Why I’ve developed an irrational hatred for a stranger from Essex

A journey through unforgivable Google reviews

There is a woman I’ve never met, living in a small town in Essex where I’ve never been, whom I think I quite hate.

I know this is irrational. It also goes against my general philosophy of showing grace and tolerance to my fellow man. But I had the misfortune of crossing paths with this woman on Google maps, and now there’s no going back. She sucks. She sucks so much I need to talk about it.

So here’s what happened. I had recently arrived in Hanoi, and was lying on my bed, phone in my hand, perusing restaurants near my hotel, when I came across a review written by a woman we’ll call Velda.

A Hanoi street

Velda had been in Vietnam a couple of weeks before me, and was liberal with her written assessments of the establishments she visited. And Velda? She was not an easy woman to please.

One night, she had decided to eat at a restaurant that served local dishes, bun cha, spring rolls, pho and the like. It was a bit more expensive than some of the other options in the area, which is to say the main meals cost around 125,000 VND – about $7 Australian dollars, or 4 pounds sterling in her money.

Who knows what level of service Velda was expecting for this princely sum. But she did not receive it.

“The waiter who stands out the front says he knows what gluten free is but proceeds to recommend a dish that he informs me has just a little soy sauce in!! Clearly does not understand what gluten free means at all!”

Velda was clearly very upset that a local man who speaks English as a second language, was not versed on the particulars of her fiddly allergy. This insult earned him two indignant exclamation marks in just one sentence.

But despite the language barrier, Velda bravely persevered with her order.

“I played it safe by having the chicken fried rice and made it very clear no soy sauce and no oyster sauce. The food was ok, but bland, nothing amazing or special hence the 2 stars.”

Now, I’m no Anthony Bourdain, but I reckon her meal might have been bland because Velda asked for all the ingredients with flavour to be removed. One might think that being English, and therefore bred to tolerate stodgy, flavourless food, Velda could stoically endure this self-inflicted problem. Clearly that was not the case.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the meal Velda found disappointing – she also thought the atmosphere was lacking.

“Having a football showing on the TV was rather annoying in me trying to have a convo with my partner who was constantly distracted by it.”

Perhaps the restaurant should have brought her a new husband? One willing to sit across the table and endure her undiluted company? Sadly, this was out of the remit of this small establishment.

This isn’t really relevant to the story, but it is a very nice picture I took of a cow.

I was staggered that anyone could write such a bumptious review. Here was a woman, rich and lucky enough to be travelling for leisure, sniping about food cooked to her instructions, in a developing country with one of the world’s weakest currencies. How could a person be so assured of their own importance? So lacking in perspective?

This all reminded me, in a roundabout way, of one of the most uncomfortable books I’ve ever flicked through (I couldn’t stomach reading it in its entirety) called The Elephant in the Brain.

This novel broadly argues that much of how people behave is driven by a need to signal and improve one’s status, and that our brains have become highly adept at hiding this selfish motivation from ourselves. ”We emphasize our pretty motives and downplay our ugly ones,” the authors write.

Or to frame this concept in another manner, everyone is the hero in their own story. Even people with the most objectionable views and behaviours go through the world, able to rationalise their actions.

In its entirety, this book is profoundly cynical and depressing. To fully agree with its conclusions (including the one which argues participation in art, science, and charity was just convoluted means to gain status) is to consider jumping off a roof.

But there may be some merit in this line of thinking, particularly if it encourages people to examine their behaviour honestly and dispassionately.

Try as we might, humans are flawed. We’ll all be the villain at some point – no one can live a full life without jilting a lover, being cruel in a fight, or selfish when one should be kind. But the path to improvement starts with reflection, unpicking our true motivations – no matter how unpleasant they might be – and resolving to be better.

Exploring the terrain of one’s internal landscape is an uncomfortable but desperately important journey. Most, I think, will take at least a few trepidatious steps into this territory.

But what of the people who don’t do this work? Who storm through life, certain of their own righteousness?

Well, I believe they write reviews like Velda.

Another Hanoi street. No cow in this one.

The Hanoi restaurant isn’t the only establishment which felt the force of her ire. One luxury hotel received a turgid 500-word essay, complaining about the staff, the food, the massages, and the busyness of surrounding roads. The hotel’s sins were many, but the french fries incident seemed to rankle the most.

Velda wrote that the chips, ordered by the side of the pool along with a couple of drinks, did not arrive with condiments. What happened next was truly appalling.

“When the French fries came, we asked for mayonnaise which the guy agreed to go and get. He came back with tomato ketchup and chilli sauce so we translated it. He went off but stopped to have a chat with his friends on the way and by the time he came back, he didn’t even have the mayonnaise. We then had to chase him up for the drinks. By the time we got those we had finished our fries.”

But at least on this occasion Velda managed to choke the food down. At another restaurant she was practically incapacitated by her desiccated throat.

“We requested drinks during our meal and waited over 20 minutes to get our drinks! In fact my partner in the end, after complaining several times to the waitress, who didn’t seem to care, went in and complained to the manager. I could not continue eating because I had no drink to wash the food down with. My food had gone cold during this time and I forced it down without in the end!”

Was it not the English who were once known for their stoicism? Their spirit? Their stiff upper lip? It’s hard to imagine Lord Nelson, for example, complaining that his beer ration arrived after his hard biscuit, while sailing to fight the French. Maybe this forbearing spirit has been diluted over the generations. But then again, I never met Nelson. Perhaps even he would have been tempted to pen the occasional snarky review had the technology been available to him (‘Hardy: terrible kisser, no passion. two stars.’).

In a world where we all feel a bit jostled and powerless, there is something seductive about being able to publicly have the last word. In truth, I’m not above a snippy online review – you could argue that’s all this article is.

And to be fair, Velda did give out five star reviews to the venues who treated her with an appropriate level of solicitousness. That shows a capacity for some generosity of spirit, I suppose. Perhaps if Velda and I met in person, I could find a way to be fond of her. Like a truffle pig snuffling about in dirt, I might dig out some commonality, or kindness not apparent in her writing.

But as it stands, all I have to go on are what she’s written online – they are a snapshot of a small person. One who travels to a developing country that is heavily dependent on tourism, and leaves in her wake a tome of damaging reviews.

So to Velda, and any traveller of her ilk, I assign you just one paltry star.

Do better.