The Cafe

It is something we both rather looked forward to in France. French cafés are very different from the village pub. I’m quite a pub man and certainly enjoy a pint of bitter but the French café is so quintessentially, well French. Ours is on the main road through the village, typically named Le Café des Sports. It’s pretty non-descript from the outside, but everyone knows if you want to know what’s going on, you just have to drop by and order a coffee at the café. Jeff had told us ours is run by Giselle and her grouchy husband Eric (I say husband, but have no idea if they are actually married). Giselle is quite something, done up a bit like a picture out a 70’s magazine – she is of that generation, though with the hair dye and hefty makeup it is a tad difficult to tell her precise age.

Monica and I thought we should make ourselves known there as a matter of priority. We took seats at one of the tables – regulation plastic top and somewhat uncomfortable chairs – and ordered a couple of café au laits from Giselle. She bellowed across the café to Eric, who banged away at the expresso machine making those whooshing noises with the milk frother. She slammed them down on the table and demanded six euros, which I thought a bit steep, given the size of the cups. But it was very French, the essence of the Gallic temperament the way she slapped the cups down, spilling coffee in the saucers and instantly demanding money. I mean, it is just absolutely part of the French way of life, why we came here.

As we sipped the coffee (not much taste, but that’s typical), we began to notice three men at the bar staring at us with blank expressions. I smiled at one of them, but his expression didn’t change a jot. He just stared back, then slowly revolved on his bar stool, at the same time making an exceptionally loud throat clearing noise and I really thought he was going to spit on the floor. I remember that from a school trip to Paris in younger days, when the sign Defence de Crasher  seemed to be entirely ignored. The other two were still staring so I sort of nodded and smiled at them, but they just slowly turned their heads away towards the television, blaring in the corner.

“Mind if I sit down,” said a voice behind me. A bald man with a shaven head wearing shorts and a somewhat ragged tee-shirt – rather unseasonal, given it is November – beamed down at Monica and me. “I’m Gary,” he said, holding out a hand for shaking. “Live round the corner, often in here.” He turned and shouted at the bar, “Giselle darling, bring us un pression.” He turned back to us grinning. “She loves that, being called darling, specially by me.” He sat down and started to tell us all about the village and how he’d lived her for six months and loved it. “Never go, not now. French way of life. Just brilliant.”

He is the sort of chap you really want to avoid. I’m afraid to say, I think he’s a bit of a lout. We finished our coffee, made our excuses and left.