Bron-4

Continued from Chapter 3: Bron-3 | ABCtales

Chapter 4

Bron peered at Mon Despoir’s menu. “Liver with marmalade? Must be having a laugh.”

“It’s not marmalade like you put on toast, Bron. More of a sauce, a jus,” Geoff explained

“A jooce?”

“Yes, like gravy.”

They were sitting in the window. When Chris and Geoff had come through the door, leading the way, the maitre d’ had steered them towards the table near the kitchen door. But he had executed a quick pirouette on his heel when Bron entered a few seconds behind them and steered them towards the best table, at the front of the restaurant.

The meal at one of London’s most expensive restaurants was a peace-offering to make up for the swimming pool episode. It had practically cleaned out West Two Productions’ coffers.

“Does it come with anything? Like potatoes? Or chips?”

“Dauphinoise potatoes?” said Chris.

"Er, yes.”

The sommelier appeared.

“If Bron’s having the liver, maybe the Barbera d'Alba or Pinot Noir?” Geoff ventured.

“Why?”

“Why what, Bron?”

“Why do I have to have the …what was it you said? Pino Noyer?”

“You don’t HAVE to have it, Bron. It’s just that it’s an appropriate….an appropriate…”

“Pairing?” said Chris.

“Yes, it’s an appropriate pairing with the calves liver.”

“Oh. Well, I won’t have much anyway. I don’t really drink.”

“Are you Chapel, Bron?” said Geoff.

“Nah! My Nan used to be Church of Wales. Me and my mam, we never bothered. Better things to do on a Sunday morning. Like sleeping…”

“Any reason, then? I mean for not drinking.”

“No…well. It could cause a lot of trouble, like.”

“Trouble?”

“Oh, you know. In the family…Just, problems…”

“So, where are the good places to eat in North Wales, Bron?” said Chris.

“Well, there’s a caff in Llanfairyngmochnant. But it’s not that good. For my parents wedding anniversary, my Uncle and Auntie drove us all the way to the Little Chef. The one near Penmaenmawr. Their jubilee pancakes are brill. And there’s the Wimpy in Bangor, only me and my friend Myfanwy got barred last summer.”

“Barred from a Wimpy bar? That’s good…”

“The manageress - she’s a cow. Myf tried to punch her…”

“So where do you like to eat in London, Bron?” Geoff broke in.

“In London? At home, in my room. But someone took me to Khan’s on Westbourne Grove once. It was brill. And someone started a fight with the waiters.”

The waiter appeared, bearing large white plates. Bron speared the three pieces of calves liver on her fork and inserted them in her mouth; then the same for the small scattering of potatoes. She mopped up the jus with the remaining half of her seeded bread roll. She took a small, distrustful sip of the Pinot Noir. The whole operation had taken less than two minutes.

“That was lovely. Can’t wait for the main course.”

“Bron, that WAS the main course.”

“WHAT? You having a laugh? They were twenty-five quid – EACH! OI! – you over there!”

The maitre d’ scuttled over to their table, clutching the menu to his chin as if it were a shield. “Something not to your satisfaction, mademoiselle? But I see you ‘ave…finished your plate.”

“Too fookin’ right I finished it! Not enough to feed a chicken there.”

“Madame it is. ‘ow you say, the fashion. Nouvelle cuisine, innit.” (The maitre d’ had lived in Stepney for 30 years; keeping up the authentic accent was a bit of an effort and he lapsed occasionally.)

“I’ll give you nouveau fookin couzin…it’s a rip off!” Chris gaped open-mouthed. “Bron, that’s really not the done thing to complain…” said Chris.

“It IS the done thing – I just done it!”

“Madamoiselle! Madamoiselle! I’ll see what I can do.” The maitre d’ reversed hastily through the swing doors into the kitchen. “The lady at table one is kicking off, says it’s too small.”

“Ain’t it just, Francois, as your Missus told me only the other day,” said the chef de cuisine, lifting his head up to peer through the small window at the top of the swing doors. “What a cutie, though. Perhaps I should give her a bit of what she wants. Sous-chef’s off tonight; she can ‘ave his dinner, if she wants.”

Mon Despoir’s staff portions were considerably heartier than those doled out to the paying public. Nobody could have done a strenuous shift in the kitchen or the front of house sustained only by a few small pieces of meat and a few potatoes.

Ten minutes later, the trio left Mon Despoir. Chris and Geoff looked mortified as Bron proudly bore two large carrier bags stuffed full of tin-foil containers stuffed with liver, potatoes, vegetables, pots of sauce and even a couple of deserts each.

Continued in Chapter 5: Bron-5 | ABCtales