Asda Cafe Eastlands Manchester

My big shop done and loaded into my car boot, I ambled back in store and made my way towards the café. There was a queue of 5 or 6 people at the breakfast “pass”. Silently we all stood there whilst a game of breakfast ingredients top trumps was being played out around us. “bacon egg muffin”, “fried bread”, “fresh or tinned tomatoes”, “2 flying starts"*  A trayless bunch (there were none out), we all shuffled along as plates were passed to and fro. “We need more eggs going on Lynn”. Lynn was busy cracking eggs, she looked red faced.  After the 8th egg was cracked into the greasy receptacle she said, “won’t be a minute on the toast”, quickly followed by, “fried bread won’t be a minute”. I had selected a small box of frosted flakes. I ordered 2 toasts. I asked for a tray and the woman said she would look for one for me.

After 5 minutes of the school dinneresque system, I arrived at the till to pay for my food. I asked for a coffee. I paid £2.70.  I asked her where the milk was, where the coffee machines were, could I have a tray and where the cutlery was. I could not see any of the aforementioned accoutrements. Till woman told me it was all "round the corner". Once there,  I helped myself to an empty cup, filled it up with black coffee, poured in the milk, poured milk on my cereal, I was then handed a tray. I had to go to another station for a spoon, some butter and some jam. Finally I carried the sorry lot off to sit down and eat.

My toast was not unlike cold, spongy, hotel toast. There were 15 other customers in the café, which is a large space, largely unused. I had forgotten to get a knife. Muttering expletives, I trudged back to get one. When I began buttering my toast, I noticed a lad on a nearby table must have forgotten a knife too. I witnessed him peeling back the seal on the small tub of margarine and pressing said tub onto the bread and attempting to spread it onto his opened bacon barm. 

I heard a woman shout “Fried Bread”. The second call for fried bread was more emphatic. No one claimed it.

I enjoyed my coffee, that was the best bit of the Asda café experience. On my way out I noticed a sign boasting of award winning pies.

* I thought “Flying Starts” were a Morrisons Café invention.

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Morrison's Cafe Trafford Road Salford

Picked up Danny  at 12.30 from work and off we went, by car because he only has an hour for his dinner, to our local Morrison’s for a bite to eat.  This shiny brand new Morrison’s opened its doors for business just a few months ago. We know the routine, we grab a tray and slide it down to the coffee machine. Danny selects a small bottle of milk from the fridge on the way. At the  payment point I make my announcement;  “beans on brown toast, cheese toastie and chips (no salad) and 2 toast please”. Straightforward? Not so. Pepper the following dialogue with "what was that again?" and "sorry, what?" and you've pretty much got the gist of what went on. 

• Beans. On brown toast. One portion of.
• Brown toast.
• Two pieces of brown toast separate.
• Beans on brown toast. (long pause)Two pieces of brown toast (longer pause) Cheese toasty and chips, no salad. (Massive pause) Look of bemusement on my face.
• One portion of beans on brown toast. Two other pieces of brown toast separate from the beans on toast, on a separate plate, one portion of cheese toastie and chips, without any salad. (my voice has gone up an octave)

 The woman tells me the till takes ages. She has just got used to it and they have changed it, apparently. 

She keeps me abreast of her actions. She is looking for the button to modify the toast. She needs someone to help her. Next she disappears round the corner hollering for someone to come to the till. A second later she returns and informs me she is new and that she used to work in schools. She’s happier just putting the food out but they’ve put her on the till, she adds. The crema on my coffee has gone. Eventually another girl pops her head out from the kitchen and tells her to void the whole lot.  Kitchen woman leans across the till, index finger poised, voids the whole order.  I sense, with some dread, that we have to start all over again.

As Danny is turning on his heels with our tray she calls him back because she can’t remember what we have got on it (one coffee, one small milk – remember?) She starts again with the order. She mistakenly tills in a cappuccino for my black coffee. I put her straight. Finally money changes hands and I shuffle back to our table and sit down with Danny and my daughter. I want to cry. I feel traumatised. I check our receipt. She has not put the order through for the cheese toastie. I drag my dishevelled self back to the woman at the till and re-order it. Our food arrives. My toast, for some reason only known to Morrison’s, is unbuttered. I can’t cope anymore. Danny takes it back.

After what feels like a fortnight, all our food is in front of us. The woman who brings out the second pile of toast apologises profusely and says she doesn’t know who the hell made that other toast.

As I am stuffing my toast into my hungry gob, the dilatory woman who took our order is making our way towards us. I can’t give her eye contact. She then appears next to us and makes a speech. Very humbly she says she got dead flustered as she is new and can’t operate the till. She apologises. Maybe twice. She says she doesn’t know why they put her on there. She’s dead nice about it all. I am under the table, in a heap, waving a white flag.

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