Simon's Blog - Life in a country castle
October 2008
The ability to anticipate is almost a pre-requisite in hospitality yet the irony is that it is one of the least predictable lifestyles there is. Day to day you just don't know what is going to happen next or who is going to step through the door and yet the 'Ten steps to a successful career in customer service' manual (or should that be Manuel) by B Fawlty will tell you that we should anticipate the customer's needs before they even know what it is they need themselves.
Luckily, there are those rarest of breeds - the customer who does already know what they want or need, is keen to share the information and as a bonus also knows what everyone else needs and what you need to be running a better business. These we call needy customers.
Luckily our anticipation antennae can usually spot them at the initial telephone enquiry stage at which point any one, or a combination of, a battery of tactical avoidance measures can be deployed such as; 'I'm sor...{crkhrkrkck}...ry the line is ver...{crhckhk}...y bad, I'm los... {crkhcrkhcrh}...ing you... beeeeeeep' or 'can you please hold I have another call' and then 'sorry about that... hello, hello, hello'.
Occasionally, very occasionally, the antennae breaks down and then the fun really begins.
It is a Friday like any other. We are prepped and ready for a full weekend. You can cut the anticipation laden atmosphere with a knife.
The doorbell rings. I have had a troubled week and Wendy reminds me that we must not let the guests know that we have a real life too where everything doesn't always go swimmingly and so I should always smile and be enthusiastic. I don't know why she tells me this but I sense that she feels these are qualities which don't come naturally. Nevertheless, I bound towards the door with such exuberance wearing the rediculous countenance of the Cheshire Cat that I must look as if I have recently mistaken a slab of chocolate brownie for either a hash cake or a bar of ex-lax. Or maybe just too much brownie.
'Hello I'm anaphylactic.' I'm taken aback. Usually I find myself introducing myself first and then looking enquiringly for a response. More often than you'd think, I have to actually say 'And you are...? But not so today. I'm only left to wonder whether I should address our newest guest as Ana or Miss Phylactic.'
I'm tempted to say 'Well welcome to Augill, I'm Heinrich Manoeuvre, do come in', but resist. I don't get a chance to enquire as to her real name as she has so much to tell me. As I am showing Ana and her partner (who has yet to utter a word, and it's not difficult to see why) she is telling me that she has sent emails and discussed her requirements with reception on the telephone. I assure her that, although we don't have a reception, it's all been noted, making a mental note that the antennae must be rigorously tested as it's obviously developed a fault.
As we walk through the Dining Room she's clearly not one to mince her words and asks: 'Are there any nuts for dinner?' Again I think, but don't say: 'Only you love.' In the bedroom I am quizzed about the bedding which we have already anticipated, the toilet paper which we haven't but it's alright because she's brought her own, the toiletries which she can only be satisfied are organic if I produce a hazard analysis sheet and please can we remove the coffee from the tea tray. She is happy that there is a fridge to store her soya milk in but only if we remove the real milk first. Fortunately we have two guest fridges and a dairy free exclusion zone is soon in place.
By the time I get back downstairs I'm exhausted. I feel the need for a mug of caffeine with lashings of lactose and a slab of gluten. Don't get me wrong, I'm not poking fun at allergies here. They are a serious business. As Ana has already pointed out several times: 'I could die you know.' But we do know our job, there are ways of going about these things and hysteria is not one of them. I recall a recent guest who commented that we'd made so little fuss about her very serious dietary requirements that she could almost forget them, but the truth was, it was her own lack of unnecessary fuss that made the whole situation so easy to handle. With the right information up front, nothing more need be said.
Just then the telephone rings. It's the Phylactics from upstairs. I hope that the window hasn't swung open and she's had an adverse reaction to the fresh air but happily it's nothing quite so serious. She just wants to check that the flapjack in the bedroom is safe to eat. 'In what way safe?' I ask. 'Brian is gluten intolerant and we're unsure about whether there are nuts in it'. I explain that we started baking flapjack instead of shortbread for the rooms so that coeliacs could enjoy a little something with their tea too and no, there are no nuts in the flapjack, just lots of sugar. I sense a sharp intake at the mention of sugar but she seems impressed that I know what a coeliac is and leaves it at that.
