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Duke attempts the Impossible
duke3016:
I make no apologies for most of my ramblings revolving around being in a public house. These were the heartbeat of the nation, the social centre of life itself. I am not talking about your plastic city pubs, I am taking about the real village pub.
You could be from anywhere and arrive into one of these pubs and within seconds you would be engaged in conversation, giving your life story to a complete stranger. If the government's employed these denizens of the village pub to help with their interrogations, there would be no more terrorism.
Your average Irish barman was probably the owner as well or at least a relative of the owner. Also the same barman would be the master of extracting information along with being adept at the art of repeating what you say as a question. In fact a vast majority of what comes out of the barman's mouth is a question and he/she is relentless.
As you walk in for the first time the conversation could go something like this.
Barman: “What'll ya have ?”
Tourist: “A pint of beer please”
Barman: “Is it a beer ya want ?”
Tourist: “Yes please”
Barman: “And what beer would that be ?”
Tourist: “Harp please”
Barman: “Harp is it ?”
Tourist: “Yes Please”
Barman: “and where would you be from ?”
Tourist: “South Africa”
Barman: “South Africa eh ?”
Tourist: “Yes”
Barman: “And what brings you to Ireland ?”
Tourist: “Holiday, looking up family ties”
Barman: “Holiday is it ?”
Tourist: “Yes”
Barman: “Family from around here ?”
Tourist: “Yes, from Tulla”
Barman: “From Tulla is it ?”
Tourist: “Yes”
Barman: “And who would your Father have been ?”
Tourist: “My father was South African my Mother was from Tulla”
Barman: “Father South African eh, And who is your mother ?”
Tourist: “Mary Kelly”
Barman: “Mary Kelly is it ?”
Tourist: “Yes”
Barman: “From Tulla ?”
Tourist: “Yes”
Barman: “Went to South Africa ?”
Tourist: “Yes”
Barman: “Nope don't know her, however I knew a Nancy Ryan who went to America”
Rinse and repeat for an hour and the tourist will have given up the will to live.
duke3016:
duke3016:
duke3016:
Near to Nyons was a wonderful restaurant which had a full wall of awards outside the door and came highly recommended for a meal. It was in the village of Vinsobres, built on a hill and has a delightful Priory as its focal point.
We entered the restaurant to be greeted warmly and invited to have a drink while we perused the menu. The detail of the starter's is a little hazy except that I had l'escargot beautifully marinated in a garlic mixture. The fun was to come when we ordered the main course.
Ger had spaghetti carbonara and the girls had another variation of pasta, I ordered the fillet steak and requested that it be cooked rare (“Bleu”) as that is my preference. It was not, however Gabrielle's.
“Madame?” inquired the waiter pen poised
“Fillet Steak, well done “ says she
“Pardon madam ?” says he gob open wide as a barn door
“Steak, very well done” says she
He shrugged his shoulders and looked at me. I shrugged my own shoulders and whispered.
“tres bien cuit monsieur” says I looking embarrassed
“Non, Monsieur Non” he said looking extremely afraid as he glanced at the kitchen.
“Oui” says I
He sighed and walked towards the kitchen. Gabrielle looked at me.
“What was that about” says she
“I think you might find out shortly that you have offended the chef” says I
“How?” says she
“By asking for a well done steak, you know they don't burn their food” says I
“I'm paying, I want it well done” says she.
Apart from the mute point that I was paying anyway, I stayed quiet. That was more than could be said for the kitchen. Two voices were heard in heated argument in such rapid French that I could only make out a few words. Amongst the words were references to our heritage and parentage that would, in normal circumstances, necessitate a rolling up of sleeves and invitation to the car park.
The waiter came out smiled a forced smile and departed for the front bar. The noise continued in the kitchen and then the door burst open and out came the chef, looking splendid in his high hat and apron. He strode purposely towards our table shouting unintelligibly at the top of his voice.
He stopped and stared at Gabrielle and stopped shouting.
“You want your meat like table” he said rapping his knuckles on the table
“Ok you have meat like table” and he departed into the kitchen reverting back to screaming obscenities in French.
The meal (ours anyway) was beautiful and Gabrielle ate hers in silence apart from saying it was OK. I went to pay for the bill and noticed that Gabrielle's steak was not on it. I pointed this out and was told politely that Gabrielle's steak never existed and he would be obliged if it stayed that way.
Never ask a French Chef for a well done steak. Ever --- priceless
duke3016:
When we were staying in the Chateaux Neuf region we decided to travel to Avignon after lunch, in order to see the famous “pont”. As we drove into the city there was a police road block and they were pulling every car.
As we got nearer to the head of the queue I could see they were breathalysing drivers. Now I had no drink that day as I don't drink and drive, however I had consumed a goodly amount the night before.
My mind started racing, had the excess of the night before disappeared from my bloodstream, of course it had, or had it. FFS stop worrying you're ok I told myself. As each car crept forward I started to doubt it more. Car impounded, and as Gabrielle didn't drive I might as well leave the frigging car there.
I pulled up alongside the nice policeman and he handed me the bag. It was the old manual type and not the digital one. I blew manfully into it and handed it back. FFS what was the limit here, had they set it to zero, was I fecked.
He looked at it and walked across to another policeman who checked it and shook his head. FFS what did the shake of the head mean. Did it mean that I had failed or did it mean, no unfortunately you can't shaft the driver you'll have to let him go.
They had a conversation for a while as I felt the blood drain from my body. At least if I opted for a blood test they wouldn't find any. He walked back across with that particular look that all policemen have. You know the one, it's designed to make you feel guilty about something even if you have done nothing.
Before he reached the car he waved me on and proceeded to the car behind. Relief was an understatement I was so drained, I knew I was OK because it had been over 14 hours since I had a drink, but there is always a niggling doubt in situations like that.
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