My
friend Brett, who's a
chef, told me about the time he met
Beck a few years ago when his band was in town for a show.
'Twas a Thursday eve, and all was well inside Milano's Cafe in Newcastle. Couples were canoodling, families were bickering good-naturedly, and the kitchen staff were content (well, as content as people in the hospitality industry can be). Then in came a crazy looking group; Beck, a green-haired girl and a guy with his arm in a sling. They sat down, were eating their meals happily, then Brett's *crazy experience with fame* began.
Beck (drawling, his eyes turned into slits, presumably the result of a large intake of the herbal drug marijuana), to Brett: Where's the lav?
Brett: Sorry?
Beck (in exactly the same tone and vocal pattern): Where's the lav?
Brett gave complicated instructions on how to get to the toilets, beginning with the phrase "Don't go in those doors to the kitchen, turn left just after them..."
Beck, thirty seconds later, goes through the doors he was warned about and ends up standing in the middle of the kitchen, bewildered.
Brett: No, not here... oh, OK, I'll take you there.
On the way to the toilets, Beck manages to walk into a glass door and is not capable of opening another. Eventually, he gets it together and makes it back to his table. The rest of the meal goes uneventfully.
At the end of the dinner, after paying for the meals, Beck and his friends come to the counter.
Beck's male friend drawls: "Those olives tasted metallic, man." Brett agrees- they came out of a can, he confides.
Beck leans over behind the counter and grabs a pen. He writes a note on a nearby napkin and hands it to Brett. It says:
MEAL +1 1/2
Brett doesn't know what that's supposed to mean, and doesn't know where the napkin is now.
That night, Beck was a hit at his gig.