Confessions of a hotel guest - breakfast

It is incredibly early as the sun pierces directly into my eyes through the thinly veiled curtains of my tiny hotel room. I cuss to myself, wishing I had managed to close them to meet in the middle the night before, but they did not fit the window. The room is so small that the cockroaches are humpbacked.

 I stick my toes out of the bed, trying to avoid knocking over the 40-inch TV positioned and chained to avoid theft, remembering that the only channel that worked was QVC. It feels like I am in the Arctic and I want to avoid frostbite. Unfortunately, the hotel does not have air conditioning. Instead, there is a single radiator under the window that is covered by the length of the curtains, hence why the windows are full of a new species of mold. The radiator in the room must be centrally controlled, so it is either the hotel room reaches the same temperature as the core of the sun or the freezing cold of the Arctic. Even the rats were jumping on the traps. 

I must get up and ready for breakfast, which I am looking forward to after viewing all the nice images in the badly torn and stained in-room directory. At this point I am glad my company is picking up the tab for breakfast as it is ￡25! I think to myself, there is not a chance I would pay for it using my own money!  It might be sensible not to opt for the full ￡25 buffet to save my boss some money, but even the continental is ￡18 and ￡7 for a glass of juice…! I look at the room service option but remarkably the hotel charges a ￡5 tray charge! I will opt for breakfast downstairs. It must be an amazing selection for that price, and I cannot wait. The sausage recipe has been created by the celebrity chef Jim Rip. Maybe that explains the price. I wonder if anyone, when booking a hotel, has ever said: “Can I just check if the breakfast sausages are cooked by a celebrity chef, because if not I will book elsewhere?”

I have got to have a shower, but to get to the bathroom I need to figure out all these light switches that seem to turn everything on except for the main light. Luckily I am staying in one of these modern hotels and they have a good light system. You know, ‘dim, flicker and out!’

While I wait for the room to heat up, I see the caddy with coffee sachets in. I slide out of bed. Given it has been slept in so much it slopes down like a roof. I am glad the hotel has provided complimentary slippers, but they are sized for baby feet and have the quality feel of Brillo Pads.

I fill the kettle with water from the tap as I dare not use the bottled mineral water on the countertop – the price is nearly three times what I would normally pay. It is kind of like the hotel’s F&B pricing strategy is that of an airport terminal in that you have nowhere else to go. Except I am meant to be a hotel customer who has already paid a small sum to stay the night on a bed with four springs in it, with pillows filled with what seems like concrete. The kettle finally boils and fills the room with steam, something I do not need given the hotel has now turned the radiators on to their ‘sun core’ setting.

I pick out the only coffee sachet and spend what seems like a lifetime trying to open it. I finally succeed and then empty it into a cup and add in the only UHT milk carton, which then turns out to be out of date. I give up on the coffee as it looked more like cocoa powder.

I get into the shower and try to figure out the temperature controls but the numbers have worn off.  Which is high and which is low, I think, as I attempt to avoid scalding myself. Several of the holes in the shower head are twisted and so shoots of water are going in all directions. The shower pressure has the force of a dripping hose pipe. This hotel has provided shampoo, conditioner, and soap in dispenser form. Now the shower cubicle is also a bath and they have situated the dispensers at the opposite end, so I need to step out into the Arctic bathroom temperature to reach them. The soap dispenser looks like it was last filled up in the 1990s, but it is too late, I am committed. I say to myself, just use the hotel shampoo as soap. I am not sure of the shampoo brand as it says ‘hair beautiful’ with a huge disclaimer on it like bleach, warning me not to get it anywhere near my eyes! I hastily press down the shampoo dispenser which gives me what I can only say looks like a portion size for an ant – that is if ants shampoo. I spend what like seems like an eternity pressing the pump until I gather enough shampoo to use, or generate enough static energy to charge my phone. My hand and arm are aching, but at least I do not have to visit the hotel fitness centre. Now I suspect the hotel has not used the finest quality of shampoos because not only does it look radioactive, but it also has the smell of a damp carpet. It is too late; I am committed. I must use it and risk what remaining hair I have left. 

I am glad to finally get out. But the makeshift, flimsy plastic door that is used at the end of the bath as a screen has not prevented water from leaking all over the bathroom floor. It is that deep I now wish the hotel had provided complimentary wellington boots. The floor looks like I have been in a shipwreck. I guess it must happen all the time as the bathroom does smell like damp. Or was it the shampoo, I wonder? I do pity the room attendants and hope they have brought their waterproofs to work. 

I have survived freezing to death and being scolded. Now I need to iron my shirt. There is no way I am getting my clothes dry cleaned in this hotel given the prices - ￡10 for a pair of socks! What are they, washed them in gold washing powder? I look inside the wardrobe, just behind a plastic laundry bag, to see an ironing board which appears to have first been used in the Victorian days and I risk losing my fingers attempting to get it upright. The stains on it look like someone has washed their animal on it, so I place a towel over it as a makeshift cloth. Now to the iron. The previous user must have ironed the wall as it is stained and the cord is tangled. It appears stuck inside the mechanism so the lead is too short to reach the ironing board. Ok, I now need to iron on the bed or the floor using the towel as a makeshift board. But oh no, where are the wall plugs? It is like whoever designed the hotel room said: “Let’s make it really hard for anyone to find this one plug.” I eventually find the plug just behind the mineral water and large price tag. I think, whoever decided to charge that much for mineral water should have placed a sign around it saying, “yes, we are ripping you off!”

Finally, shirt ironed and fully dressed I head down for the hotel’s award-winning breakfast. I walk down the corridor, trying to understand the hotel signage system which I need to help me find the elevator. However, it is like a maze with no entry or exit. I see room attendants with their trolleys looking scared, probably at the number of dirty rooms they must clean in a day and the amount of water they have to wash away. It is like they are on the battlefield and do not know whether they will survive the experience.

Reality soon sinks in as I approach the restaurant dining area that has been converted into a makeshift breakfast room. I think to myself, “hang on, that’s the hotel brasserie ‘a la Jon’ which I ate in last night”.  Not to worry, I am sure they just want to make use of the space. I open the door and all I can hear is clatter and noise. I only walk in about two steps when I am abruptly met with a large queue. I try to peer over the person in front of me to see what can only be described as a breakfast riot. I immediately recall the nice image of the breakfast I saw on the hotel’s website and fondly remember the reception team informing me of their award-winning breakfast selection at check-in. Plus, there was the statement from the hotel manager in the in-room directory that said it is their mission to ensure your stay is enjoyable.  

I wait patiently as other guests try to make their way past me to escape the chaos back to their rooms.  Their faces look like they have just survived a near-death experience. 

I try to reassure myself as I have the same sense of fear as when I am queuing up for a rollercoaster ride knowing it is going to be very scary, but I cannot turn back now. Finally, having waited somewhere near 30 minutes I reach the team member. They are so stressed they do not even look at me, they have their eyes focused on an A4 piece of paper and a highlighter that is swung from each hand like a lightsaber. In a stern tone I hear: “NAME – ROOM NUMBER – HOW MANY?!” Wow, I think. I imagine this is how it feels if you are ever unfortunate enough to be arrested. After I supply my information, the interrogator, sorry I mean team member, summons up a colleague who takes me to my table. They do not take the time to explain where things are and the process, and they avoid eye contact. I am afraid it is every person for themselves. It seems like the team member taking me to my table has no idea where my table is and is just praying that a table, any table, is ready.

I cannot blame them as they need to get back to holding off the remaining surviving customers who are also trying to get in and out for their reputed world class hotel breakfast experience…

My breakfast table is not sturdy, it is like being on a ship during a storm. I use the cheap paper napkin on the table and place it under one of the legs. But as the quality is poor it does not work. Luckily, there is that much uncleared food debris under the table I use a piece of bacon that is as stiff as steel. This works, and I am happy knowing that I have bacon and napkins to keep my table steady.

I sit for a few minutes and wait for someone to offer me coffee as per the strategically placed, greased stained hotel card that is on the table that says hot beverages will be brought to you. I decide, given how long I have already waited and the chaos around me, I would be better to head into the carnage and try to get my own beverages. But where are the beverage machines? It seems like a treasure hunt. I notice another queue which leads to the lone coffee machine, which is crazy given the restaurant is so large. Glancing around I can see about 100 people attempting to consume their hard-fought breakfasts. It is finally my turn at the machine and I select what the poorly written sticker on the machine says is coffee. I press it, only to find it is empty! I feel the angry eyes of other guests who have had to queue just like me behind me. They are now wondering why it taken me so long to get my beverage. 

I decide to opt for tea and reach for where the cups should be, but there are not any. I see a member of staff, flustered, trying to survive the shift they hate so much. I say, “excuse me, please can you tell me if there are any more cups available?” while simultaneously walking with the server as they are running away from me. They reply with, “yes, over on the other side of the restaurant to the bottom right, just under the fruit display” which is the opposite end of where I am stood. 

I give up on hot drinks and quickly go to the juice machine where, thankfully, there is not much of a queue. I reach for what seems to be the smallest empty juice glass I have ever seen and smile at the fact it would be more suitable in a doll’s house! But I am pleased that I have got a glass and pleased not to have to go to the other side of the restaurant to get it. But hang on, these glasses are warm. It looks like they have just been restocked out of the dishwasher, or just been freshly molded by a glassblower. But, I think, warm juice is better than no juice. Except after tasting the orange juice I wonder whether it has been anywhere near a real orange.

I navigate carefully back to my table and place the orange like substance which the hotel calls juice down. 

Now, given I have spent too long already and I need to be out of the hotel soon for meetings, I summon up the courage to head back for some food. I approach the hot breakfast self-service buffet only to see nothing is left apart from team members rushing about. The remaining beans, or should I say baked bean, looks like it has been to the core of an active volcano and back. The last sausage (and remember this is the celebrity chef sausage recipe) has the appearance of having been thrown around the restaurant, been trodden on and served. To my right I see a sign for porridge but nearly have a stroke when I open the pot and see the dried up remains of what was once something called food.

I give up on the hot breakfast and go to the pastry section, avoiding the large open pot of yoghurt that everyone has been double dipping in. The croissants on display are so small they are fit for a three-year-old, so I take two and look for the jams – but they are nowhere to be seen. I keep looking and then try to grab the first team member I see, which is hard because there seems to be so few of them on duty, with the remaining moving so fast for fear of being caught by guests (some, I think, could represent their countries in the Olympic 100 metres). I spot a team member and make my move and ask where the jams are, only to be told they are on your table. I then head back through the crowds of people, avoiding the wasted napkins and dirty cutlery which have been left discarded on the floor, keen to avoid dropping the two mini sized croissants. I finally sit down with my warm orange juice and child sized pastries. 

I have survived and I am so hungry I just want to eat and enjoy what is left of breakfast. I see the jam container nestled on the table, which is being used as a holder for the greasy hotel card containing information on coffee service and the award-winning hotel breakfast. I start to look for strawberry jam.  I can see three marmalade, but no strawberry. I look around and think there is no way I can go back in there; I will have marmalade.  

On my way out I venture to the fruit display, if you can call it a fruit display. All that is available is oranges. Where are the apples or bananas? Given the hotel seems to have a surplus stock of oranges they might like to use them in their orange juice.

As I leave, still hungry, and the last few guests leave the breakfast area, I see the kitchen bring out full containers of hot breakfast items! It is 9.55am and breakfast closes at 10, so why now for the replenishments? And then, out of the shadows, appears the hotel management team as if they have been sheltering inside their makeshift bunker. Only now is it safe to enter the breakfast area, oh and have their full selection of hot breakfast.

I see demoralised team members thankful that their shift is coming to an end and that they have survived it, only to have to experience it all again tomorrow.

And finally I say to myself, if that is an award-winning breakfast in this hotel chain, good luck to anybody that is experiencing breakfast in one of their none award-winning hotels.