An American Worker in London
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
The Lord Wolseley Pub
Just around the corner from Jury's Inn, my hotel, is a pub that advertises "exotic Thai food" on large signs outside the establishment. I have always wondered about this place, since I pass it several times a week in my walks around the neighborhood. Tonight I went inside. Now I know.
It was a near-freezing night and the pub offered a welcome warmth inside. When I opened the door, a blast of heat and acrid cigarette smoke assaulted me. A soccer game was playing on multiple television sets in several rooms, and the volume was turned up quite loud. Occasional gains or losses of yardage and attempts at scoring produced loud bursts of noise from the assembled customers. I squeezed past layers of men and the occasional woman to get near the bar, and waited my turn to order a beer. I inhaled deeply of the smoke in my immediate area, and my eyes began to sting from the discolored air.
The area around the bar was very busy, and it was difficult to get close enough to order a beer. And I really wanted dinner as well, but didn't know the procedure at this pub. Not all of them offer table service, so one of the patrons explained that "we Brits haven't figured out how to combine bar service and table service in the same establishment." I continued to wait for my chance to order, knowing that it's just not proper to push my way in front of another customer. We all queue in sequence here, and I knew that.
Recognizing my predicament, the patron I had spoken with stood up, walked around the bar, asked what I wanted, and poured it. Seems he was authorized, since he took my 5 pound note and returned change from the till. I thought it was very kind of him to get me the beer. I thanked him, told him I'd be in the next room with a menu, and asked him to send the waitress around for the order.
I moved to the next room with my beer, sipping along the way because the bar tenders always fill the beer glasses to the rim and I always risk spilling them on the walk to the table. I found the table where I had left my jacket and down vest and took my seat. This was a table with 4 chairs, and I was briefly alone until two more guys came in, surveyed the room, and decided to sit at my table. This wasn't something I had much say in, and I wasn't a local, so I moved chairs around to give them room and settled in.
They lit up their foul-smelling cigarettes and pulled the ashtray in their general direction, but mostly leaving it under my nose. I remove my novel from the jacket, opened it, and placed it on the table to stake my claim for some of the table space. And I inhaled once, twice, three times, and continued to inhale the acrid, sharp, cigarette smoke. I became a confirmed second-hand smoker, and knew that I was in for the long haul now, at least until the food arrived and was consumed. "In for a penny, in for a pound," I thought.
The waitress arrived, took my order (and mind you, I pointed and talked her through this since I wasn't sure about her command of the language), and I returned to my book. The table next to mine was occupied with 4 men, 1 woman, and a boy of about 12. They were all watching a soccer match on the television and getting excited about the action. I looked around the room and realized that of the 30 or so patrons there, only two people were not smoking and one of them was me. The other was the 12 year old boy.
In the next room, an employee prepared to move a snooker table from the center of the room to the side. He jacked up the table on a rolling device and rolled it aside. Once the floor was clear, he placed a stick on the floor, and made sure the two prongs on the stick fit into holes in the floor. I had no idea what he was doing until other patrons walked into the room, toed the stick and started throwing darts. Oh, that made sense. The stick worked better than a line on the floor.
The food arrived and my table mates continued to smoke. One cigarette after another. The food was tasty, I think, but my taste buds were starting to turn off and my eyes were beginning to sting. I tucked into the rice and Thai chicken sauce and tried not to think about the smoke. I finished the food, collected my bill, paid for the meal, and prepared to leave. As I stood up, a layer of smoke crashed over me like a tidal wave until I could hardly see the television, and I tried not to breathe, knowing I could hold my breathe until I reached the door.
The guys at my table, with whom I had not even spoken, looked up when I left, and said "Cheers", so I said, in return, "Cheers, mate", as was expected. After all, we did share the table, and we certainly shared the same air.
Later, in the hotel room, my eyes still sting and my hair, my clothing and probably my skin just reeks of cigarette smoke. Not that it really matters that much, since I will shower and change in the morning. But the really good part of this is that my jacket was in the pub with me the entire time, and I have been trying to get the fragrance out of it since I had the dry cleaners launder it two weeks ago. I think I may just have accomplished this tonight.
