The Complete Fawlty Towers
Page 11
He disappears into the kitchen. Walt leaves by the main doors. Three men walk into the hotel past him; they are the inspectors.
1st inspector: Twenty-six rooms, twelve with private bathrooms.
2nd inspector: Yes, well, why don’t you have dinner here, and Chris and I can try the Claremont.
3rd inspector: OK. The owner’s one Basil Fawlty.
They ring the bell. At that moment Hutchison comes downstairs. Manuel scampers up to him.
Manuel: Please, please! Mr. Fawlty wants to say adios.
Basil strides out of the kitchen and firmly places a large squidgy pie in Hutchison’s crotch and another in his face.
Basil: Manuel, the cream.
He opens Hutchison’s briefcase and Manuel pours a pint of best quality cream into it. The Major comes up.
The Major: Papers arrived yet, Fawlty?
Basil: Not yet, Major, no, sorry.
The Major wanders off. Basil shakes the briefcase thoroughly and tucks it under Hutchison’s arm.
Basil: Now go away. If you ever come back I shall kill you.
He propels the stunned Hutchison out of the main door, turns expansively and kisses Manuel on the forehead. He then strides triumphantly to the counter and beams at the new arrivals.
Basil: Good afternoon, and what can I do for you three gentlemen? (a pause; then the terrible truth dawns) Aaaaghh!!!
GOURMET NIGHT
Basil Fawlty ..... John Cleese
Sybil Fawlty ..... Prunella Scales
Manuel ..... Andrew Sachs
Polly ..... Connie Booth
André ..... André Maranne
Kurt ..... Steve Plytas
Colonel Hall ..... Allan Cuthbertson
Mrs. Hall ..... Ann Way
Mr. Twitchen ..... Richard Caldicot
Mrs. Twitchen ..... Betty Huntley-Wright
Major Gowen ..... Ballard Berkeley
Miss Tibbs ..... Gilly Flower
Miss Gatsby ..... Renée Roberts
Mr. Heath ..... Jeffrey Segal
Mrs. Heath ..... Elizabeth Benson
Master Heath ..... Tony Page
Fifth of first series, first broadcast on 17, October 1975, BBC2.
The forecourt of Fawlty Towers. Basil is fiddling under the bonnet of his car, which is clearly a real mother of an old car. He makes a final adjustment and strides round to the driver’s seat. He presses the starter twice, without results.
Basil: Oh come on, is it so difficult for you to start? . . . I mean it’s so basic. If you don’t go, there’s very little point in having you.
He tries again, then gives up, goes round to the front and takes a delicious-looking savoury from a small pile on the engine, pops it in his mouth and starts fiddling again. The horn jams on; he clears it.
Basil: Now, just pull yourself together, right? Make the effort. (he gets back in and presses the starter; it whines pitifully) Come on . . . now look!
Manuel (running down the steps): Mr. Fawlty! Mr. Fawlty! Telephone!!
Basil: What?
Manuel: Telephone . . . telephone. (mimes a telephone)
Basil: Oh . . . where’s Sybil?
Manuel: . . . Qué?
Basil: Where’s . . . Sy . . . bil?
Manuel: . . . Where’s . . . the bill?
Basil: No! No! I own the place. I don’t pay bills. Where’s my wife?
Manuel: She not there.
Basil: She is there! (Manuel looks helpless) Oh, never mind, right, leave it to me, I’ll do it! (he strides towards the hotel) I’ll mend the car, I’ll answer the telephone, then you can all handcuff and blindfold me and I’ll clean the windows . . .
He steams into the lobby. Manuel gets ahead of him.
Manuel: In here.
Basil: Yes, I know it’s in here!
Manuel (indicating telephone): This way, please. (he goes into the kitchen)
Basil: Yes, I know it’s this way, I own the place!
But just before he gets to the telephone, Sybil appears from the office and answers it herself.
Sybil: Hallo, Fawlty Towers . . . Oh, André, thank you for calling. Kurt’s marvellous, we’re absolutely delighted with him . . . really, André, he’s wonderful . . .
Basil goes to the kitchen and leads Manuel back to the desk.
Basil (pointing to Sybil): This Basil’s wife. (pointing to himself) This . . . Basil. This . . . smack on head. (demonstrates; Manuel slinks off)
Sybil: Just one moment, André . . . Basil!
Basil: Yes, dear?
Sybil: Have you taken the car in yet?
Basil: Yes, I’m just dealing with it, dear.
Sybil: You’re not trying to do it yourself, are you, Basil?
Basil (discovering a change of subject on the wall): Have you seen this mark up here, dear?
Sybil: Did you hear what I said?
Basil: Yes I did, dear, it’s a bit of a scratch . . .
Sybil: Take it into the garage, Basil.
Basil (absently): Yes, yes, just having a look at it, dear.
Sybil (to phone): I’m sorry, André, where was I? Oh yes. Well, he’s the best chef we’ve ever had—we can’t thank you enough for finding him for us . . . (Basil checks that Sybil is not looking and slips into the kitchen) Look, can you come and have dinner on Sunday? . . . there’s something we want to ask your advice about . . . OK, lovely, see you then. (she rings off; Polly comes in) Hallo, Polly.
Polly: Can you come and have a drink, Mrs. Fawlty?
Sybil: Drink?
Polly: I’ve sold a sketch!
Sybil: Really? I’d love to.
They go into the kitchen, where Kurt and Manuel are preparing food. Basil is lurking by another pile of savouries.
Polly: Hallo.
Kurt and Manuel: Hallo.
Sybil: Kurt, André can come on Sunday. (to Basil) I thought you were taking the car in . . . (he is popping another savoury into his mouth) Are you at those again?
Basil: I just took one, dear.
Sybil: (confiscating the plate) I think you’ve had enough of those, Basil. Now will you deal with the car, please.
Kurt: (seeing Basil still munching) Good, Mr. Fawlty?
Basil: Superb, Kurt.
Polly: (gives Sybil a glass of wine; to Basil) For you, Mr. Fawlty?
Basil: Thank you, Polly.
Sybil: Are you going to do the car?
Basil: In a moment, my little piranha fish. (to Polly) What’s all this, then?
Polly: I’ve just sold a sketch.
Basil: What, for money?
Kurt: I bought it, Mr. Fawlty. She’s very talented. (Polly offers him a glass of wine) Oh, no, Polly, I won’t.
Polly: Oh, come on.
Kurt: No, thank you.
Polly: Oh, please, I bought it to thank you.
Kurt: No, honestly.
Polly: Don’t you like it?
Kurt: Too much. But not when I’m working. You drink it for me, Manuel. (Manuel accepts gratefully)
Basil (raising his glass to Polly): Well . . . cheerio.
Sybil (neatly confiscating his glass): Cheerio, Basil.
Basil: Well, that smelt nice.
Kurt (showing Basil the sketch): Here it is, Mr. Fawlty. She’s really got something, you know.
Basil: Really.
Polly: Well worth 50p anyway.
Basil: Yes. Do you win a bun if you guess what it is?
Polly: It’s Manuel.
Basil: What?
Manuel: It’s me.
Basil: . . . Where?
Kurt: Manuel is my friend. (puts his arm round Manuel’s shoulders) We’re good friends, eh?
Manuel: Oh, si.
Basil (returning the sketch): Yes, very modern. Very socialist. (Kurt takes the sketch and kisses it warmly) Something to remember him by . . . you know, when he goes.
Sybil: You still here, Basil?
Basil: No, I went a couple of minutes ago, dear, but I expect I’ll be back soon. (exits)
Sybi
l studies the sketch. Kurt sees Manuel performing some culinary misdeed.
Kurt: No, no, Manuel! Look, like this . . .
Sybil (handing Polly the sketch): Oh, I like that. Will you do me one?
Polly: Really? . . . Of Manuel?
Sybil: Yes. It’ll look nice on Basil’s bedside table. (exits)
Polly (to Kurt): Two in a day. That’s as many as Van Gogh sold in a lifetime.
Kurt: Ah, but he didn’t have Manuel as a model, eh?
Meanwhile Basil, watched by Sybil from the main doors, drives out of the forecourt. He goes round the corner, out of sight of Sybil, stops, gets out, takes a handful of savouries from his pocket and once again starts poking about under the bonnet.
Sunday evening; the dining room. Sybil, Basil and André are sitting at one of the tables. Some other guests are apparent, including Mr. and Mrs. Heath and their eleven-year-old son Ronald. The food on the Fawltys’ table looks great and is.
Sybil (not utterly unhistrionically): Ohh. Mmmm. This is wonderful.
André: I told you—he is one of the best.
Sybil: He’s almost as good as you are, André. Oh!! It’s absolutely divine, Basil. Go on, have a bite.
Basil: It is good, isn’t it.
Sybil: Oh, listen to him. The only place I’ve ever really seen him eat is in your restaurant, André, and now he is stuffing it away like a hamster.
Basil: Really, Sybil.
Sybil (coquettishly): We’re going to have to buy him a great big wheel to run around in when he’s got a moment, or he’ll get like a big bad-tempered tomato.
Basil: I believe we were discussing the Gourmet Evening, dear.
Sybil: Do you know, André, he burst his zip this morning.
Basil (in a superior manner): Oh dear.
Sybil: What, darling?
Basil: You’re embarrassing André.
Sybil: No, dear, I’m embarrassing you. (she pats Basil’s stomach) Look at that.
Basil: Well, I’d better go and have a word with the guests. Why don’t you have another vat of wine, dear? (he rises and starts to circulate, coming first to the Major’s table) Good evening, Major. Enjoying your soup?
The Major: Tasted a bit off to me, Fawlty.
Basil: Well, it’s made with fresh mushrooms, Major.
The Major: Ah, that would explain it.
A flicker of olympian despair crosses Basil’s face. He moves on to the Heaths’ table.
Basil: Good evening. Is everything to your satisfaction?
Mr. Heath: Yes thank—
Mrs. Heath (interrupting): Well . . . (she turns expectantly to their son)
Ronald: I don’t like the chips.
Basil: Sorry?
Ronald: The chips are awful.
Basil (smiling balefully): Oh dear. What’s er . . . what’s wrong with them, then?
Ronald: They’re the wrong shape and they’re just awful.
Mrs. Heath: I’m afraid he gets everything cooked the way he likes it at home.
Basil: Ah, does he, does he?
Ronald: Yes I do, and it’s better than this pig’s garbage.
Mrs. Heath (slightly amused): Now, Ronald.
Ronald: These eggs look like you just laid them.
Mrs. Heath (ineffectually): Ronald . . .
Mr. Heath (to Ronald, friendlily): Now look here, old chap . . .
Mrs. Heath: Shut up!! Leave him alone! (to Basil) He’s very clever, rather highly strung.
Basil: Yes, yes, he should be.
Ronald: Haven’t you got any proper chips?
Basil: Well these are proper French Fried Potatoes. You see, the chef is Continental.
Ronald: Couldn’t you get an English one?
Mrs. Heath (to Ronald): Why don’t you eat just one or two, dear?
Ronald: They’re the wrong shape.
Basil: Oh dear—what shape do you usually have? Mickey Mouse shape? Smarties shape? Amphibious landing craft shape? Poke in the eye shape?
Ronald: . . . God, you’re dumb.
Mrs. Heath: Oh, now . . .
Basil (controlling himself): Is there something we can get you instead, Sonny?
Ronald: I’d like some bread and salad cream.
Basil: . . . To eat? Well . . . (pointing) there’s the bread, and there’s the mayonnaise.
Ronald: I said salad cream, stupid.
Basil: We don’t have any salad cream. The chef made this (indicating the mayonnaise) freshly this morning.
Ronald: What a dump!
Mr. Heath (offering Ronald the mayonnaise): This is very good.
Mrs. Heath (coldly): He likes salad cream.
Ronald (to Basil): That’s puke, that is.
Basil: Well, at least it’s fresh puke.
Mrs. Heath (shocked): Oh dear!!
Basil (indignantly): Well, he said it!
Mrs. Heath (loftily): May I ask why you don’t have proper salad cream. I mean, most restaurants . . .
Basil: Well, the chef only buys it on special occasions, you know, gourmet nights and so on, but . . . when he’s got a bottle—ah!—he’s a genius with it. He can unscrew the cap like Robert Carrier. It’s a treat to watch him. (he mimes) And then . . . right on the plate! None on the walls! Magic! He’s a wizard with a tin-opener, too. He got a Pulitzer Prize for that. He can have the stuff in the saucepan before you can say haute cuisine. You name it, he’ll heat it up and scrape it off the pan for you. Mind you, skill like that isn’t picked up overnight. Still, I’ll tell him to get some salad cream, you never know when Henry Kissinger is going to drop in, do you. (Mrs. Heath is silenced; Basil smiles charmingly, looks at his watch and in so doing neatly elbows Ronald in the head) Sorry, sorry! (he moves off)
Mr. Heath: Nice man.
Meanwhile, Sybil and André are deep in conversation.
André: No, no, seriously, I think it’s a very good idea.
Sybil: You do, really?
André: I promise you, people round here are getting more and more keen on good food.
Basil (coming back and sitting down): Well, so much for tonight’s guests. Ignorant rabble.
André: Oh, there’s always a few, Mr. Fawlty.
Basil: Well, not on Gourmet Night there won’t be. (slightly too loudly) None of those proles.
Sybil: Basil!
Basil: Well!
Sybil: André thinks Thursday nights would be best.
Basil: Thursdays?
André: I think so.
Basil: Right. And on the other nights we’ll just have a big trough of baked beans and garnish it with a couple of dead dogs.
Sybil: Well, that’s settled then.
André: Good. And I’m very pleased for Kurt too. It will be good for him to have something special to do . . . I’d like to have a word with him, do you mind?
Sybil: No, of course not.
André rises and goes towards the kitchen.
Basil: Right, well, I’ll get the menus printed on Monday.
Sybil: Polly can do the menus.
Basil: No she can’t.
Sybil: Yes she can.
Basil: No she can’t.
Sybil: Yes she can.
Basil: No she can’t.
Sybil: Yes she can . . . she can! You can write the advertisement in the Echo, only don’t make it too toffee-nosed, Basil—we don’t want to put people off.
Basil: I just want to keep the riff-raff away, dear.
Meanwhile in the kitchen, André and Kurt are talking; Manuel is busying himself.
André: Well, good luck, my old friend. It’s good to have you down here.
Kurt: Thank you for . . . well, you know.
André: Don’t mention it . . . nice to have met you, Manuel.
Kurt (putting an arm round Manuel): He’s my friend.
Manuel: One night I cook you both paella.
They both laugh. André turns to leave.
André: And, Kurt . . . (waves an admonishing finger)
Kurt: . . . You don’t trust me?
Kurt (grandiloquently): Manuel! Together, you and I make Fawlty Towers famous for its cooking!
Manuel: Qué?
Kurt: Excellent . . . tip-top . . . famosos . . . oh, you are so cute! (He kisses Manuel’s forehead.)
In the dining room; it is Gourmet Night. A hand-painted Polly-style menu proclaims ‘Gourmet Night at Fawlty Towers’. Basil is adjusting cutlery on one of the tables. He picks up a spoon and looks at it.
Basil: Manuel! (Manuel takes the spoon, breathes heavily on it, wipes it on his napkin and replaces it; Basil picks it up and gives it to him again) Get a clean one.
Manuel: Is clean now.
Basil (wiping the spoon on Manuel’s hair): Is dirty now.
Manuel runs off with it. The phone at reception is heard to ring. Basil studies the menu with disapproval.
Polly (coming in): Do you like the menu, Mr. Fawlty?
Basil: No I don’t.
Polly: Oh good.
Basil: . . . What?
Polly: Thank you. Thank you so much.
She exits, passing Manuel who comes in with a new spoon. He goes to put it down on the table.
Basil: Give it to me, give it to me . . . thank you.
Basil puts the spoon in place. They both look at it. Basil re-adjusts it. Cautiously, Manuel reaches out towards it; Basil smacks his hand.
Sybil (coming in from the lobby): Well, Basil, guess who’s just called to cancel at twelve minutes past seven?
Basil: Who?
Sybil: The Coosters.
Basil: What!? All four?
Sybil: Marvellous, isn’t it.
Basil: Aagh! What did they say?
Sybil: One of them’s ill.
Basil: Well, let’s hope it’s nothing trivial.
Sybil: You realize there are four people at our grand opening dinner?
Basil: Never mind! Never mind!
Sybil: Never mind? There’s four people, Basil. Shall we feed them in the kitchen?
Basil: But think who they are . . . Colonel and Mrs. Hall, both JPs, and Lionel Twitchen, one of Torquay’s leading Rotarians.
Sybil: That’ll put us on the map.
Basil: He’s this year’s treasurer, dear.
Sybil: I should never have let you write that advert. Fancy putting ‘No riff-raff’. (exits)
Basil (calling after her): When you’re presenting haute cuisine, you don’t want the working class sticking its nose in it. (he looks into the kitchen, where Polly is preparing some food) Everything all right? Where’s Kurt?