My wife, Killy and I were on holiday in Greece—sunshine, sea and the sacred daily ritual of deciding what to eat. One evening we arrived at the hotel restaurant, stomachs empty (we’d skipped lunch!) and with expectation and anticipation. A smiling waiter handed us the à la carte menu. Oh yes!

Lamb slow-roasted in honey and thyme.
Grilled prawns nestled on saffron-infused risotto.
Baklava bathed in rosewater syrup.

We were salivating!

Then, tragedy struck.

Half-board? I thought. More like half-welcome.

Before we could even get to the second syllable of "moussaka", the waiter snatched the menus away. No apology. No explanation. Just a culinary confiscation.

The waiter then said briskly. "Wrong menu. You are half-board."

Half-board? I thought. More like half-welcome.

Instead of the glories of Greek gastronomy, we were handed the half-board menu, a single sheet of paper.

Three courses. No options. Starter: "Soup." It was 85 degrees fahrenheit and I come from England. I didn’t want soup. I wanted shade and an iced coffee. Main: "Fish." Not even a choice of fish, just . . . fish. Singular.

Dessert: "Apple pie." That’s it.