What would yiz be wanting?
24th July 2010

Revelations that some restaurants are charging customers “cakeage” for bringing their own birthday cakes lifts the lid on dodgy practices in the hospitality industry. Unreasonable charges, like crummy waiters, make a lovely grumble but the reality is that restaurants do this stuff because we let them. New Zealand diners are wiltingly passive. We have no backbone in the face of sloppy service and rortish prices. We plead to be ripped off.

Our salvation is in our own hands. To illustrate let me take you back 25 years to the Greymouth Motor Lodge and one man’s culinary crusade.

As a young TVNZ reporter in the 80s I spent a lot of time on the road with a film crew. Our cameraman was Cedric Heward; sandy-haired, 30-something, tight-jeaned and just camp enough to be particular about his personal comfort.

Cedric was the first person I ever met who complained in restaurants. He made a point of it and could find a dozen faults before we’d even sighted a menu: the furniture wobbled, the décor shrieked, the temperature was too this or that.

Cedric was not petty. He maintained we owed it to our burgeoning tourist industry to lift standards. As he said, “I can shut up and go away vowing never to return or I can mention the problems and give them a chance to prove to me why I should return.”

On one memorable trip we were staying at the Greymouth Motor Lodge, the Coast’s finest hostelry. We assembled, half a dozen of us, for breakfast. The restaurant faced the car park on one side and a concrete block wall painted camouflage green on the other. Outside a dismal rain was falling.

Our waitress was Gail, who was about 18, slatternly but striving to rise above herself. She stalked over to our table and greeted us in West Coast vernacular: “what would yiz be wanting?”

After some discussion most of us would be wanting bacon and eggs. Cedric quizzed Gail. Were the eggs battery or free range? Was the bacon grilled or fried? He was polite, prefacing his questions with “excuse me,” “can you help?” and the like. I observed that this was more irritating to waitresses than if he’d simply been rude.

Eventually we came to drinks. Coffee or tea satisfied most of us, but for Cedric hot drinks were a passion.

“Excuse me, do you have Earl Grey?”
“Who?”
“Or Orange Pekoe? Jasmine? Apple and cranberry scented fruit basket?”
“I’ll ask Warren.”

Gail sloped off to ask Warren. Warren was the manager but that morning he was filling in for the chef who’d failed to return from his possum traps. Warren’s beefy face could be seen through the serving hatch to the kitchen. He had large forlorn moustaches and looked like a walrus on a small screen TV.

Gail returned. “Warren says it’s Bushells.”

“Thank you,” said Cedric. “In that case just bring me some hot water and I’ll make my own.”

Cedric unzipped his money belt and fetched out three or four small boxes of tea bags. Gail eyed the boxes uncertainly, turned and padded back to Warren. There was a brief conference and much waggling of the walrus moustache. Gail returned.

“Warren says you’ll have to pay cuppage to make your own tea.”

“Pardon me?” replied Cedric.

“He says it’ll be $2.50 for the cup.”

Cedric stiffened. “Excuse me,” his voice was tense, the rest of us nervously shuffled our toast. “Excuse me, tell Warren this is not Tiffany’s and I won’t pay through the nose to make a decent cup of tea.”

More discussion with the walrus. Gail returned.

“Warren says this is the Greymouth Motor Lodge. We serve Bushells or you pay cuppage.”

Cedric drew himself up to his full sandy-haired, tight-jeaned height. His eyes swept the room and lighted on the forlorn carpark and the concrete block wall. “I suppose he’ll be charging me for the bloody view as well,” he commanded, and stalked out.

What was achieved? Who knows, but I like to think Cedric brought a little light to the hospitality trade that morning and spared future diners the perils of fringe pricing – corkage, cakeage or cuppage.