding the harsh sound of breaking crockery and glassware to what up to that point had been mainly visual. Then we heard confused yelling from the kitchen staff and over the top of the general hubbub: ‘Put it out, put it out!’ in a terrified falsetto. The confusion continued for a short time then we heard the unmistakable sound of a carbon dioxide fire extinguisher being discharged, followed by a now familiar shrill voice screaming: ‘Stop! Stop! STOP! YOU'RE FREEZING MY F*****G ARM!’

We all sat in stunned silence. The GM looked quite ill. There were people all around the restaurant frozen in shock with their mouths open. Gradually movement returned and animated conversation began everywhere except our table. Nobody said a word. I watched as the smoke was slowly carried away by the air-conditioning.

Then, after several minutes, as calm as you like, another waiter emerged from the kitchen, walked up to our table, picked up the fork and the orange, smiled and said: ‘Sorry for the delay, gentlemen. Now, who was having the orange crepes?’

First Published in Inside Dining Magazine
© Tony Eldred, 1995

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