Fans and peeled grapes

One of my pet hates is waiters who pour your wine for you in restaurants. Last night J and I were in a little South Indian restaraunt, and she was about to refill our glasses when one of the waiters swept in and literally snatched the bottle from her hands. He moved so fast he could have given Usain Bolt a run for his money. As J said, did he think her girly wrists were too weak to lift it? While the food was delicious, we did find the over-attentiveness of the service a little unnerving. They were by no means empty, but there were still no less than four waiters hanging over us, and we could barely manage to get through a mouthful without one of them dashing over to obsequiously ask if everything was ok. By the time we left I half expected the man who sprang to open the door for us to drop a curtsey as we passed.