A Yorkshire Lad - Fat Dogs and French Estates - page 142

“Oh no, there's been some misunderstanding. Mrs Potter, our estate agent, made the
booking for us and I made it quite clear that it was for tonight.”
“Ah, this is explaining it. These English people they are late for a dinner reservation
last month. I forget nothing! So you must now sit immediately and take a drink. André!”
she said, turning to the terrified bag-holder, “André, tu veux bien emmener les chiens faire
une petite promenade, s'il te plaît .” (André, please take the dogs for a little walk.)
“ Oui Grand-mère ,” (Yes, Grandmother) he replied meekly, instantly dropping our
bags. He gently removed the leads from Jack's hand and hurried out with the dogs for a
walk.
As it turned out, madame was an absolute gem. She had a heart of gold and ran her
auberge with the efficiency and discipline of an admiral. However, it became abundantly
clear, even at this early stage, that she was not a person to be trifled with.
After enjoying a quick reviving drink we were taken to the apartment. It was perfect.
A small rustic stone stairway led to a self-contained suite comprising a tiny hall, big bed-
room with easy chairs and a bathroom of equal size. The bedroom even had wall-length
patio doors which opened on to a private terrace. It may have been a bit shabby, but it was
clean and ideal for us.
As I was unpacking, the dogs were returned looking very content if a little damp.
Young André explained.
“ Grand-mère tells me to take the dogs to swimming in the pool to make them fresh
after the journey hot. Grand-mère , she is sage.”
“Damn good English speakers this lot. God, that woman's a bloody saint. Now they'll
be buggered and just go to sleep after supper. Brilliant!” said the thoroughly impressed
Jack.
As predicted, after the dogs had eaten, their usual post-walk poo turned into an ex-
tremely rapid affair and we left them snoozing gently in the apartment. We returned to the
restaurant taking care not to be late for our 9:00pm reservation, only to find madame at the
helm and in complete control once again. She pointed at a very nicely appointed table.
“You will sit there,” she said.
Approximately two minutes later a glass of champagne was placed before me, a gin
and tonic for Jack and some canapés were left discreetly on the table.
“This woman's fantastic,” Jack exclaimed, reaching for the tumbler. A little while later
she reappeared, this time armed with three menus, two of which she plonked down in front
of us, firmly closed. As it turned out there was no point in us having them in the first place
because with no hesitation at all she opened them both, stabbed the à la carte section with
a gnarled finger and told us what we were going to eat. She then opened the wine menu,
which was the size of one of the lawyer's tomes on divorce, and chose our wines for the
evening. That complete, she gave us an accusing stare.
“You can choose your dessert yourself. We have many and they are all excellent.”