Of favourite restaurants and embarrassing moments.

We discovered La Gourmandine on our first visit to the Ariege. Situated on the square in the little town of Seix it occupies an open corner location with views over the river and to the mountains behind the town. The restaurant was opened by a husband and wife team shortly before our visit and was recommended by our friends who had recently moved to the area. The husband did front of house while the wife prepared all the meals in the kitchen. The restaurant was small, perhaps half a dozen tables, but the welcome was warm and the food was divine - good, home cooked regional cooking.
Over the years we have continued to enjoy dining at La Gourmandine and watching it flourish and expand. At first a few tables outside then the addition of a canopy to keep diners dry if the weather turned a bit inclement and this time the seating had even expanded across the road into the square where passers-by could enjoy a beer or a coffee in the sun. the staff has also grown over the years and we were greeted by a young waiter who showed us to our table beside the road on the corner nearest the river. A local aperitif  of Hypocras is traditional before we order. Unfortunately we can't buy it at home so we have to stash a few bottles in the luggage before we depart!
We placed our orders and relaxed into friendly conversation. I was explaining how this was one of my very favourite places when I became aware of a large, moustachio-ed French man approaching our table at speed. We made direct eye contact, which he resolutely held while grinning widely. As he got progressively closer to our table he extended his hand towards me in greeting. By now my heart was sinking. I thought, 'Here is a classic case of mis-identification. He has mistaken me for someone he knows - although who does he know with hair my colour!'
'Bonjour! Bon apetit!' he bellowed, as he grabbed my hand and proceded to shake hands around the table! Thankfully, at this point our friends recognised him as the father of a friend! Phew! It is embarrassing enough trying to explain to someone in your own language that they have made a mistake but I am not sure I could have done it in French. Perhaps I would have just continued the pretense of being whoever he thought I was.

In which there is rage against the capitalist machine.

Beginning a holiday should be a calm and happy time. I like travelling even though I suffer my fair share of delayed flights and lost luggage and I certainly like arriving at my destinations. I was therefore greatly aggravated when I arrived at the airport to begin the journey to France to discover that Tiny Bomber, who had kindly provided the transport to said airport would be charge £1 for the privilege of dropping us off at the designated drop off spot – not even at the door as that is no longer an option following the bombing attempt at Glasgow a few years ago. It took less than two minutes to unload our cases and we were not provided with any comforting services, no cheery greeting or baggage carrying porter while occupying the drop off spot. And yet a pound was demanded for our temerity to occupy a space for a minuscule period of time.  

The words ‘Bandits!’ and ‘Scoundrels’ were uttered loudly, initially in the direction of the member of staff patrolling the exit barriers and thence towards anyone in a hi-vis jacket who looked like they may possibly be airport staff. My rage increased exponentially when I discovered there are no front of house management services available to placate disgruntled  travellers – although this traveller was not about to be placated with soothing words or calming explanations.

Bandits! What possible explanation can they have for charging a pound – one hundred solid pennies – for driving onto a piece of tarmac for the shortest period of time with no added services? It is outrageous and an example of rampant capitalist greed. My rage was exacerbated, I have to say by the Wing Commander’s seemingly placid acceptance of the outrage my anger towards which didn’t abate until we reached the final leg of our travels. On entering the Arac valley in the Ariege there was a bus shelter which some kindly revolutionaries, perhaps anticipating my mood, had spray painted ‘Kill Capitalists’. A less fervent member of the revolutionary fraternity had more generously painted over the last two letters to make the epithet read ‘Kill Capitalisme’. I was no longer alone in my rage and so was calmed enough by the solidarity to enjoy the beginning of my holiday.

P. S. My rage, however, is being carefully nurtured and a suitably incendiary letter will be winging its way to the hidden management of Aberdeen Airport on my return.