Why, no matter what I order from room service, does it always take twenty minutes? Without fail, around the world, it seems to me someone on the other end of the line will say, “That’ll be twenty minutes”. If it’s a burger or bottle of water. Twenty minutes. A roast chicken for four with stuffing. Twenty minutes. A latté. Go ahead and have uncaffeinated sex, unless you’re Sting or a character from a Jackie Collins novel that has sex for hours, because you’ve got twenty minutes. If it’s eggs Benedict, you guessed it, twenty minutes. Just FYI eggs Benedict were listed by GQ and David Chang as the best breakfast to have after sex so maybe order it with the latté or you’ll have to wait another twenty. And if you think you’ll need water…if it’s all those things together. The foods I mean. Twenty minutes.
Okay it may not actually be twenty minutes, but my point is a latté takes as long as a roast chicken. Water as long as eggs Benedict. Why is that?
Okay it may not actually be twenty minutes for every hotel, but every hotel has an arbitrary time that doesn’t think a latté and a roast chicken are any different. Or water and eggs Benedict. Why is that?
I have ordered a latté at the fanciest of coffee shops and they manage to intimidate me, introduce me to hazelnut milk, and do pretentious cocoa art all in less than ten minutes. So as the room service department there would still be enough time to grab a tray and a silver dome thingy to cover the latté, walk to the elevator, Google the real word for “silver dome thingy”, learn that the word is “cloche” which is French for bell, contemplate how much the thingy looks like a bell, get to the room, gently tap on the door and say, “Room Service!”
I have also tried to make a roast chicken in twenty minutes. I spent fifteen searching for “Twenty minute chicken” recipes and then got distracted by “Four unexpected nail colors for all types of bride” which I had to read because I really needed to know just how “unexpected” nail colors can actually get considering the rainbow is somewhat set.
And what about those post-sex eggs Benedict? I have pouched an egg in three minutes. Toasted an English muffin in three. But a Béarnaise sauce? The New York Times lists just the sauce as a twenty-minute affair. That’s twenty-six minutes in even before there’s a cloche, or a throat clearing to say “Room Service!”
Needless to say a bottle of water is easy enough to secure in way under twenty minutes unless you feel the need to go to Evian itself. Or have to go to a well in which case you might want to rethink spending your money on room service.
So why can hotels not commit to a food appropriate time? Did they all just get together and start to white board out the standard times of every dish and it just got overwhelming? Coffee – two minutes, burgers – twenty minutes, roast chicken – really long, water – really quick, eggs Benedict…oh what they hell let’s just average this out. Then they all high-fived, made silly hats with cloches and went back to their rooms and ordered room service? I do wonder how long they were told it would take.
Recently while waiting for my twenty-minute room service I was curious to see what else could be done in this time, and to see how wildly those activities varied. I found an article from USA Today that listed “Try not think about penguins”. bemorewithless.com suggested “Defining fun” which sounded decidedly unfun, even for a minute. I also found a Woman’s Day article, which suggested, “Write your own obituary” and “Envision yourself reaching a fitness goal”. I liked this one because it didn’t involve actual exercise. So I imagined myself as an Olympic champion javelin thrower with a steroid problem but Madonna-like arms and great neon pink athleisure gear until I heard someone clear their throat, gently knock on the door and say, “Room Service!”
How exactly hotels landed on their time allotments we might never know. Just the same way we might never know why they all fold the end of the toilet paper into points like an arrow aimed at the shittiest target, why they all make the tissues look like flowers so you always feel bad blowing snot into them, or why the minibar is so expensive you have to drink to comprehend why 50ml of vodka costs that much, how check-in time came to be 3pm so you never actually even spend twenty-four hours there, or why we/I always feel compelled to steal all the mini shampoos like hotels might stop doing this one day.
All that said I would never stop ordering room service. Because despite all the things we can do in twenty minutes – “exercise”, obituarize, avoid penguins – there’s still nothing that beats the sheer joy of eating eggs Benedict in a robe someone else will wash, in a bed someone else will make while you watch Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, or read a Jackie Collins novel, all washed down with a latté. Exactly why that is, is a beautiful mystery to me that will never be solved. No matter how much time I’m given.
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