Living in a hotel is something I look upon with fondness. There’s a lot to be said about having your clothes washed and ironed for you, not having to do the dishes, and having your bed made for you. I’m currently investigating if there are any hotels that offer value added services like brushing your teeth and combing your hair for you. The fact that I do not have to spend any of my own money is something I feel sure is a popular concept.

The only thing better than travelling is travelling at someone else’s expense, and the only thing better than that is travelling at company expense. Nothing aids the flourish with which you sign bills with the knowledge that someone else will be coughing up the cash. This way you don’t wince when the smug lady behind the counter informs you crisply that you will be paying close to 100 dollars a night for the room alone. Meals to be charged separately.

When it comes to travelling at company expense my mantra is “deny yourself nothing“. When confronted with the challenging choice between a three course and a four course dinner I heartily recommend the four course. If in the middle of the night you feel the urge for fruit salad smothered in ice cream, pick up that phone. Just think of that chef in the kitchen looking mournfully at his uneaten creations. Have you no heart? If when passing a restaurant you feel the urge for a steak be strong and be firm. Walk in and have the steak. After all, a cow gave up it’s life!

The Grand Palm hotel looked promising from the entrance and did not disappoint

Driving In

The Entrance

The lady behind the counter who checked me in looked and sounded like Barry White, right down to the mane of hair. I knew as soon as she opened her mouth that she was not going to be my friend from the establishment. It is always good to have one of these, who can hook you up with extra pillows, extension cables, and most importantly Internet Access, because the Grand Palm charges the equivalent of .25 $ or 20 bob a minute.

I burst out laughing at this news and cemented the fact that we were not going to be even on talking terms.

“Really? Are your keyboards diamond studded? Or does your Internet traffic travel first class by British Airways?”

The Front Office Manager came to my rescue. Mapula was her name, and she was extremely easy on the eye, and her smile that made a chap want to reach for his sunglasses reassured me that I had found my friend from the establishment.

After checking in I set out exploring the hotel. It is a colossal compound, and very easy on the eye.

Strolling about the compound

View from the entrance

The hotel casino, where people lost the shirts off their backs

When it came to meals I was not paying for, I was spoilt for choice. There was a buffet that quite literally had everything you could possibly want and then some. And then there was a restaurant called The Beef Baron. I hesitated and was lost and within no time I was browsing the menu, which informed me I could get “cuts of prime Botswana beef, smothered in our secret sauce for a rich flavour.”

I had found nirvana.

Waiter: (Very friendly) Good evening sir.
M: (Exuding milk of human kindness) And a good evening to you too my good man!

After getting a friend in the establishment, the next order of business is getting a friend in catering to help you get a table at short notice, keep the restaurant open that extra 5 minutes so you can rush from your colossaly boring meetings and steer you on the path to meaty goodness.

This was my friend.

M: Your name sir?

The name he gave me consisted largely of consonants. It was touch and go there as I suspected he was about to dislocate his tongue

M: I think I’ll call you Bob for short.

And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Bob: So, what would you like?
M: A fillet steak.
Bob: What size?
M: Size? What sizes are available?
Bob: 200g, 300g, 400g and 700g

200g and 300g were rejected on the grounds that it had been a long day and I had a healthy appetite. 700g was rejected on the grounds that is is illegal in most countries to commit suicide.

M: 400g
Bob: How would you like it done?

Here you pause thoughtfully. When it comes to cooking steaks there are as many interpretations as there are chefs. It has been my experience to receive a steak that I have been assured is medium rare only for a long mournful “moooooo!” to issue from my plate. At another establishment a pile of ashes was lowered with a flourish to the table and then the proud waiter announced with pride my well done steak was ready. At yet another I could have sworn that my medium rare steak moved. If it was still attached to its tail, it would have flicked it. And still at yet another the line between beef steak and carbon was clearly crossed.

M: Medium rare. And when the chef is about to remove it, tell him to count to ten first.

Five minutes later a cold Cream Soda, followed closely by fresh bread and butter landed on my table and I set to work to prepare my stomach psychologically for the struggle ahead.

In the next table a very familiar drama was unfolding.

When it comes to eating establishment there are generally two types:
a) The person attending to you has a garishly coloured outfit, ridiculous paper hat on their head and are almost always chewing gum. The chair and table are almost always plastic and uncomfortable and the menu as well is plastic. You find your own seats.
b) The person attending to you has a shirt and tie (and trousers of course), no hat and never chewing gum. Chair and table are almost always wooden and comfortable and the menu is leather bound. You are shown to your seats.

The transition from A to B is never seamless, especially when you have no one to show you the ropes. This I say both from observations and painful experience.

The scenario in the next table unfolded rapidly, and twice as fast because it was clear that the two gentlemen were novices. We’ll call them Bill and Phil

Waiter: Your bread sir.
Phil: Bread? What bread?
Bill: (Accusingly) Did you order bread?
Phil: No. There must be a mistake
Waiter: No, this is complimentary
Phil: (Crisply) Ah! In that case bring another, and don’t skimp on the butter!

The bemused waiter departed.

Bill and Phil surveyed the table. Reading from East To West were a chopping board bearing the bread, little ceramic containers with butter and cheese and two white bowls with a clear liquid and slices of lemon and an assortment of knives and forks.

Phil: (Eyeing the bowls with clear liquid) What the heck is this?
Bill: (Sniffing) Dunno. Some sort of soup I guess?
Phil: Yes, but soup of what?
Bill: (Irritably) How the devil should I know? I came in with you remember?

I desperately tried to stop the runaway train and cleared my throat loudly to get their attention. A split second later a pair of twin slurps announced that Bill and Phil were very busily and very industriously drinking the contents of their finger bowls.

Bill: (Wiping mouth with back of hand) Well?
Phil: (Lowering bowl to table) Tasted pretty much like water with lemon in it.
Bill: Botswanan cuisine!

The waiter’s eyebrows rose when he returned with the extra bread to find two empty finger bowls. He opened his mouth to comment but I hurridly caught his eye and shook my head. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

Inside the hotel conference centre

K’Naan – Soobax