Roughly 1000 words on why you shouldn’t go to Dim T

25 September 2007

There’s a branch of the Dim T restaurant chain in Tunbridge Wells. I’ve walked past it many times and had it filed away as a venue for dinner with the girls at some point. I thought it looked exotic (I realise now that I just liked the logo) and wanted to try dim sum too. Mostly, I must admit, because there’s a bit in “Sleepless in Seattle” where Annie’s fiancé sings, “Dim sum, dim sum” to her to the tune of “Jeepers Creepers”. Note to advertising executives: if Tom Hanks has been near it, it’s been mentioned on the West Wing, or Laura Ingalls Wilder once had one, the chances are I will want one too. Whatever it is. Ok, maybe I can live without a plague of grasshoppers, but with the right jingle you may still persuade me.

We needed a venue to celebrate Lauren and her advanced age and as I am The ~~Bossy~~ Organised One, I suggested Dim T and that was that. Table was booked, menu was perused online, other people’s reviews were read … and dismissed.

Ho ho.

Helen, Suzy, Old Lauren and I rolled out of the pub across the road and arrived promptly at Dim T for 7.30pm. Weird curtains at the door that gave the impression you were passing between an enormous pair of trouser legs. Interesting looking place inside and a table had been reserved for us at the window. Drinks? Why, yes, Helen and I would very much like to sample the raspberry lemonade, thank you. Oh, no raspberry lemonade, you say? Then we’ll have something else.

We really should have taken that as the omen it turned out to be. We ordered a few baskets of dim sum and each chose a main before sitting back to sup upon our various (not raspberry-flavoured) lemonades. Our prawn crackers arrived, we played with the tableware, smelled the dangerous-looking chili pepper stuff, found that if we teamed up together we could lift a small china dish using our chopsticks … and waited.

And waited.

Various apologies were made and we were given a bowl of edamame on the house. Kept me happy, as in keeping with my tendency towards pop culture idolatry I felt like Dooce. Then with every bean pod emptied and the last salt crystal in the bowl found and eaten we waited a little longer.

And a little longer.

More apologies were made by a waiter who looked to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown, but they did nothing to satisfy the hunger of those at our table who were preparing to eat their own arms. Free drinks were offered and accepted then finally, 1 hour and 15 minutes after we’d sat down, we saw our dim sum being brought to us … and roughly two steps behind the first another waitress was following with our mains. Oh no you don’t, sunshine. Dim sum baskets accepted, mains turned away and promises procured that they wouldn’t just bring back the same plates in a few minutes.

So, mmm, dim sum. I’d been looking forward to this. Then I saw it. I don’t know what the skin was around the filling, but it looked like what you get if you boil horses’ hooves for long enough. It behaved like it too and trying to cut it in half with my chopstick was a task and a half. Fortunately the filling of whatever it was that had been chosen was nice and overpowered any taste the skin may or may not have had. My dream of liking this cool thing that I knew nothing about had been dashed.

Finally at 9pm our main course was served and we were just tucking into our various noodles and crispy duck pancakes when the restaurant lights were dimmed. We hypothesised that it was done to make it easier for the waiting staff to escape without us noticing. Maybe I’m old-fashioned and cranky, but I prefer to be able to see what I’m doing, so I started muttering when suddenly it all went dark and the only light was coming from above me, meaning that I was sitting in my own shadow. I guess I’m just more a 60W kinda girl.

My duck chow mein was nice. That’s all really. The meat could have been more tender though; there was one bit that required what felt like about 15 minutes of chewing. It brought back memories of when I was little and Dad would give me a little piece of bacon from his Sunday breakfast. I’d walk round the house chewing all the flavour out of it for God knows how long, before spitting it out in the bathroom bin, my little milk teeth unable to break it down small enough to actually swallow.

Food eaten we spurned the dessert menu and asked for the bill, summing up in our heads what we had been promised as freebies. Lauren, bank employee and therefore to be trusted with numbers, ran down the bill: 1 Wait for mains £0.00 – how generous! … woah, Trigger, you said the dim sum would be on the house. Take this back and try again. The waitress accordingly took the bill back and returned shortly, presenting us with … exactly the same piece of paper. The bill was returned to a different waitress and we decided that this was their final chance. Should the bill come back with any more errors, we’d just depart through the giant pair of trousers and not pay for any of it.

I was all ready to be militant and so was quite disappointed when the next copy of the bill was error-free. We put down our money – including a generous 40 pence tip – and hightailed it out of there. It was then as we wandered the streets wondering what to do next that we experienced what was for us the high point of the evening, nay, the week. A girl was handing out flyers for The Cuban restaurant around the corner and was eager to press her card into our hands as we were apparently their kind of people. “What kind of people is that?” Lauren enquired. “Not pikeys,” came the reply.