THE RESTAURANT ADVENTURE
“Off we go for an adventure!” chirped the two best friends as they chucked their suitcases into the train’s luggage compartment. The train departed right on time and arrived, impeccably punctual, at eight in the morning. But let’s start from the beginning.
Summer was in full swing. June had zoomed past like a jet plane, leaving nothing but fleeting, hazy memories in its wake. The first month of summer had melted away like ice cream in a fancy glass—disappearing into the whirlpool of life’s chaos. And isn’t that just how life goes? Here today, gone tomorrow. Before they knew it, July had slipped in through the door like an uninvited guest, making itself at home.
Anyone who’s ever worked a Monday-to-Friday grind knows the torture of those final hours before holiday. Your mind is already on the beach, but your body’s still stuck in the office, wilting under fluorescent lights. Customers seem crankier, the boss extra nitpicky, and time? Time moves slower than a pensioner in a post office queue.
“Did someone superglue the clock hands?” muttered Emily, glaring at the wall clock. “Hurry up, holiday!” Her heart pounded with anticipation while her soul dreamed of lazy days and lie-ins.
“I fancy some sweetcorn, pickled mussels, and prawns,” announced Charlotte the second a client walked out the door.
The girls also fancied treating themselves to a fine Scotch—its rich aroma and smoky aftertaste had won them over before. Though, as anyone who’s ever overindulged knows, whisky has a wicked sense of humour with amateurs. But let’s not dwell on past mishaps, shall we?
“Fancy a dip in the sea?” they mused over lunch. “What’s stopping us?”
Given the current state of things (read: their bank accounts), foreign holidays were off the table. Google offered no miracles either. So, the English seaside it was!
Finally, the dream of two thrill-seeking, slightly delusional optimists was coming true! Though, knowing their luck, they half-expected the universe to throw a spanner in the works.
“Everyone’s going to be green with envy, so lips sealed—no word to anyone,” they agreed, then sprinted off to pack, tossing half their wardrobes into suitcases.
Now, how exactly do you cram dresses, shoes, enough makeup to stock a Boots, and an assortment of “essential” items (which no one actually needs) into one suitcase? For women, it’s like solving Fermat’s Last Theorem—impossible.
Yet somehow, there they were—by the sea. Gentle waves lapped at the shore, squawking seagulls circled overhead like needy toddlers, and the air smelled of salt and questionable decisions. Sunbathers sprawled lazily, cracking open crisps and lukewarm beers. Children stuffed their faces with greasy doughnuts and melting ice creams.
“Right, stand straighter! Shoulders back! Look at me! Perfect!” Emily directed, snapping pictures of Charlotte by the water.
“Now hold the watermelon. Gorgeous shot!” she declared, wiping sweat off her brow.
A seaside photoshoot—truly an Olympic sport. You have to look tanned, toned, and definitely not like you downed three G&Ts last night (even though everyone knows you did).
“Charlotte! What is this? Why do I look like a startled badger in this photo?” Emily scolded. “You could’ve told me I looked awful! How hard is it to hold a phone steady? Just pick an angle and click!”
Charlotte, sulking like a cat denied treats, considered storming off for a swim. But Emily wasn’t done. “Come on, grumpy, we’re taking one more—with melon, lavender, and drinks. Smile! There, perfect!”
Surprisingly, the pictures turned out alright.
“Em, we should celebrate our successful photoshoot. Fancy dinner tonight?” Charlotte suggested, peace offering in her tone.
“Brilliant idea! Seafood and fizz? Yes, please!” Emily’s mind was already picturing herself lounging in a chic restaurant, champagne flute in hand.
Decision made. Dressed to impress, the giddy duo set off for their evening of glamour.
Yet fate had other plans. The restaurant was nearly empty.
“Let’s take this table by the window—sea view!” Charlotte suggested.
“Sorry, that’s reserved,” the waitress apologised. “Would you like this one by the pillar?”
“Off to a great start,” muttered Charlotte, diving into the menu. “Look at these prices—270 grams of scallop salad for the cost of a second-hand Fiesta?”
“Rocket and prawns—240 grams? For that, I could buy a wing off an EasyJet plane!”
They checked the wine list. Silence.
“150ml of whisky for £100? You’ve got to be joking,” Emily sighed. “Charlotte, this is a two-sip tragedy waiting to happen.”
“Let’s sneak out,” Charlotte whispered. “I’ll go first, then you.”
Outside, they burst into laughter.
“We’re such amateurs. At least we got the photos—Instagram won’t know we fled like bandits.”
Next stop: another restaurant. They snapped more pictures (priorities) before sitting down.
“Em… this place costs a month’s salary. Maybe two. I’m ‘going to the loo.’ Meet you by the fountain in five.”
Attempt two: failed.
Third time’s the charm?
“Look how busy this place is—must be affordable!” Emily tugged Charlotte inside.
The host seated them by a giant aquarium where goldfish (or so they imagined) winked conspiratorially.
Emily scanned the menu. Nope. Still extortionate.
“Right. Time for Plan B,” she declared. “Watch and learn, darling.”
She flagged the waiter, crossed her legs (flaunting her sun-kissed knees), tilted her head (dangling earrings catching the light), and launched into her performance.
“Darling,” she purred, “we’ll start with an aperitif. A glass of Pétrus Pomerol 2001, please. Red pairs divinely with seafood.” She turned to Charlotte. “Your usual, sweetheart? Château Mouton Rothschild Pauillac 2000?”
Charlotte nodded, eyes wide.
“Now, beluga caviar, two bluefin tuna steaks—lightly seared, mind you—wasabi, lemon. Oh, and Kumamoto oysters. For dessert, carrot cake with truffle mousse. And do hurry—we tip generously.”
The waiter’s pen hovered. Then his mouth fell open.
“I’ll… fetch the manager.”
“Em, we’re getting thrown out,” Charlotte hissed.
“Relax. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.”
Soon, the manager arrived, flanked by a very confused chef.
“Ladies, I regret to inform you we don’t stock those items. Might I suggest paella? Or mussels in cream sauce?”
Emily sighed dramatically. “Fine. A bottle of Lokoya Cabernet Sauvignon Howell Mountain 2007? Please tell me you have that.”
“Afraid not. Might I offer complimentary Veuve Clicquot Brut as apology?”
“French fizz? Hard pass.” Emily rose regally. “Come, Charlotte. This establishment clearly lacks sophistication.”
Outside, Charlotte groaned. “We could’ve had free champagne!”
“Nothing’s free, love.”
“Home, then? Instant noodles, a £5 Prosecco, and a tin of tuna. We’ll call it ‘surf and turf.’”
At the supermarket, they wordlessly grabbed plastic wine glasses, a sad cheese platter, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
The cashier eyed their grim expressions. “Darlings, just… eat something, yeah?”
Kicking off their sandals, they sprinted down to the beach.
Settled on the sand, bottle opened, fireworks bursting overhead, they clinked glasses.
And as they sat under the moonlight, watching its shimmering path on the water, one truth became clear:
A nation with women like these? Unstoppable.
