Al La Curt

Sometimes after 24 years of marriage on the 11th July all you want is a nice relaxing restaurant like the Sandy Cove Hotel, Coombe Martin, Devon.............. Now read on:-


While we stood at the impressive and informative ‘Wait here to be seated’ sign I scanned the restaurant clientele without success for someone who was young enough not to be sporting a pringle jumper / turkey neck combination. The air was heavy with tales of golfing triumphs and the smell of aquatic things. We watched a slim hipped waiter who bore more than a passing resemblance to a young Jacque Cousteau smiling and flouncing between tables pandering to their every fishy whim, until finally a stern faced waitress came over and asked our room number to which I announced that we were not residence, after a second time she changed her tack and demanded our names. A little flustered I eventually gave up the information but still stressed that she might not find us on her list because we still weren’t residence. A rather icy wind blew tumbleweed over a distant landscape whilst we all waited in silence to see if we were on her list. Finally, as she confirmed that we were non residence Jacque intervened and broke the deadlock and suggested that we move to the bar area to view the two menus (Sea decks & Al la carte) which I can confirm were nicely bound and contained many impressive words. After a while we selected our fare and purchased some drinks and relaxed in their low slung leather sofas until Jacque remembered us and took the order. Quite soon the Nazi waitress appeared again and placed out starters on the low coffee table in front of us, but before she could goose step off and leave us with the dilemma of inventing a new yoga position for dining off of a foot high table and fashioning eating utensils out of old beer mats I blurted out “Are we eating here” Jacque, who I imagine may have been delivering a tasty Dover Sole to a woman who’s age and golfing handicap couldn’t be less than 104 immediately sensed trouble brewing and made his excuses and flounced over to reluctantly show us to one of the many empty tables in the dining room. Finally our unreasonable demands were met and we sat down to a table and chair of normal proportions with real knives and forks and got to ponder these strange Devonshire ways. The starters were very good however when the main meals arrived I foolishly asked a second Neo-Nazi waitress for some more drinks which she was immediately able to advise me in a no nonsense sort of way, was in fact the job of Brian the barman and should she see him in the near future she would advise him that we might want serving.

By this point I really wish someone had confirmed the rules of engagement, and explained that despite going out of their way to state that the Sandy Cove restaurant is open to non residents should you be one of those unfortunates then basically; Service, furniture and utensils are ALL extra at cost BUT ONLY IF we can really be arsed!

Our mains arrived but as we started to tuck in Steph noticed that the chef had unfortunately plated up amongst the salad, a small 6” piece of tarmac from the edge of the car park instead of the beef lasagne that had been ordered. Jacque was summoned, who immediately rolled his eyes as we spoke of our high expectations of edible food and countered with ‘there is no sauce within the dish’ so (presumably) it should be dry and hard enough to park a car on? Steph decided to go down the safe option of the steak and have the same as me which we then ate in shifts. Me early, her late!

When the SS waitress asked if we would like to look at the dessert menu we thought it best to cut our losses and we said “thanks but we had seen one before” so we got the bill which (to be fair) contained neither Steph’s car park Lasgne or the steak.

All in all, not quite the evening we had expected.