Apart from some of Europe’s impoverished countries where incomes are low, what you can generally expect in decent restaurants is that customers judge them on the quality of the food they offer, not the quantity.
My take is that on my many restaurant occasions in America, the absolute reverse situation has often prevailed. I make no sweeping assumptions that it’s the case everywhere (on either of our respective continents) but American portions can be daunting for Europeans. They’re also perceived as unhealthy and unnecessarily wasteful. Not to mention the further indignance at American tipping culture bumping up the bill.
Las Vegas:
My wife: “I’m not that hungry. Could I just have the omelette… maybe that will be a smaller serving.”
Waitress [laughing]: “Honey, there ain’t nothin’ small in Vegas!”
Memphis:
Me: “Could we have two of the fried coconut shrimp please?”
[a dozen gigantic shrimp arrive for each of us, covered in a sickly sweet batter with a huge amount of shredded coconut in it, and a container the size of a washing-up bowl piled mountainously high with fries. The shrimp have been doused in strongly chlorinated water and have a flavour not too dissimilar to swimming pool water. We struggled to eat even a quarter]
Me: “Just out of curiosity, does anyone ever actually manage to finish this?”
Waitress [disinterested, as she whisks away the remainder]: “Nope!”
Santa Monica:
We get about halfway through our meals and declare ourselves pretty much full, at which point the waiter appears with an equally massive amount of food that was the rest of our order being kept hot in the kitchen.
My friend: “We weren’t expecting any more, but if you have anything else that you’re keeping hot out back, could you please not bring it? We’ve had enough food and it’s distressingly off-putting if you’re going to keep bringing it because there’s no way we’ll manage to eat it.”
Waiter [disinterested}: “So what...?”
New Orleans:
We couldn’t look another crawfish po’boy in the face or consume another slab of meat-loaf drenched in molasses gravy and realise that, over the course of a week, none of the massive plates brought to us have harboured anything green. The sole exception was a side of French beans that looked like they had come out of a jar or can and were not so much green as khaki. We had to seek refuge in a Hard Rock Café at my wife’s insistence on a salad.
Note to American fast food outlets: “Unsuitable for the dinner table, the bucket is a utensil of the farmyard.”
