Colm O'Regan: Cream tea, the great British rip-off
Comedian and broadcaster, Colm O'Regan.
Everyone’s got a Fierce Bad Value story. What’s yours? You know the one? Where someone says just one word and immediately everyone remembers the time when someone paid far more than they should have? Our latest is ‘The London Scones’.
We knew London would be expensive but we thought we were up for the challenge. We felt ready to acclimatise to English culture by…living in Ireland. But there’s no bad value like London Bad Value because it’s brought to you by the empire. A cold dead hand of: “This is the way it is, I’m afraid, old chap. Now be a good sport, pay up and don’t smudge anything on the way.”
Irish Bad Value feels like someone whose cousin you went to school with is ripping you off. You’re annoyed but then you hear after the fact that the place went belly-up — and it was no wonder — with the prices they were charging. Our brush with the empire was a cream tea. Cream tea is English for tea and scones. We went into a hotel half a mile from Buckingham Palace for a bit of swank. It had been a lovely holiday. It was a treat for two small girls who had walked their legs off on the hard London streets.
We were shown to our plush-looking seats. The various castes of wealthy people were around. Someone rude in chinos, blazer and baseball cap; the ‘famous movie director’ look. There was a Jack Nicklaus-looking American who I imagined had a charitable foundation but also an interest in selling assault rifles and opioids. Another man ordered a Diet Coke in the measured voice of someone who has just written the Great American Novel. We were out of place with our holiday-rumpled clothes and restive children at whom we whispered various givings out.
We ordered two cream teas, expecting there would be enough to go around, and we crossed our fingers for the price. “Could I have some butter with them as well?” I asked. “Butter”? The server looked at me like I’d ordered asbestos. “Butter”? he repeated, the word going rancid in his mouth. "Yes, butter, because I put butter on my scones like a normal person", I said in my head. Perhaps I had offended the Ancient Cream Guild by asking for another form of sour milk to go with the scones. In hindsight, this should have been a harbinger for future problems.
The cream tea arrived. First, the tea itself. Teabags. Okay; not too intimidating. The empire was crumbling. The pot spilled when it poured but we blamed ourselves. All teapots are different. Then came the scones. Four small scones. The size of a yoke of lip-balm. The jam was unhappy. The cream was almost butter anyway. I ate nothing so that my family might feast a little more. The bill arrived. Fifty pounds! It felt like it had cost fifty guineas, and it was all we had because we’d sold the farm to seek our fortune in London. For two teabags and four small scones.
Sconegatetarget="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer"> aficionados will point to the infamous Cashel story where there were tea and scones for three people for fifty euro but to them, I say: Euro, three people, nine scones in total — and you have not seen how small these London scones were. The Hadron Collider wouldn’t find them. As I looked at the bill, my wife looked at me, searching my face for the Involuntary Muscle Twitch Of Bad Value.
But I was actually okay. Fierce Bad Value replaces whatever was the previous worst Bad Value in your mind. It adds to the family lore. That list of events where you exchange a glance and say “Do you remember the scones?” And it all comes flooding back. For butter or for worse.
