The Devil and Restaurants

The dinner had ended badly again. Why do I always let him talk me into this shit? I wondered, sitting in the minicab and once again pushing the devil’s unconscious head from my shoulder. I then chastised myself for being a little harsh. Because in theory, a meal out with Jesus, The Buddha and my good friend Satan should have made for a fun evening.

It had certainly started well enough – we’d settled on a venue easily, without any of the squabbling that usually plagued these outings from the start. Jesus was in the mood for seafood; Buddha said he just fancied “something a bit bland, to be honest” and was there more for the conversation, and the devil was ok with “wherever, as long as it’s cheap”. Thinking back, that should have been the first warning sign that the devil was going to spoil everything again, but at the time I laughed his comment off with a look to the others that I was hoping said something along the lines of ‘that prince of lies, eh? What is he like?’. Later that evening, I repeated the look to myself in the bathroom mirror and discovered it looked rather more like an impression of an elderly sturgeon reaching climax, but at the time I felt I’d nicely defused the first hints of animosity that so often bubbled up when I was hanging with Satan. Anyway, we quickly plumped for a little Thai place that I knew of, on the basis that they did a mean monkfish curry that I thought Jesus would dig, a bland but satisfying omelette for the Buddha, and most importantly a very reasonably priced menu to keep old scratch from moaning. Maybe things would work out ok.

Not so. The thing with the devil is, it’s not really any one big thing he says or does that causes the bickering. As with many socially awkward people, it’s just the little comments, the slightly inappropriate suggestions, that start to really get to you after a while. Within a few minutes of us being seated, he was on his usual form. The wine was what caused the problem. Jesus, Buddha and I were happy to just have a couple of bottles of house red, and initially the morning star agreed as well. Problem was this, though – he kept trying to pressure Jesus into ‘miracling up’ (he actually made air quotes when he used this phrase – so annoying) the house red into a finer vintage. “Sure, we’d only be paying for house red, but you’re good with wine, right? You could make it into something really special, and we’d all be making a little saving”. I caught Buddha’s reaction from across the table - a weary ‘here we go again’ look flickered across his usually jolly face. Jesus politely but firmly reminded Satan that we’d agreed not to use our miraculous powers while out on socials – that sort of thing was fine back in the office, but it was bad form and unprofessional elsewhere. Well, he said ‘we’ out of politeness more than anything, as the group knew I was wholly and unremarkably mortal. Still, they were happy to have me around because I amused them, could hold a conversation, and most importantly knew the devil well enough to keep him in check. Plus, as a staunch atheist (despite the somewhat overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I admit) they felt I bought a sense of impartiality to their nights out. This time though, it was Buddha who stepped in and steered the conversation into more neutral territory. “You know, I read in The Daily Express that most so called wine experts can’t actually tell the difference between a three pound bottle and a fifty pound bottle during blind taste tests”.
I tell you, that was a stroke of genius on Buddha’s part, because it got Jesus and Satan started on how unreliable science was in general, something they both agreed on wholeheartedly. This neatly sidelined the putative wine argument, and left Buddha and I free to discuss last week’s episode of Doctor Who whilst the other two tried to put the world to rights. Once again, I got that odd feeling of hope mixed with anxiety that usually accompanies a lull in the devil’s antics.

Surprise surprise though, it was the bill that sent things irretrievably south. Like on numerous other occasions, the lord of the flies had to go and complicate what should have been a simple transaction. Jesus, Buddha and I all agreed to split the bill evenly, with Jesus being kind enough to cover the whole tip himself. The devil, however, insisted that each diner only paid for what he’d ordered. Nobody wanted an argument, so we quickly relented. Trying our best not to react, we all sat and watched while Satan produced his reading glasses and a small charcoal pencil, and began circling the things he’d ordered on the bill. This was made all the more awkward by the fact that he wasn’t quick when it came to mental arithmetic, and tended to say figures out loud to himself as he plodded along. Worse still, the devil made a point of feigning shock at the prices of each dish he’d eaten, and broadcasting these to the other tables in an unnecessarily theatrical manner. I swear I saw the restaurant proprietor physically flinch upon hearing the words “Three fifty for jasmine rice?”, but the final straw came when the devil, by now very drunk, leaned over to a young couple and told them he hoped they were really enjoying their duck because it was costing them about a pound per forkful. Seeing this, the proprietor marched over and demanded we settle the bill immediately and leave. Again, things could have been bought to a quick end there, but the devil decided he was going to act the martyr. Slapping away our hands whenever we tried to give the wizened Thai any money, he stated that he was going to pay off the meal singlehandedly by working it off, washing pots. Before we could stop him, he’d made for the kitchen, knocking a couple of chairs over with his tail in the process. What happened next is open to debate – it might have been luck, but I suspect intervention on the part of one of my companions. In any case, as soon as Satan set hoof in the kitchen he slipped on a puddle of soapy water, pole axing him and leaving him unconscious on the floor. I used this opportunity to thrust my credit card into the proprietor’s hand, and made a point of staying silent when the card machine announced that the service charge was suddenly a whopping fifty per cent.