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The Restaurant experience
Having put the remaining serviceable fenders out the restaurant’s little skiff is able to pull alongside and we prepare to transfer ourselves in to the boat. The young man in charge is particularly amicable, by French standards, and nobly assists TB into the boat. Unfortunately this assistance is not proffered to me and my left foot catches his gunwale, luckily both pride and dignity are upheld as I land on TB, with the only damage being a broken pair of sunglasses.
Now one of the primary reasons for boating on the Cote d’Azur is so that you can do lunch. Initially that might sound like nonsense so I should explain. Firstly all the beach dwellers think that you must be either film stars or drug runners so you become the focus of attention as they all peer to see if they recognise you. Secondly there are the economics; all decent med waterside restaurants have their own ‘beaches’ where they exclusively provide matelas/towels/watersports/drink at great cost to the imprisoned day bronzers. The advantage to the boater being that you at least get to provide your own booze for most of the day thereby saving squillions of euros over the course of the year. I should add that TB has never totally bought in to this second argument as a reason for boat purchase however she is coming around.
As our little skiff pulls up to our chosen restaurant, Keller Beach, I am delighted to see that the assembled masses seem to mistakenly recognise me as either Robert Redford or Steve Martin as they rise as one from their sun beds to applaud our arrival. I continue the deception with a friendly royal ‘wave’ in acknowledgement. TB, however, is shunning this spontaneous public display of adulation and seems to be trying to hide behind a sandcastle some 20 metres behind me. I know she is vertically challenged but that is a ridiculous hiding place. I drag her out and, despite her obviously unfounded protestations that the assembled masses are taking the piss having seen the shenanigans in the bay, I insist on her taking a small bow with me. After all, it’s not fair that I get all the adulation is it?
Lunch
The Maitre D greets us and I suggest that a nice upstairs table for 2 would be nice. He points out that ‘Madame has booked a table for four’. I am devastated. Not only do I lose the opportunity to recover from some of the morning’s minor mishaps but I also have the dubious pleasure of Mother and Father in law for company. Now please don’t let me seem ungrateful or in any way bigoted against our garlic-breathing, if occasionally lazy, closest neighbours but after my tribulations of the morning I really don’t want to be forced to speak French all through lunch. The M-I-L insists on this whenever she is in my company despite they themselves having lived in Blighty for 40 years. I’ve never really got on with her since I suggested that she would have made a good American. She was delighted at first until she realised my views on the intellectual prowess of the planet’s major super power. The F-I-L is of course long-suffering and typically French, believing that alcoholism is disgusting whilst steadfastly defending ‘La Biere’ as a non-alcoholic beverage. He is a professional bodger however, and I know I am about to be offered assistance with the manky engine.
Foie Gras, Crevettes and a nice little Chateau Rasque Rose are well received, the only blight being when TB threatens the wine waiter with castration if he dares to deliver my order for a second bottle of the fortified grape juice. Readers, you can now see that I am not all bad, particularly as I had very intention of ordering a third bottle until this unfortunate intervention by TB.
Conversation is normal family stuff: Boats are expensive Blah, Blah: Brits are rude Blah, Blah: Couldn’t you find a better mate Blah, Blah. My ears however do pick up at one verbal exchange. It transpires that the in-laws have heard on the car radio that the Monegasque National Guard have been called out as there appears to be a terrorist attack imminent on Monaco. My understanding is that a chemical cloud has been sited over the sea drifting slowly towards the principality. How typical of the French to over react I think; but as I know the source of the ‘chemical’ cloud is undoubtedly my Cranchi’s engine what other conclusion can I draw? Mind you ‘ V*7*o – sponsored by Bin Laden’ might be a strap-line which would find favour with some MoBo chat regulars.
I neatly avoid paying for the bill when it arrives due to not being sure what my credit card limit is. Self – satisfaction is soon under threat. TB suggests that it would be good company if M-I-L and F-I-L join us on the trip back to Golfe Juan. I respectfully point out that this would leave their car in the wrong place and is constantly impractical. As I am about to congratulate myself on my perceptive brain, all three chorus that they had foreseen this eventuality and consequently they had arrived by taxi. I feel as if my ‘chemical’ cloud is encircling my head. Not only do I have to look after TB but I am going to have to listen to M-I-L whinge en route whilst keeping a beady eye on F-I-L who will undoubtedly try and use his Blue Peter training to erect a Bimini using bog paper and VHF aerials with the raising mechanism driven by the windlass via a rope connection.
Return to Fender ( Sorry Elvis fans)
The trip back raises my spirits. That is until we arrive alongside and I realise that some thieving gits have been on the boat and stolen two of the remaining serviceable fenders. TB suggests that possibly they have been badly attached and simply fallen off. I point out that this could not be true as I put them out and not her. Meanwhile F-I-L has found his way into the cubby and is removing the back panel to the instruments. I am quite impressed as I did not there was one there but suggest he comes on deck in case he gets seasick. I have not yet dared to tell him about our sick engine.
I prepare the boat for the passage (I read that in MBY as well, sounds brilliant). My checklist is quite simple. Fenders (both of them) in, Raise the anchor, Turn the key, Bellow ‘SIT DOWN’ and we’re off. Fortunately the fender-thieves appear to have dropped one of their prizes in the water as they made good their escape and we practice MOB recovery techniques. Well, something like that, although I am not sure that a fully clothed adult could really be saved by two 70 year olds holding on to their daughters legs as she trawls the water in a boat driven by someone who finds getting within 5 yards of anything a difficult procedure, do you?
To Be Continued ( Jeez this is getting boring)
<hr width=100% size=1><font color=blue>I am WHAT I say I am</font color=blue>
Having put the remaining serviceable fenders out the restaurant’s little skiff is able to pull alongside and we prepare to transfer ourselves in to the boat. The young man in charge is particularly amicable, by French standards, and nobly assists TB into the boat. Unfortunately this assistance is not proffered to me and my left foot catches his gunwale, luckily both pride and dignity are upheld as I land on TB, with the only damage being a broken pair of sunglasses.
Now one of the primary reasons for boating on the Cote d’Azur is so that you can do lunch. Initially that might sound like nonsense so I should explain. Firstly all the beach dwellers think that you must be either film stars or drug runners so you become the focus of attention as they all peer to see if they recognise you. Secondly there are the economics; all decent med waterside restaurants have their own ‘beaches’ where they exclusively provide matelas/towels/watersports/drink at great cost to the imprisoned day bronzers. The advantage to the boater being that you at least get to provide your own booze for most of the day thereby saving squillions of euros over the course of the year. I should add that TB has never totally bought in to this second argument as a reason for boat purchase however she is coming around.
As our little skiff pulls up to our chosen restaurant, Keller Beach, I am delighted to see that the assembled masses seem to mistakenly recognise me as either Robert Redford or Steve Martin as they rise as one from their sun beds to applaud our arrival. I continue the deception with a friendly royal ‘wave’ in acknowledgement. TB, however, is shunning this spontaneous public display of adulation and seems to be trying to hide behind a sandcastle some 20 metres behind me. I know she is vertically challenged but that is a ridiculous hiding place. I drag her out and, despite her obviously unfounded protestations that the assembled masses are taking the piss having seen the shenanigans in the bay, I insist on her taking a small bow with me. After all, it’s not fair that I get all the adulation is it?
Lunch
The Maitre D greets us and I suggest that a nice upstairs table for 2 would be nice. He points out that ‘Madame has booked a table for four’. I am devastated. Not only do I lose the opportunity to recover from some of the morning’s minor mishaps but I also have the dubious pleasure of Mother and Father in law for company. Now please don’t let me seem ungrateful or in any way bigoted against our garlic-breathing, if occasionally lazy, closest neighbours but after my tribulations of the morning I really don’t want to be forced to speak French all through lunch. The M-I-L insists on this whenever she is in my company despite they themselves having lived in Blighty for 40 years. I’ve never really got on with her since I suggested that she would have made a good American. She was delighted at first until she realised my views on the intellectual prowess of the planet’s major super power. The F-I-L is of course long-suffering and typically French, believing that alcoholism is disgusting whilst steadfastly defending ‘La Biere’ as a non-alcoholic beverage. He is a professional bodger however, and I know I am about to be offered assistance with the manky engine.
Foie Gras, Crevettes and a nice little Chateau Rasque Rose are well received, the only blight being when TB threatens the wine waiter with castration if he dares to deliver my order for a second bottle of the fortified grape juice. Readers, you can now see that I am not all bad, particularly as I had very intention of ordering a third bottle until this unfortunate intervention by TB.
Conversation is normal family stuff: Boats are expensive Blah, Blah: Brits are rude Blah, Blah: Couldn’t you find a better mate Blah, Blah. My ears however do pick up at one verbal exchange. It transpires that the in-laws have heard on the car radio that the Monegasque National Guard have been called out as there appears to be a terrorist attack imminent on Monaco. My understanding is that a chemical cloud has been sited over the sea drifting slowly towards the principality. How typical of the French to over react I think; but as I know the source of the ‘chemical’ cloud is undoubtedly my Cranchi’s engine what other conclusion can I draw? Mind you ‘ V*7*o – sponsored by Bin Laden’ might be a strap-line which would find favour with some MoBo chat regulars.
I neatly avoid paying for the bill when it arrives due to not being sure what my credit card limit is. Self – satisfaction is soon under threat. TB suggests that it would be good company if M-I-L and F-I-L join us on the trip back to Golfe Juan. I respectfully point out that this would leave their car in the wrong place and is constantly impractical. As I am about to congratulate myself on my perceptive brain, all three chorus that they had foreseen this eventuality and consequently they had arrived by taxi. I feel as if my ‘chemical’ cloud is encircling my head. Not only do I have to look after TB but I am going to have to listen to M-I-L whinge en route whilst keeping a beady eye on F-I-L who will undoubtedly try and use his Blue Peter training to erect a Bimini using bog paper and VHF aerials with the raising mechanism driven by the windlass via a rope connection.
Return to Fender ( Sorry Elvis fans)
The trip back raises my spirits. That is until we arrive alongside and I realise that some thieving gits have been on the boat and stolen two of the remaining serviceable fenders. TB suggests that possibly they have been badly attached and simply fallen off. I point out that this could not be true as I put them out and not her. Meanwhile F-I-L has found his way into the cubby and is removing the back panel to the instruments. I am quite impressed as I did not there was one there but suggest he comes on deck in case he gets seasick. I have not yet dared to tell him about our sick engine.
I prepare the boat for the passage (I read that in MBY as well, sounds brilliant). My checklist is quite simple. Fenders (both of them) in, Raise the anchor, Turn the key, Bellow ‘SIT DOWN’ and we’re off. Fortunately the fender-thieves appear to have dropped one of their prizes in the water as they made good their escape and we practice MOB recovery techniques. Well, something like that, although I am not sure that a fully clothed adult could really be saved by two 70 year olds holding on to their daughters legs as she trawls the water in a boat driven by someone who finds getting within 5 yards of anything a difficult procedure, do you?
To Be Continued ( Jeez this is getting boring)
<hr width=100% size=1><font color=blue>I am WHAT I say I am</font color=blue>
