EXACTLY A YEAR AGO this week Leslie Adrian saw fit
to criticise the catering arrangements at Glyndebourne, comparing them unfavourably with the music. I fear that this year there has been a further decline in standards. Last year many visitors to Glyndebourne were understandably put out because the excellent buffet provided for those who did not wish to take the elaborate (and, for a pleasant but in no way distinguished meal, ex- tremely expensive) dinner had been done away with and a chairless, table-less room provided in its stead. This year there are a few uncomfortable benches round the walls, but the food is a good deal worse. There is nothing to eat at all but legs of chicken and sausages. The chicken must be eaten quite dry—there is not even a shred of lettuce or a scrap of potato salad to go with it. What is more, it must be eaten with the fingers, since no knives are provided or available, and nobody has yet devised a method of eating a leg of chicken with a fork alone. Nor is this the worst; bread is provided, but there is no butter. Requests for butter are refused, and the quaint excuse offered for its absence is that 'we had it last year, and people took too much and wasted a lot.' Some- body suggested that they could charge for it, and people would then take only as much as they needed. 'Oh, no,' said the official, 'we couldn't charge for butter, sir; that would be too much like Lyons.' It is high time Mr. Christie, whose opera is still equal to any in the world, realised that catering standards such as I have described would not be accepted for a moment in the humblest Lyons teashop. We pay three guineas a seat for Glyndebourne's music, and are glad to. We get into evening dress in the middle of the afternoon, and do not complain. Mr. Christie makes us do these things because he says, quite rightly, that the artists are taking trouble and so should the audience. But I can see no reason why the cater- ing department should be exempted from this stern yet happy arrangement.
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