‘Oh, we’re not taking food orders just now,’

From The Road to Little Dribbling: Adventures of an American in Britain by Bill Bryson. Page 91.

“My hiking companions were similarly inconvenienced in different places. By the time we managed to rendezvous it was nearly one o’clock and we were to a man famished, so our first piece of business was to find a place to eat. On the edge of Lyndhurst is a famous beauty spot called Swan Green, where a clutch of thatched cottages overlook the aforesaid green. It is a view that has featured on many a box of fudge. Opposite is the Swan Inn, to which we now repaired, happy to be in each other’s company and looking forward to something to eat after our drives. We studied the bill of fare keenly, then presented ourselves at the bar to place our order.

‘Oh, we’re not taking food orders just now,’ the young barman told us. ‘There’s been a run on the kitchen,’ he added by way of explanation.

We looked around. It wasn’t that busy.

‘How long will it be?’ we asked.

He considered the tranquil scene before him. ‘Hard to say. Three quarters of an hour maybe.’

This was all the more confusing because the Swan Inn is one of those pubs that would like you to regard it as a restaurant, with chalkboards of specials all over the place and menus and cutlery on the tables.

‘Can I just check I have got this right?’ I asked. ‘On a Sunday afternoon at the height of the tourist season, a number of people have turned up here wanting lunch, and this has taken you by surprise?’

‘Well, we’re short of staff because it’s Sunday.’

‘But isn’t Sunday one of your busiest days?’

He nodded emphatically. ‘I’ll say.’

‘Yet it is everyone’s day off?’

‘Well, it’s Sunday, you see,’ he said again as if I hadn’t quite got it the first time.

Andrew was already leading me gently away by the elbow. He must have seen my wife do it at some point. We walked back into Lyndhurst and found a café that was able to serve us lunch without throwing the kitchen into a panic, and afterwards, feeling much refreshed, we went for a good healthy tramp through dark woods and sunny heath.

An anecdote which merely illustrates a tradition that lives on in Britain.