The customer is king, the equestrian rulebook is just a garnish – An evening at 'The Narciss' restaurant

When the showground turns into a gourmet temple for rule-gourmands.

The modern showgrounds are not for athletes, but more for guests in a high-end restaurant. The problem: the menu is laid out on the tables, but most guests order what isn't on the list anyway - whatever flatters their own ego and that of their sponsors.

The Reception: "Do you have a reservation?" 

As soon as you enter the warm-up area - which acts as the "foyer" in this restaurant - it becomes clear: This is about prestige. If you aren't a regular or haven't booked a table for a large group or an entire floor, you are promptly shown the door.

"Did you reserve a table for 'criticism' today?" the ring steward, acting as the bouncer, asks a welfare activist with a sneer. "Yes? Then please leave. This is a private party today."

The Order: "I'd like the rules à la carte, please - medium-rare" 

The real drama starts when ordering. A classic order today sounds something like this:

• The Appetizer: "Animal Welfare Carpaccio (Paper-thin)": "I’d like the interpretation of the rules, but make it extremely thin. Leave out the tough bits like 'suppleness' and 'partnership.' Just top it with a dressing of 'visual flash.' I get heartburn in the arena if I think about my horse having an independent mind."

• The Main Course: "The Comfort Bridle (Allergy-friendly)": "I suffer from a severe intolerance to the regulations on permissible bits. Could you make the rules and regulations a bit spicier today? I’d like the noseband-curb-chain menu with an extra pinch of 'pressure maximization,' garnished with a dash of 'the steward will look the other way.' Serve it so tight that not a single blade of grass could fit in between."

• The "Allergy" Table: Some riders have an allergy to Section § 12.5 (Treatment of the Horse). "Could you please strike the whip from the menu? I can't tolerate the phrase 'excessive use' - it triggers my success. Could we list it as 'energetic motivational support' on the card instead?"

• The Side Dish: "Distance-Guessing (Lactose-free)": Particularly popular in the jumping course. "I have a severe intolerance to correct distances. Could you serve the combination so that five galloping meters are missing? I’ll take that with a dash of 'blind faith' and a large helping of 'eyes shut and through.' If the rail drops, it’s the kitchen’s fault."

  
  

The Waiter (The Judge) as a Supplicant 

In any normal restaurant, a waiter would take such absurd requests to the kitchen and ask the chef what to do. Here, it’s different: the judge or steward is no longer an impartial official, but a chronically overwhelmed head waiter who has to worry about his tip (the next judging/steward contract). When a rider is served the plate of "disqualification," they don't react with humility. They call the waiter over:

"Excuse me! My ride was ordered as a 'victory.' Why am I seeing a 'doping' accusation on my plate? Take this back; I want to speak to the manager!"

The Bill: "Put it on the Federation’s tab" 

The best part comes last: the bill. Usually, riders should pay the full price for rule violations (disqualification, suspension, fines). But in this restaurant, there seems to be a flat-rate mentality.

"Oh, just put that on the Federation’s tab," one hears. "I’m a regular! My sponsors took over the tournament funding last year and bought several VIP tables at another event. My sponsors create jobs! Surely we can overlook a little bit of 'rule interpretation,' right?"

The Dessert: "The Bitter Aftertaste of hot air and zero substance"

​The house specialty is served tableside: A soufflé piled as high as the guests' own self-esteem and as fragile as the rulebook itself. It is a masterpiece of hot air, propped up by a flimsy scaffolding of sponsor money.

​It is a mesmerizing spectacle. Every guest stares spellbound at the plate while the waiter - the judge or steward, with a trembling hand - serves the dessert. It quivers, it wobbles, threatening to collapse at the slightest movement of the cutlery. But as long as you don't pierce it, as long as you don't break the surface, the illusion remains perfectly intact.

​The guests admire the view, praising the consistency of the ignorance and finding the airy lightness of the moral standards "exquisite." Yet, nobody dares to actually use their spoon. Because everyone at the table knows: one sharp poke, and all that hot air escapes, leaving nothing but a ugly, wet, cold lump stuck to the bottom of the plate.

​But in 'The Narciss', they don't fear reality. They simply order the next soufflé. The bill? Discreetly slid under the carpet.

The show goes on, the ingredients prepared, the batter for the next round already mixed - with extra air and absolutely zero substance.