or
Mon petit dejeuner sur l'herbe et ‘gross’ dejeuner avec l'Herbert.
It was like that impressionist painting of the picnic in the woods, except neither of the girls were naked, there were only three of us and I had forgotten my tasselled hat. What we did have was champagne, a large bottle of quality fizz much too good for breakfast at a Craft Fair. Misha was telling us, her friends, Jilly and me that is, how she had been forced to win it, when a pushy raffle-ticket seller had cornered her during a guilty moment at the home-made cream-cakes stall. “I warn you,” Misha had told them, more for mischief than in truth, “It's always my number that comes up.” Apparently they'd been most unpleasant when her prophesy had come true.
The tree strewn pasture, where we were camped behind our host's stately home, was easily as beautiful as Manet's Bois de Boulogne. The high summer morning held the promise of being a real scorcher. Thankfully, a cooling breeze was keeping the flies at bay, a service we hoped it would continue to provide inside the huge marquees where we would be spending the rest of the day.
Dotted around us, the other crafts exhibitors were also breakfasting, some outside their tents, others in their caravanettes or under awnings. Seemingly, many were taking amused note of our bubbly substitute for coffee. The three of us were old friends, mutual veterans of many shows, each with our own crafts and separate stands. Misha made clocks, Jilly silver jewellery and I was just a potter. The fact that we breakfasted together that day was mere serendipity, such was the social cohesion of the strangely cosmopolitan mix of people supporting the shows, the breakfast groupings could have been any of many possibilities. What made ours special in the eyes of the observers was the champagne and that only in the light of what happened later.
In those glorious days of the late-seventies, a well organised three day show such as that, with nearly four-hundred top-ranking exhibitors, would have attracted over ten-thousand people per day and more on the bank-holiday Monday. It was going to be hot and busy, so we would be trapped at our stalls by the hoards of punters. Being under such a siege was exhausting. Fortunately our over-heated bodies usually substituted sweating for urination, so, so long as you kept up a steady input of good clean liquid, preferably laced with energy-giving fructose, you would survive. I had two cartons of apple juice, but when I took them out of the van, discovered both of them had a manufacturing fault. The threatened leakage would be disastrous. I urgently needed containers into which I could decant them and immediately thought of the Champers bottle. Misha was about to bin it when I caught up with her. That coped with one carton and Jilly found me a scotch bottle for the rest. So with preparation complete, I manned my stand. We were in different marquees, so for the day our social groupings rearranged themselves. Mine was a corner stand by the entrance, something I paid extra for. Beside me were the candle-makers who always liked to be next to a potter, again we were old friends. The crowds, queuing outside since nine o'clock, were unleashed and mayhem struck. I reckoned to average a take of about ten pence per head of the gate, from an average sale value of two pounds fifty. Transferring that weight of pottery and cash meant action, fast and hard, the level of my small change and wrapping paper soon began to fall, as did the level of liquid in the bottles.
The morning was busy, but not so busy that I didn't have time to pour the apple juice from the scotch bottle into a plastic tumbler before drinking it. Apparently, to my fellow exhibitors who were still gossiping about our champagne breakfast, this looked like alcoholism gone mad. Of course I didn't realise what sort of impression I was giving, although I was getting a little worried at the odd way people were looking at me. By two o'clock they must have been expecting me to start slurring my speech and reeling around, especially as by then I was swigging directly from the champagne bottle. The candle-makers even went so far as to bring me a large mug of black coffee served with a silent sympathetic smile. Then the show was over and I suddenly found myself, rather than craft pottery, the centre of attraction.
“You're still feeling OK?” someone asked. “I could never drink from the bottle like that,” said another. “Are you sure you can manage to clear-up all right?” queried yet another.
“Fine, thanks,” “I lost the glass,” and “No problem,” were my answers.
Then Misha and Jilly came to the rescue, drawn by the crowd and spreading rumours.
“He doesn't know!” they gurgled to each other, “We've got here just in time, a couple more minutes and they'd have been dragging him off to Alcoholic's Anonymous.”
“Look here,” I said, “Would somebody please explain. I've had a great day, lots of money, loads of happy customers and just enough apple-juice to see me through.”
“Apple-juice!!??” came the chorus, “But...” - Curiously, despite the exposure of the truth, I kept the reputation.
Notoriety, like rumour, travels on the wind and, as I was soon to discover, appears in rags and tatters hung on every unlikely twig. The exhibition was finished, the marquees struck, clearing-up complete, my van was loaded and I was heading for the gate joining our camp-site to the main-road. As I approached, Misha's van blocked mine. “Jilly and I are going for a meal, like to join us?”
“Great Idea, but where shall we go?” I replied.
“Did you notice that vegetarian restaurant in the little town we passed on the way here?”
“You mean ‘The Seven Brides for Seven Brothers’ who could miss it with a name like that? I s'pose it must have started out as a pub.”
“That's the one, shall we try it?”
“See you there,” I agreed, following them out of the gate.
When our two vans reached the small town, it was about seven-thirty and the place seemed deserted. The restaurant car-park was empty and when we pushed open the door, so was the cocktail-bar and dining-room. The place had the air of being rather more posh than the outside had suggested. We suddenly felt rather out-of-place and had there been customers in evidence, we would probably have turned tail and looked for somewhere else. I was wearing cut-off jeans with fashionably frayed edges and a Suzi Quatro tee-shirt, the two girls were barefoot and minimally covered by brightly coloured shorts and loose fitting halter-tops. As a party we were sun-warmed fragrant, grubby and somewhat dishevelled. We decided to brazen it out, custom was custom and we certainly had plenty of cash on us.
A tall dark-haired man appeared out of the kitchen. He looked remarkably cool in his three piece suit with napkin on the arm, but to our surprise his welcome was warm and friendly. Perhaps it pleased him to indulge us, or maybe he was just desperate for human company and was prepared to accept us as a near substitute. The best table was offered, although I was amused to notice that it was also the one furthest from the window. We sat, the girls on one side, me on the other. Menus were distributed. The maitre offered the wine list, then withdrew it with the words, “Mais non, if you are who I think, champagne would seem to be more appropriate.” That set the bells ringing, did he really know who we were? And if not, who the heck did he take us for?
“A carafe of house-white would be fine,” called Misha, to the man's departing back. We looked around. The standard comment at that point would have been “This is nice!” but nobody made it. Companionable silence reigned as we scanned the menu. The peace of the moment was wonderfully welcome after such a hectic day. As our ears attuned, we became aware of a subdued argument coming from the kitchens, the maitre's voice pitched on the dangerous edge of defensive and an unbroken tirade from a female. They were obviously trying to hold it down and because of the thickness of the kitchen door the words were too muffled for us catch the sense.
“Do you think we should leave?” asked Jilly, just as the man returned, still cucumber cool, apart from a slightly haunted look behind the eyes, and playing the role of “mine host” to perfection.
A carafe was produced and our glasses filled without the standard formalities. Surprisingly, it was an excellent champagne, whatever was the chap playing at? Misha baffled him in turn by wanting to know if he was lucky in raffles. Then we attempted to place our orders and all went normally, until we came to the choice of vegetables. For some reason he seemed to want to sell us the cauliflower. Never have I heard such poetic descriptions of how it had been lovingly grown, nurtured, humanely slaughtered and steamed to exactly the right toothsome texture. “I've gone off cauliflower,” announced Misha, at about the moment he mentioned its slaughtering. Jilly muttered that it was possible to over-sell a good thing. I said, “Carrots, mange-tout, new-potatoes, yes. Cauliflower, no, I don't think so.”
We expected that to be the end of it. The maitre returned to the kitchen and the distant argument resumed. We were still in two minds as to whether to stay, or down the champagne and leg-it. But while we were silently debating the subject, by means of gesture and eye-contact, the food arrived. It looked and smelled wonderful, especially as the champagne had freshened up our appetites. The problem was that the portions of vegetables were minuscule. A lonely undersized potato, a finger carrot and half, yes half, a mange-tout seemed rather mean and this was well before anyone had thought of nouvelle cuisine.
“I think we'd prefer larger helpings of vegetables,” I said, with a grin. This was obviously some sort of joke, but by who against whom was yet to become clear. Perhaps the presence of the unseen, but obviously malevolent, woman in the kitchen might now be making itself felt.
“I'll see what I can do,” apologised the man, with a conspiratorial nod towards the service door. He left us looking at each other in amazement. If he had wanted to keep us guessing, he was doing jolly well, a wonderful air of anticipation was growing. What would be next? We should have known, all this was a build-up for the entrance of the cauliflower.
“I'm sorry, this is all we have,” the man was apologising again, as he produced a large willow-pattern tureen from under a white cloth with the practised flourish of a magician. Once in the centre of both the table and our attention, he removed the lid and stepped back. Misha dared the challenge, picking up a serving spoon she scooped a portion of the vegetable onto her plate and burst into laughter. Beneath the pristine surface, tucked carefully between the florets, were several large, plastic bluebottles. Misha's face was a picture and I thought the maitre was either going to burst or wet himself. It was the first time I had ever glimpsed hysteria behind such a poker-face.
“I'm terrible sorry,” he sobbed, still attempting not to laugh, “It's the wife, you know!”
“You married a bluebottle infested cauliflower?” asked Jilly, in all earnestness.
He did manage to collect our plates before his face broke and he rushed out. The angry exchange beyond the kitchen door resumed as soon as it had closed behind him.
“What the Hell are they arguing about in there?” asked Jilly, expressing our common feeling of intrigue. Were the food jokes his or hers? Was this an honest attempt at providing an entertaining meal or a calculated outrage. Which of the seven brides and brothers were we in the clutches of? Would we survive to tell the tale? Would he? Was the harridan in the Kitchen really his wife?
Within moments replacement meals arrived, generous and wholesome, there were even helpings of fly-free cauliflower and another bottle of champagne. After such a wonderfully orchestrated performance, what could we do but eat, clearing the plates of everything except the cauliflower. The maitre, as soon as he was satisfied we were taking it all good-naturedly, had faded into the, by then, strangely quiet kitchen - what had he done with the woman, I wondered?
The course complete, our entertainer returned with the sweets menu. In the calm of considering the choice between fresh-fruit salad or summer pudding, I began to think the show was over. Then I noticed the tears of stifled mirth in the girls” eyes, the rat still had one last trick up his sleeve. The Herbert was standing behind me with two pudding spoons, holding them behind my head to make Bugs Bunny ears. “It is a vegetarian restaurant, you know! Sir,” was all he said as I turned and caught him in the act. I suppose I had to laugh, it was no more than I had been getting all day. Which made me wonder whether he had been stalking us since breakfast. Then he had the nerve to bring us a bill, which, since the champagne was charged as house-white, we paid exactly.
“Don't I get a tip?” he asked. “Certainly,” grinned Misha, who liked the old jokes best, “Treat your customers with more respect!” He smiled a sad smile, then held open the door for us as he sighed, “Where does one have to go for true appreciation?”
Jilly gave him a consolation kiss and we waved goodbye. He closed the door behind us. Then we saw the sign thrown down behind the low wall between car-park and highway. It was an estate-agent's board with a large red stick-on label, “SOLD by Order of the Official Receiver” it said. So he had nothing left to lose, that explained his peculiar behaviour, but we never did find out what the kitchen argument had been about.
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