by John Cleese
Sybil: Yes I do, Basil.
Basil: Well, yes, my wife finds it too gloomy. I find it rather bracing.
Sybil: What do you find bracing, Basil? . . . the damp, the drizzle, the fog . . .
Basil: Well, it’s not always like this, dear. It changes.
Sybil: My husband’s like the climate. He changes. This morning he went on for two hours about the ‘bloody weather’, ha ha ha.
Basil: Yes, well, it has been unusually damp this week, in fact, but normally we’re rather spoiled down here on the English Riviera.
Sybil: Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were telling me about California. You can swim in the morning and then in the afternoon you can drive up into the mountains and ski.
Basil: It must be rather tiring.
Mr. Hamilton: Well, one has the choice.
Basil: Yes, but I don’t think that would suit me. I like it down here. It’s very mild all the year round. We have palm trees here in Torquay, you know. Do you have palm trees in California?
Mr. Hamilton: Burt Lancaster had one, they say. But I don’t believe them. (he tastes his screwdriver) What the hell is that?
Basil: Er . . . Vodka and orange juice . . .
Mr. Hamilton: Orange juice?
Mrs. Hamilton: I’m afraid it’s not fresh.
Basil: Isn’t it? (he takes it and sniffs it)
Mrs. Hamilton: No.
Basil: We’ve just opened the bottle.
Mr. Hamilton: Look, fresh means it comes out of an orange, not out of a bottle.
Basil: Ah! You’d like freshly squeezed orange juice.
Mr. Hamilton: As against freshly unscrewed orange juice, yes.
Basil: . . . Leave it to me, I mean, I’ll get chef on to it straight away (he bustles off into the kitchen)
Sybil: Sorry about that. A lot of English people are used to the flavour of the bottled . . .
Mrs. Hamilton: Oh, that’s all right. It’s just that back home fresh orange juice comes like running water.
Sybil: Does it really? ’Course, it’s so good for your skin, isn’t it. I’d love to go to California some day. It looks so exciting. (she indicates her book)
Mrs. Hamilton: Oh! Never Love A Stranger. Do you like it?
Sybil: Oh, I love Harold Robbins. I’ve read this one three times.
Mrs. Hamilton: The Pirate is his best, I think. I read them when Harry’s away. I just don’t seem to have the time when he’s home.
Sybil: Who needs Harold Robbins when you’ve got the real thing. (she laughs; Basil enters)
Mrs. Hamilton: How long have you been married, Mrs. Fawlty?
Sybil: Oh, since 1485.
Basil (putting the screwdrivers down): There we are, fresh orange juice.
Sybil: But seriously though, his men are all so interesting. Ruthless and sexy and . . . powerful.
Basil (handing out the menus): Who’s this, then, dear? Proust? E.M. Forster?
Sybil: Harold Robbins.
Basil: Oh, of course, yes. My wife likes Harold Robbins. After a hard day’s slaving under the hair-dryer she needs to unwind with a few aimless thrills.
Sybil: Basil! (she exits to the kitchen)
Basil: Have you ever read any? It really is the most awful American . . . well, not America, but trans-Atlantic tripe. A sort of pornographic muzak. Still, it keeps my wife off the streets.
Mr. Hamilton: We both like him.
Basil (looks disturbed for a moment): Oh! Robbins!
Mr. Hamilton: What?
Basil: Harold Robbins. I thought you meant that awful man, what’s his name, oh, Harold . . . Robinson. Have you read any Harold Robinson? Ah! Painful!
Mr. Hamilton: How about Waldorf salad.
Basil: Was that one? Yes, you’re absolutely right. Oh, that was a shocker, wasn’t it.
Mr. Hamilton: . . . Could you make me a Waldorf salad.
Basil: Oh . . . a . . . Wa . . . ?
Mr. Hamilton: Waldorf salad.
Basil: . . . I think we’re just out of Waldorfs.
Mr. Hamilton (to Mrs. Hamilton): I don’t believe this.
Mrs. Hamilton: It’s not very well known here, Harry.
Basil: Yes, may I recommend tonight the . . .
Mr. Hamilton: Look, I’m sure your chef knows how to fix me a Waldorf salad, huh?
Basil: I wouldn’t be too sure.
Mr. Hamilton: Well, he’s a chef, isn’t he?
Basil: Yes, you wouldn’t prefer . . .
Mr. Hamilton (shouting): Well, find out, will you? Just go out there and see if he knows how to fix me a Waldorf salad!
Basil: . . . Of course. (he goes into the kitchen, but re-appears almost immediately) He’s not absolutely positive . . . he’s almost got it. It’s lettuce and tomatoes, walled in with . . . ?
Mr. Hamilton: No, no, no, it’s celery, apples, walnuts, grapes.
Mrs. Hamilton: In a mayonnaise sauce.
Basil: Right. Incidentally, he did ask me to say that he does specially recommend the pâté tonight.
Mr. Hamilton: I don’t want pâté.
Basil: Or the . . . the grapefruit.
Mr. Hamilton: Grapefruit?
Basil: The grapefruit.
Mr. Hamilton: How’s it done?
Basil: Well, it’s halved, with a cherry in the centre. (Sybil re-enters)
Mr. Hamilton: Look! I haven’t paid you twenty pounds to have some guy cut a grapefruit in half and stick a cherry in the centre. (Sybil reacts to the ‘twenty pounds’)
Basil: Exactly.
Mr. Hamilton: I want a Waldorf salad.
Basil: Absolutely. One Waldorf salad.
Mrs. Hamilton: And a green salad for me.
Basil: And one green salad. Yes. And if we can’t manage the Waldorf salad . . . ?
Mr. Hamilton (loudly): I want a Waldorf salad! And a couple of filets mignons. (Basil is flummoxed)
Mrs. Hamilton: Steaks.
Mr. Hamilton: Steaks!!
Basil: Steaks!
Mr. Hamilton: Done rare.
Basil: Done rare!
Mr. Hamilton: Not out of a bottle.
Basil: Not out of a bottle. Right. (he disappears into the kitchen)
Sybil: Would you like to see the wine list? (she gives it to them)
Mr. Hamilton: Thank you.
Sybil: May I ask, did you say you’d paid twenty pounds . . . ?
Mr. Hamilton: Yes, but it’s not the money, my wife and I, we wanted dinner and your husband said your chef usually leaves at nine o’clock . . .
Sybil: Well, this can’t be right. There’s no reason chef couldn’t stay . . .
Basil (re-appearing from the kitchen): I’m awfully sorry, he’s forgotten already . . . walnuts, cheese . . .
Mr. Hamilton: No! No cheese! It’s celery, apples, walnuts, grapes!
Basil: Right!
Mr. Hamilton: In mayonnaise.
Basil: Right! (shouting into the kitchen) Now come on! (goes into the kitchen)
Sybil: Um . . . would you excuse me one moment?
Mr. Hamilton: Excuse me . . . a bottle of the Volnay, please.
Sybil: Of course. Thank you. (she goes into the kitchen)
In the kitchen, Basil is rummaging frantically in a large cardboard box.
Sybil: What’s this about twenty pounds, Basil?
Basil: There’s no celery. Would you believe it?
Sybil: I’ll find the celery. What about this twenty pounds?
Basil: He gave me twenty pounds to keep the kitchens open, but chef wouldn’t . . . I mean, where does he put things?
Sybil: If you’d just look . . .
Basil: I have looked. There’s no celery, there’s no grapes . . . walnuts! That’s a laugh, easier to find a packet of sliced hippopotamus in suitcase sauce than a walnut in this bloody kitchen. (he looks in the fridge)
Sybil: Now, we’ve got apples. (holding up some)
Basil: Oh, terrific! Let’s celebrate. We’ll have an apple party. Everybody brings his own apple and stuffs it down somebody’s thr
oat.
Sybil: Basil, I’ll find everything. Just go and get a bottle of Volnay.
Basil: What’s a waldorf, anyway—a walnut that’s gone off?
Sybil: It’s the hotel, Basil. The Waldorf Hotel. In New York.
Basil (struck with an idea): Wait, wait.
Sybil (warningly): Basil.
Basil (going into the dining room): Everything all right?
Mrs. Hamilton: Yes thank you.
Mr. Hamilton: Never been better.
Basil: Oh good. Um . . . by the way. I wonder . . . have you by any chance ever tried a Ritz salad?
Mr. Hamilton: A Ritz salad?
Basil: Yes—it’s a traditional old English . . . thing. It’s apples, grapefruit and potatoes in a mayonnaise sauce.
Mr. Hamilton: No, don’t think I ever tried that.
Basil: Ah!
Mr. Hamilton: Don’t think I ever will, either.
Basil: No, well, that’s probably pretty sound. Well, look, um . . . about this Waldorf salad of yours . . .
Mr. Hamilton: Yes?
Basil: Um . . . I’ve had a bit of a tête-à-tête with chef, and the point is, we’re all right on the apples. Absolutely no problem with them at all. Now . . . on the celery front, well, er . . . perhaps I should explain, we normally get our celery delivered on a Wednesday, along with our cabbages, onions, walnuts, grapes . . . that sort of thing, but this week the driver . . .
Mr. Hamilton: Mr. Fawlty.
Basil: Yes, he was putting the crate into the van . . .
Mr. Hamilton: I’m not interested.
Basil: . . . and he sort of slipped forward and the van door caught his arm, like that, and he may have fractured it . . .
Mr. Hamilton: You don’t have any.
Basil: They did the X-rays and we’ll know tomorrow whether they’re going to have to operate, and to cut a long story short . . . we don’t have any, no. But . . . um . . . still . . . it makes you think how lucky you are, doesn’t it. Here we are, with all our limbs functioning. I mean, quite frankly, if you’ve got your health, what else matters?
Mr. Hamilton: What a bunch of crap!
Basil (interested): Oh, do you think so? I always feel . . .
Mr. Hamilton: What the hell’s going on here!? It says hotel outside—now, is this a hotel or isn’t it?
Basil: Well . . . within reason.
Mr. Hamilton: You know something, fella—if this was back in the States I wouldn’t board my dog here.
Basil: Fussy, is he? Poodle?
Mr. Hamilton (standing up and facing Basil): Poodle! I’m not getting through to you, am I. You know, I stay in hotels all over the world and this is the first time I’ve had to bribe a chef to cook me a meal and then found out he doesn’t have the basic goddam ingredients. Holy Cow, can’t you see what a crummy dump this is?
Basil (shouting towards the kitchen): You’re listening to this, are you, Terry?
Mr. Hamilton: I’m talking to you!
Basil (to kitchen): It’s all right, Terry, you can get on with . . .
Mr. Hamilton: Shut up, will you, and listen to me. Can’t you see this ain’t good enough?
Basil: Yes, I see what you mean.
Mr. Hamilton: And then you give me some half-assed story about some delivery guy busting his arm. Now look, Fawlty, if your chef couldn’t find the ingredients from that guy, why didn’t he get them from somebody else, uh?
Basil: Exactly. Hopeless.
Mr. Hamilton (amazed): What?
Basil: He’s hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.
Mr. Hamilton: Right. You’re the manager, aren’t you? You’re responsible. So what are you going to do about it, huh?
Basil (confidentially): . . . I’ll have a word with him.
Mr. Hamilton: Have a word with him? Man, you’ve got to tell him. Lay it on the line.
Basil: Lay it on the line?
Mr. Hamilton: Tell him, if he doesn’t get on the ball you’re going to bust his ass.
Basil: Bust his . . .
Mr. Hamilton: I’ll tell him. (makes for kitchen)
Basil (restraining him): No, no!! No, I’ll tell him. Leave it to me.
Mr. Hamilton: Tell him!
Basil: I will. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. Bust his . . . ?
Mr. Hamilton: Ass!!
Basil: Oh, that! Right! . . . And two green salads?
He goes into the kitchen. As he does so Sybil comes out with a Waldorf salad and a green salad. She puts them on the table.
Sybil: Here we are. One green salad, and one Waldorf salad.
Mr. Hamilton (confused): But I thought that . . .
Sybil: Yes? (the reception bell rings) Oh—would you excuse me one moment?
She exits. The Hamiltons peer at the salads. At this moment Basil’s voice is heard from the kitchen.
Basil’s voice: No, it’s not good enough, do you hear me, it’s not good enough! (pretending to be Terry) But Mr. Robinson hurt his arm! (as himself) That’s a bunch of arse, that’s what that is!
Mr. Hamilton (tasting his salad): It’s fine.
Basil’s voice: Why can’t you make a Waldorf salad?
Mrs. Hamilton (to Mr. Hamilton): Waldorf salad?
Mr. Hamilton (surprised): Yes.
Basil’s voice: First thing tomorrow you get the ingredients for a Waldorf salad or I’m going to break your bottom. (as Terry) Oh no, no, you can’t do that. (as himself) No, I mean it. I mean it!
Sybil (coming back in from the lobby): Everything all right?
Mrs. Hamilton: Yes, thank you.
Sybil: You’re sure there’s nothing . . . ?
Mr. Hamilton: No, really. It’s very good.
Sybil: Oh, good.
Mr. Hamilton: Oh . . . your chef?
Sybil: Yes?
Mr. Hamilton: Has he been with you long?
Sybil: About six months. He used to work at Dorchester.
Mrs. Hamilton: At the Dorchester?
Sybil: No, in Dorchester. About forty miles away . . .
Basil (entering with two green salads): Here we are, two green salads.
Sybil: Basil!
Basil: Yes, dear?
Sybil: Mr. Hamilton has his Waldorf salad, dear.
Basil: No, dear, chef couldn’t make it. He didn’t have the ingredients. I’ve just smashed his backside about it.
Sybil (pointing to the salad): But there it is.
Basil: What!?
Sybil: There’s the Waldorf salad. Chef found the ingredients. (she takes the two green salads)
Mr. Hamilton: It’s fine.
Basil (to Sybil, between his teeth): Well, if he found the ingredients, why didn’t he tell me? It would have been perfectly simple, wouldn’t it? Has he been struck dumb? Or has somebody torn his tongue out in the last two minutes?
Sybil: Basil.
Mr. Hamilton: Maybe Robinson’s arm got better.
Basil: I’m sorry about this.
Mr. Hamilton: It’s all right.
Basil: No it isn’t.
Mr. Hamilton: It doesn’t matter.
Basil: Well, it matters to me.
Mr. Hamilton: Not to me. I’ve got my Waldorf salad.
Basil (snatching it away): Would you excuse me.
Mr. Hamilton: For God’s sake!
Basil (screaming): Chef!! What’s the meaning of this? (he exits into the kitchen)
Sybil: Basil, would you bring that back immediately. (to Mr. Hamilton) I’m sorry, I’ll just get it back for you. (she goes towards the kitchen)
Basil’s voice (from the kitchen): Sorry! I’ll give you sorry! Get off your knees! (Sybil enters the kitchen) Leave this to me, Sybil, I’ll handle it.
Sybil’s voice: Basil!
Basil’s voice: I haven’t finished with chef yet, Sybil, I mean, why didn’t you tell me, why didn’t you tell me, you stupid cow. Eh, chef? No, no, I haven’t finished, I haven’t finished, you can have it in a . . . (there is a loud bonk) . . . Oooh!
Sybil (coming back in with th
e salad): Sorry about that little confusion, chef hasn’t been with us very long and we’ve just reorganized the kitchen. (she gives Mr. Hamilton his salad)
Mr. Hamilton: Thank you.
Sybil: Oh, you haven’t got your wine yet. Basil! . . . Won’t be a moment. Basil!
The kitchen door opens and Basil, holding a cloth to his forehead, looks wanly out.
Basil (subdued): Yes, my sweet?
Sybil: Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton haven’t got their wine yet.
Basil: Oh.
Sybil: And Basil—has chef put the steaks on yet?
Basil: No—I’ll tell him. (he disappears into the kitchen)
Mrs. Hamilton: Is your husband all right?
Sybil: Oh yes. He’s just had rather a long day.
Mr. Hamilton: There’s just the two of you here, right?
Sybil: We haven’t had a proper holiday for eight years.
Mrs. Hamilton: Eight years?!
Sybil: Yes, I have to get away occasionally, just for a few hours, even if it’s down to the hairdresser or a round of golf or a bridge evening with some of the girls, or a drive in the country sometimes, just on my own, pop down to Cornwall for the day, sometimes it’s so beautiful down there . . .
Basil appears with a hat pulled down strangely over his temple.
Sybil (to the Hamiltons): Yes, you must visit Cornwall while you’re here. (goes to the kitchen)
Basil: Your Volnay, sir.
Mr. Hamilton: Oh, thank you. (tastes the wine)
Basil: Oh, incidentally, I’ve been talking to chef and we’ve sorted out what happened. Apparently he thought he’d already got . . .
Mr. Hamilton (approving the wine): That’s very nice, thank you.
Basil: . . . Thank you . . . got . . . got two for Waldorf salad you see, and in fact he had the ingredients, but . . .
Mr. Hamilton: No, that’s fine, it doesn’t matter.
Basil: . . . until he’d made one he didn’t realize that he didn’t have enough for the second one, you see . . .
Mr. Hamilton: Look, don’t let it bother you.
Basil (pulling a letter out of his pocket): Anyway, this will explain everything.
Mr. Hamilton: What’s that?
Basil: It’s a letter.
Mr. Hamilton: A letter?
Basil: A letter from the chef. It explains everything.
Mr. Hamilton: A letter from the chef!?
Basil: He wanted to apologize personally, but I didn’t want him wasting your time, so I thought . . .
Mr. Hamilton: Oh, just forget about it, will you?
