Have you every been told that you have a Doppelganger? - someone who is is frequently mistaken for you - or vice versa.
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| Haven't I seen you on the TV news? |
When we had the restaurant, people used to confuse me with the late Bob Payton, - the restaurateur behind the Chicago Pizza Parlour and other themed restaurants, mainly in London. I think we met once or twice through the Restaurateurs Association and at similar industry events. He was my age and like me, this other Bob was a big man who loved restaurants and the hospitality industry.
He lived in Lincolnshire, just up the road from good friends of ours, but died tragically, aged just 50, in a road accident, and was acknowledged with gracious obituaries in the national press on both sides of the Atlantic.
It's strange when you are mistaken for someone else and it can be embarrassing when people stare at you, trying to work out why your face is familiar. Having run restaurants for the best part of 20 years in Lincoln, and had my own local magazine page as well as a regular spot on local radio, I was quite widely known locally back in the 80s and 90s. Well, to be honest, when you're my size people tend to remember you.
On BBC Radio Four a few years ago, Professor Laurie Taylor recounted the story of his Sunday lunch in a Lincoln restaurant. Apparently, when I towered over his table and asked if he was enjoying his meal, he looked up at my dominant presence, and felt obliged to smile meekly and concur. I had that effect on customers, sometimes, but I think most customers left with positive memories.
And many of them still seem to half-recognise this outsize gourmet, now that I've returned to Lincoln a dozen years later. I frequently find myself on the receiving end of puzzled glances when I move around town; it's that "I'm sure I know that person" look.
When I went to see a consultant at the Lincoln Hospital, his secretary glanced up at me, then back at her paperwork, and then her face lit up - "It's Bob, isn't it!" - She'd been one of my waitresses for several years.
On another occasion, when I rode on the bus up from the Commercial Quarter to the Cathedral Quarter, I was conscious of a couple making eye contact. Eventually, we all made the connection and realised that they'd been regular customers at Harveys for many years. I was amazed by their detailed recollections of menus and dishes they had enjoyed a couple of decades and more ago. I now regret that I didn't record more of those recipes, but at least I remember many of the favourites and these appear regularly on my dinner party choices.
Meeting old acquaintances is not always such a cheerful experience, as I found out when I bumped into a retired bank manager who was helping out as an occasional Cathedral Guide. No, he wasn't a bank manager who had ever given us any problems: far from it in fact, as he set up the account that let us stay in business with the Littlehouse Restaurant at Doddington Hall, after Harveys closed down. He was busy explaining the history of the Cathedral to a group of visitors, and I hung back so as not to distract him. Then, as the party moved on towards the Norman font, I said "Hello" and his face went white, as he looked at me with disbelief.
"But I heard you'd passed away.." were his unconventional words of greeting that brought a smile to my face. "I don't think so," I replied, "you probably heard about my father's passing. He was 97, and I've come back to live in Lincoln in the hope of emulating his achievement."
He lived in Lincolnshire, just up the road from good friends of ours, but died tragically, aged just 50, in a road accident, and was acknowledged with gracious obituaries in the national press on both sides of the Atlantic.
It's strange when you are mistaken for someone else and it can be embarrassing when people stare at you, trying to work out why your face is familiar. Having run restaurants for the best part of 20 years in Lincoln, and had my own local magazine page as well as a regular spot on local radio, I was quite widely known locally back in the 80s and 90s. Well, to be honest, when you're my size people tend to remember you.
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| The wine-list of our restaurant |
On BBC Radio Four a few years ago, Professor Laurie Taylor recounted the story of his Sunday lunch in a Lincoln restaurant. Apparently, when I towered over his table and asked if he was enjoying his meal, he looked up at my dominant presence, and felt obliged to smile meekly and concur. I had that effect on customers, sometimes, but I think most customers left with positive memories.
And many of them still seem to half-recognise this outsize gourmet, now that I've returned to Lincoln a dozen years later. I frequently find myself on the receiving end of puzzled glances when I move around town; it's that "I'm sure I know that person" look.
When I went to see a consultant at the Lincoln Hospital, his secretary glanced up at me, then back at her paperwork, and then her face lit up - "It's Bob, isn't it!" - She'd been one of my waitresses for several years.
On another occasion, when I rode on the bus up from the Commercial Quarter to the Cathedral Quarter, I was conscious of a couple making eye contact. Eventually, we all made the connection and realised that they'd been regular customers at Harveys for many years. I was amazed by their detailed recollections of menus and dishes they had enjoyed a couple of decades and more ago. I now regret that I didn't record more of those recipes, but at least I remember many of the favourites and these appear regularly on my dinner party choices.
Meeting old acquaintances is not always such a cheerful experience, as I found out when I bumped into a retired bank manager who was helping out as an occasional Cathedral Guide. No, he wasn't a bank manager who had ever given us any problems: far from it in fact, as he set up the account that let us stay in business with the Littlehouse Restaurant at Doddington Hall, after Harveys closed down. He was busy explaining the history of the Cathedral to a group of visitors, and I hung back so as not to distract him. Then, as the party moved on towards the Norman font, I said "Hello" and his face went white, as he looked at me with disbelief.
"But I heard you'd passed away.." were his unconventional words of greeting that brought a smile to my face. "I don't think so," I replied, "you probably heard about my father's passing. He was 97, and I've come back to live in Lincoln in the hope of emulating his achievement."
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