The War of the Wineglass

I'm afraid my tolerance for snobbery has been blunted by the good folk of Eden.  They're so damn nice, I'm now morbidly offended when a shop attendant fails to flash me a dazzling smile.  Either that, or the people in Merimbula are assholes.

I'll give you the facts, and you make the call.  Tom and I have crept our way ever so slightly up the NSW coast, settling for a time in the bigger and infinitely more fashionable town of Merimbula.  No complaints about the scenery.  A picturesque wharf overlooks a sapphire lake, cafes and bars dotted along its walkway in almost absurd perfection.  Nor do I take issue with the amenities of the tourist town.  There's more fashion stores than you can poke a stick at, and they have fancy home made ice cream, far surpassing the Streets brand on offer at the Eden fish'n'chip shop.  If I were to pen a column entitled Merimbula: A Haven for Shoppers, it would be nothing but complimentary.  This place makes Eden, with its gritty pub, discount stores and milk bars, look daggier than my mum's pink tracksuit pants.  (Seriously, you should see them)    

But there’s something on the nose about the residents of this perfume-perfect town.  They, well, they’re bloody snobs.  Upon entering the local wharf-side restaurant recently, Tom and I were met with a startled look by the young waitress, as if our ensembles of shorts and T-shirts were akin to the tattered garb of a bridge dweller.  Our request to sit by the window elicited a stare so icy I wondered if perhaps I should have worn a jumper. 

‘You’ll have to sit there while I clear the table.’  She instructed us, and we duly took our place perched awkwardly on a ledge, feeling as if we were the naughty kids at school.  When we were finally seated, I ordered an 8 dollar glass of wine.  What I was presented with was a large glass, with a tiny splash of red wine in it, barely discernible to the human eye.   

‘Do you think I could have a little top up?’  I inquired, having confirmed with Tom that the wine was ludicrously low.

‘No,’ she huffed, ‘That’s 150 mills.’ 

‘I really don’t think it is,’ I replied, finally letting my frustration bubble to the surface, ‘Could you please check that?’

Of course, I expected the waitress to take my dissatisfaction as reason enough to begrudge me a splash more red.  Especially considering the expensive meals we had just ordered.  But she was possessed by some sort of wine-withholding devil.  ‘I’ll measure it.’  She said, and left, glass in hand. 

Upon her triumphant return she announced that the wine was indeed 150 mills, slamming it back in front of me as if she had won some sort of war. 

She left.  I felt more confused and uncomfortable than I have for some time.  ‘I don’t want to stay now.’  I admitted to Tom, and he agreed whole heartedly. 

‘You’ve lost our business.’  I said matter-o-factly to the waitress as we walked past her and out the door.  The astounded look on her face was priceless.  I didn’t wage the war, but I won it. 

So, to the people of Eden, I say thankyou.  Thankyou for your smiles, your chit chat, and your more than generous servings of merlot.