Fancy Lunch?

How I get myself suckered into these situations I shall never know, but they do seem to happen eerily often.
My sister, Di, admits to being a bit of a flibbertigibbet when it comes to shopping. She is apt to visit as many similar shops as possible on a compare-and-contrast mission before deciding that, actually, the item in shop number one was the best after all. I find it an exhausting process. What I hadn’t realised was that these tendencies extend to choosing hairdressers.
Since coming to live in France, she has tried several different salons with varying levels of success. Never truly happy until…
“Honestly, Beth, you haveto come to Salon Costeau, it’s brilliant.”
“I’m fine with the one I go to.”
“Really?” she replied, looking surprised, “I think you’d prefer this one. Go on. give it a try.”
“Oh, okay,” I groaned, swayed by her disconcerted look. “Where is it?”
“Montauban.”
“What? That’s miles away!” I exclaimed, sounding as staid as I presumably looked.
“Oh don’t be silly. It’s not that far. We can combine it with shopping.”
And that was it. An appointment was made with Claude.
Off we drove, passing through several towns peppered with hairdressers. Many tried, all rejected.

We entered via the Pont Vieux. Commissioned in 1304 by King Philip of France, the 205-metre long bridge took 30 years to complete. Its level surface, a rarity in the Middle Ages, is supported by seven magnificent arches.
We headed for the centre. Like all medieval bastide towns, Montauban has a principal arcaded square. I always think this one is particularly dignified. Two layers of cloistered walkways line the perimeter, supporting red brick townhouses. French windows with filigree wrought iron balconies grace these splendid dwellings. Imagining great opulence behind the coquettish net curtains, I would love to peek inside one or two.
Cafés and restaurants are tucked under the complex tangle of arches, their tables spreading welcomingly onto the square. During the warm months, sunlight basks their clients in this romantic sun trap. Understandably, it is a lunch and dinner hotspot.

It turned out we weren’t the only ones with the same idea. A handbag-sized dog was sitting on the table next to ours, enjoying a crusty croissant with his elderly owner. Since nobody batted an eyelid we decided they must be regulars.

Claude was exactly how you might expect; a delightful gentleman who wore much more make-up than I. He was also a bit of a drama queen.
Everything might have been fine except that Claude had just returned from a styling course in Paris. He was dying to try out his new techniques, and sadly I was his first victim.
He gasped dramatically at my mundane locks. Pinching Di playfully on the arm, Claude told her he would sort everything out. Just in case my input was relevant, I made a plea for subtle highlights. He giggled at my outrageous idea and reached for his tube of chemicals.
Claude squirted a log of blueish paste on top of his hand. Demonstrating his new colouring technique, he smeared copious amounts of the clay-like substance onto hanks of my hair. It was a time-saving device if nothing else. There was nothing remotely subtle about this man, nor was there any downtime.
While my hair began to change colour, Claude busied himself by painting Di’s nails his latest favourite shade. He said they would go beautifully with the colour of her eyes, océan. This he followed-up with an interesting shade of green on her eyelids. Seaweed came to mind.
Meanwhile, my hair was apparently taking too long to change colour. Claude tutted irritably and grabbed an ultra-modern looking static hair dryer. While my ears cooked, he coyly offered to share his lunch with us. Despite refusing, we were given small pastry pillow cases filled with jam. It was a very kind gesture, which nicely diverted my attention from boiling ears and discouragingly blue hair.
Once cooked, Claude rushed me to the sink, simultaneously washing my hair and his sugar coated fingers. This man was efficiency itself. I was then told to stand in the middle of the salon to be cut.
Claude came at me with a razorblade. I won’t say I was unduly nervous, but it did strike me that scissors might have done just as well.
I stood stock still as he lashed around. Lock after lock fell. Di, who now had even darker green eyeliner on top of her eyeshadow, was looking distinctly anxious. This wasn’t a good sign.
Finally, I was allowed to sit to be dried and styled. I knew this wouldn’t take long – there wasn’t much hair left to dry. I studied the end result in the mirror. A pudding basin of tobacco-yellow striped hair and an extraordinarily straight fringe close to my hairline looked back.
“Fancy lunch?” asked Di, hurriedly.
I nodded numbly, paid Claude, who was close to tears at our decision to leave, and followed her back the arcade.
“Here we go, this’ll cheer you up.”
“It’s just as well I’m not vain,” I grumped, sloping after her.
We walked through a passage into a tiny quadrangle. Ahead was a deliciously inviting eatery called Crumble Tea. Di beckoned me in.
The interior was intimate. Tins of tea lined the walls, looking incongruously uniform next to the graceful arches and modern art. The dining area was filled with a hotchpotch of tables, cushioned chairs and cosy bench seats. It was just like home.

What an inspired choice!
Mammoth portions soon arrived. Everything was a taste sensation and especially the chunky soup. Smoked, caramelised onions in a broth laced with white wine and Cognac, the melted, toasted cheese on top made it a culinary triumph. Each mouthful yielded comfort, quickly putting my coiffure experiences into a proper perspective.
Despite being stuffed full, we decided there was just enough room to share a dessert.

Still remarking at the impossibly large quantity of fruit that had been crammed into the dreamy dessert, we paid our bill, thanked madame and waddled out.
But Di still had one more treat up her sleeve.
“Come on, we’ll go back this way.”
We entered a different section of ancient arches, treading over more centuries-old bevelled flag stones and came to a shop. Talk about extravagant. It was obvious what was sold here. Plants.
Just like the restaurant, inside it was small and intimate. Only this time it was festooned with healthy plants, flowers and objets d’art. I looked around, imbued with gloriously conflicting scents, for once happy to join in the browsing. It was heavenly.

We agreed that Claude had been a true gentleman, and couldn’t possibly have showered any more attention upon us. Sadly, though, Di’s latest salon was about to join the others, but not her choice of florist or lunch venue. There was no doubt about it, we would return at the earliest opportunity for another fancy lunch.
8th April 2018 @ 3:52 pm
What a wonderful day with the exception of hairdressers the only positive is hair grows ! and having a sister is a joy to behold even if she is a flibbertigibbet just makes life fun don't you think ?
9th April 2018 @ 9:53 am
We did have a wonderful day, Jane. Claude was magnificent, but our style ideas did differ I'm afraid. I was far too staid for him. You're absolutely right. It's so much fun messing around with my flibbertigibbet sis!