C'est la vie

Sometimes things don’t go according to plan.

We thought we were lucky to get two spots at the Fongrave dinner dance on Saturday night, having booked well after the cut-off date.

The notice on the door of the community hall, advertising the dinner, had said 20 hrs.

We arrived at Fongrave village square about ten minutes to eight. There was hardly anyone around. Amusement rides set up for  Fongrave en fêtes stood empty, a few youths on pushbikes milled around.

There was a beer stall, which we were glad to see on a very warm evening. We got a beer and sat down on a bench that took in the church and the river.

Slowly, people began to arrive, older couples, young families, individuals. People greeted each other with a kiss on both cheeks. They stood around the beer stall, chatting.

By 8.45, no one had gone inside the hall. Children were enjoying the one carousel ride that was now operating. Everyone was relaxed, no one was entering the hall to take their places at the tables inside.

We were the first ones to go in. We paid and received three little tickets, entitling us to collect an apero, plat and dessert (pre-dinner drink, main course and dessert).

We were directed to sit at table six, in a vast hall where about a dozen tables were arranged around an expansive dance floor. Organisers had set for about 115 people.

We were seated just long enough to rearrange the plastic cutlery before a harried-looking man in thick-rimmed glasses bustled us off to table seven.

We dutifully obliged.

So we sat and waited. At 9.15, the apero and nibbles table at the end of the hall was opened and I went over to get our drinks. The apero was punch, an unsophisticated, sweet fruit juice with a hint of spirit.

Cliona had one sip and gave me the rest. We ate some cheap chips and bacon flavoured nibbles. We were starving. We tried the bread, cut into pieces in a little basket, but it was dry.

People were very slowly moving into the hall and over to the apero table. Little children were running all over the place. 

The DJ was a grown-up version of fat-boy slim.  When he wasn’t outside smoking, he sat bored behind his sound equipment.

At 9.30, there was still no sign of the plat … poulet Basquaise with rice.  This was to be followed by salad, then cheese. Dessert was tarte au pomme.

People were going back for a second and third apero, despite the one ticket system. Only half the tables were occupied. Children still played unfatigued all over the dancefloor.

The organisers at the apero table, where I assumed we would go to collect our meal, seemed nonplussed about the delay.

When it got to 9.40, I asked a man at our table, who I guessed was related to one of the organisers, what time he thought dinner would be served. He said, “I don't know but it does seem to be taking a long time, I’ll find out.” I watched him as he walked over to the apero table where he inquired of a young woman I took to be his daughter. He got a gallic shrug for an answer.

It was now almost 10pm.

We had arrived ten minutes before the advertised time of 8pm. We sat outside people-watching for an hour. We then sat inside people-watching for another hour. We’d had a glass of punch and a couple of chips. None of the advertised wine, nor water, had appeared on the tables. And there was still no sign of the food.

Is this how a community dinner in rural France normally plays out? We didn’t know.

And we didn’t wait to find out.

We drove home, more philosophical than disappointed. We opened a tin of cassoulet and a bottle of red.

The next day I rang the reservation number. I gave my name and said my wife and I were very disappointed by the dinner dance. I think the woman I spoke to knew we had left before the meal was served and appeared to anticipate my complaint. She said something along the lines of, “That’s how these evenings go.”

She continued, “There’s no problem, SMS me your address and I will send you a refund.”

She didn’t sound like she was in the mood to discuss the issue further so we politely said goodbye.

I wondered if Cliona and I had brought false expectations to the evening.

Still, you live and learn.

C’est la vie.