Guess Who Came to Dinner? - Fat Dogs and French Estates - page 53

after all, and perhaps other potential restaurant users were either straddling huge breakers
or lazing on a beach somewhere.
The dining area was clean and tidy and the all-important moules frites dish was
proudly displayed in several languages involving 'Z's' and 'X's' on the blackboard outside.
So we sat down to enjoy our last supper on the west coast. And indeed we did. This was in
spite of managing the constant risk of napkin combustion posed by the 8 altar-sized candles
that had been sensitively positioned about our table. The French are such romantics.
Nicely replete, we sipped our scrumptious local digestif and began excitedly discuss-
ing our plans for the next day. Suddenly Biff became extremely agitated and stared fixedly
in the direction of the kitchen. I followed his line of sight, thinking that he'd spotted a pair
of black trousers but no, a very large cockroach had niftily negotiated the swish of the doors
and was calmly strolling towards us. With an involuntary gasp I pointed at the offender.
This caught the attention of the waiter who instantly threw up his hands in despair and
started shrieking various curses at the creature. He then flung a tea towel in its general dir-
ection and began babbling words of apology. The tea towel was now mobile. As it inched
inexorably closer, the poor man started to swat desperately at it with a napkin he'd grabbed
from another table.
“Don't worry I'll just pick it up,” said Jack, trying to be helpful.
But as he stretched towards the towel, Biff assumed we were under attack and that re-
inforcements were required. He darted out from under the table, pounced on the lump and
started shredding the material.
“ Non, non, non, non! ” screeched the waiter, looking virtually suicidal.
“You little bugger, come here! ” yelled Jack.
The hapless waiter was now completely beside himself. Flapping around the edges
and doing nothing useful at all, he babbled frantically as we fought to regain control of the
situation and the dog. This commotion brought a very large chef out from the kitchen. A
hurried exchange between him and the waiter resulted in the production of a long-handled
broom and dustpan. The chef then used the brush to great effect by bashing what was left
of the towel until the demise of the cockroach was certain. He then calmly swept the whole
sorry clump onto his pan, nodded to us and retired to his kitchen.
“Hope he's not going to cook it,” said Jack.
The positive upshot of the incident was a modest discount off the meal, which was
subsequently negated by the tip from Jack who decided that the waiter might need a little
extra to buy some sedatives.
The following morning was another beautiful day. I'd arranged for us to stay at a dog-
friendly auberge in Mirepoix, a town in the Midi-Pyrénées region. It was around 400 kilo-
metres away and would take about four hours to get there. Our arrival was planned for late
afternoon which gave us ample time for a final stroll along a beach that was now littered
with sleeping bags containing our surfer-buddies.