The small local restaurant that I had booked for Valentine’s Night had been rearranged into neat, tight ranks of tables-for-two.

Though relatively full, it was quiet as my wife and I entered. But our arrival prompted turned heads and a low hum of debate and discussion. After a little while this died down and the awkward silence resumed. Until the next couple walked through the doors.

I deduced that the Valentines were struggling for conversation – young love can be tongue-tied - and that new diners at least provided a source of interest.

We settled down to our meal, which was rather good. But then the steaks turned up. My wife sampled hers and looked across at me in disappointment.

‘Is your steak OK? Mine’s completely tasteless.’ 

‘Well, it’s not great, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

I have an aversion to conflict. My wife on the other hand favours frank feedback. She summoned the young waitress.

‘Excuse me, can I have a word? I’m afraid my steak is completely lacking any flavour.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, madam. I’ll talk to my manager.’

At this point a few of our fellow diners glanced up in our direction, delighted that they had some diversion. 

The senior member of staff was smart and professional. She adopted the HR crouch so that she could address us, sotto voce, on the same level.

‘I can promise you that our steaks are totally organic and locally sourced.’

‘I’m sure they are. But your chef should know that they have no flavour.’

I could sense that many eyes were now upon us. There was a continuous buzz of quiet commentary.

The manager chose to escalate the situation by summoning the chef from the kitchen. Looking none too pleased, he confirmed the exceptional quality of his meat.

‘Madam, we only buy the finest cuts. They’re ethically reared, hormone free and traceable.’

True to form, my wife held her ground.

‘I don’t doubt that at all. I’m sure everything about their provenance is beyond reproach. I’m not complaining. But I think you should know that your admirable steaks really have zero taste.’

By this time the whole restaurant was watching. We had become the evening’s entertainment. I shifted uneasily in my seat. I confess I found it all rather awkward

Of course, eventually peace was declared. Everyone agreed that the steak feedback was most welcome and that the exchange had been entirely worthwhile. Indeed we were given a free pudding - which only prolonged my discomfort.

At length we were able to beat a hasty retreat. And as we closed the door behind us I could hear the hum of commentary resume at a fever pitch.

So what lessons could I draw from our disappointing Valentine’s Night dinner?

From a professional perspective I learned that, if you want to attract disproportionate attention, you should consider an environment where people are bored, speechless or obligated.

On a personal level I concluded that you should never book a restaurant on Valentine’s Night.

'My funny Valentine,
Sweet comic Valentine,
You make me smile with my heart.
Your looks are laughable,
Unphotographable.
But you're my favorite work of art.
Is your figure less than Greek?
Is your mouth a little weak?
When you open it to speak,
Are you smart?
But, don't change a hair for me,
Not if you care for me.
Stay, little Valentine, stay.
Each day is Valentine's day.’

Chet Baker, ‘My Funny Valentine’ (Richard Rodgers / Lorenz Hart)

No. 455