One of the things I have not mentioned much yet is the Wilburton Inn. The inn is owned by Oliver's parents, Georgette and Albert. They occasionally need extra help on busy days and on Saturdays the WWOOFers have the option of going over there to work for some money. I have been roped into doing this for the past two Saturdays (of course roped actually means I was asked nicely, and had no reason to say no). Last week it was buffet breakfast, this week it was a bus lunch. For both meals there was a sense of panic over being shorthanded, but both meals seemed rather easy and calm to me, so I wasn't unhappy doing it.
Today was a bus lunch, which according to Oliver is Bagels Under Salad (B.U.S. Lunch, har har Oliver). It's actually a group of people who come in on a bus for lunch (too obvious I guess). I tried to find out where these people came from and why they were there eating these weird limited menus of chicken or beef?, water or coffee?, apple crisp dessert!, but no one I asked could or would tell me much about it. But I didn't spend a bunch of time asking, everyone always seems so busy that I didn't want to cause any kind of brain aneurysms by suggesting that they stop thinking about how best to freak out for a second.
These people were a bunch of senior citizens. They were a bit grumpy and worried at first, as people tend to be before eating. Wives were ordering for husbands, which always makes me giggle a bit. People changed their orders, which isn't actually as big a deal as the group leader seemed to think it was when she started dictating what they had said they wanted a few days or weeks (who knows, maybe even hours) earlier. Then the food was slopped onto plates in an attempted graceful manor. The chef made us wipe off the splatter from the side of the plates, but it was all such mush it squashed together on the plates on the way out. These people did not seem to care in the least. The scarfed down food happily, occasionally asking for more bread or coffee. Easy as anything. Plus the old men got to give me a hard time, which old men love doing for whatever reason. Yes sir, I am, in fact, nothing but a young whippersnapper and your wisdom is infinite, are you done with your precooked pot roast and vegetable mush so I can take your plate? Great.
By the time they left everyone was cheery and happy and full of food. They took a bunch of pictures, the chef came out and they clapped, I helped clear the tables and reset them for a dinner at 7pm. Easy. I was there for about two hours and people were only there eating for one hour. Why everyone at the inn panics at all times for all events, I'm not really clear. This dinner could not have gone any more smoothly or been any easier, yet the chef and the coordinator were rushing around the whole time as if people were standing at the kitchen door raising hell. If they were it would have made the whole thing infinitely more interesting. Nothing's funnier than old men with pitchforks yelling about cold pot roast.