Unlike some desserts that come with pre-warnings like “Death by Chocolate”, my ice-cream bowl the other night was seemingly innocuous. Oker on Denneweg in The Hague is one of those atmospheric restaurants that lull you into a false sense of security. The fact that it was packed on a Tuesday night would have been sufficient grounds to believe that no customer had recently perished on its watch.
After two platters of oysters that were reasonably pleasing despite only one lemon wedge and about a tablespoonful of vinaigrette to go round, I had no reason to believe the subsequent dishes would prove exciting.
Well, I was wrong. My ice-cream tasted normal until about halfway through when my spoon started scraping against unexpectedly sharp walls, corroded into several petals of sunken edges. I touched the sides of my double-bottomed bowl that now had jagged carvings hanging on for dear life to dripping, molten vanilla. Without a doubt, the bowl was “broken” (but at least artistically so).
Turns out, as our waitress attested, they had placed the ice cream in a bowl that had come straight from a toasty dishwasher. Heat + cold = customer with possible stomach lacerations. Anyway, it’s happened here before, I’m told. Oh, in that case, no biggie.
I declined another brush with my maker, sweet as though the trip may have been and we got the bill. No charge for the ice-cream.
Is it too “American” of me to have thought the apology should have extended to bit more than a mere refund for something I couldn’t eat anyway, and that could have caused me grevious bodily harm?