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When Mrs. N. and I first came here, the food was a disaster; hence my
fondness for Shakespeare's pronouncement. Shall we just say that the
cook lacked concepts? Let's!
That cook disappeared and, inserted in
his forgettable shoes, came "the team approach." Now this meant
that there was no designated cook as such, but that whoever was
willing (forget about being able) would muster up something that might
pass for food.
That didn't last long. The residents asserted
themselves (those who could remember who or where they were).
My
approach was to write a letter to the administrator and owner of the
establishment. I tried to instigate a conversation with her on the rare
occasions I would spy her in the distance, but distance is what she
sought, and so I penned my protest.
I harbor no illusions that this
action of mine brought about a change any more than a food-fight in the
dining room would have, but eventually, things did improve.
This time
it was in the form of a nutrition manager whose job it was to oversee
the kitchen and dining experience. They fancied up the decor of the
dining room, put in a salad bar station (that most of us can barely walk
to) and introduced fresh fruit and whole pieces of protein in place of
the previous mutton gruel monotonously mashed into non-recognition
and topped with a glutinous coronet of calories called a sauce.
Mrs.
N. and I share our table with Ned and Edith. Edith is deaf and wears
too much make-up. She likes Ned's gentlemanly attentions. When Ned
isn't asking her if she's seen his wife, he's thinking that she is his
wife. In either case, she can't hear a thing he says and leans over and
yells, "What?" Ned gets that confused/ apologetic look on his face and
I end up having to translate to Edith and render reassurance to old
Ned.
This is none too good for the indigestion.
My displeasure has
had enough food thank you.
--Mr. N.
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