Sunday lunch in Pau

There's a knock on the door. It's the 'femme de chambre' wanting to do the room.  I start thinking about what an interesting expression femme de chambre is, but then realise than in English there is the equivalent (and equally archaic) word 'chambermaid' so that train of thought goes back to the station. It's just as well she has arrived or I would possibly have spent the whole day messing around on the computer. So I take the opportunity and leave the hotel to go for a walk. I head for a nearby park, one of the few green bits on my map. The hotel isn't far from the centre of town but it's on the edge and in a pretty seedy area. I've stayed here a couple times before and know that at night in order to get into town (and dinner) I have to negotiate a path past the drunks and tramps who congregate outside a bar near the hotel.

The park is a bit like a fairy tale, but one with a dark storyline. There are areas of trees with low-hanging branches over dark leaf-strewn paths. I discover what turns out to be a holly tree, complete with red berries. I realise that I had no idea that holly grew as such a large tree. The holly somehow completes the fairy-tale image for me. I half expect to come across a little girl in a red cape carrying a basket in the woods ahead.

The promenade along the cliff looking out to the Pyrenees has a Sunday arts and crafts fair; the usual wood carvings, sculptures made from recycled materials, necklaces made from string and beads and paintings that mostly look like they were made by the dozen, which I suppose they were. You never seem to see anyone buying anything. The sellers are sitting in their little stalls, knitting, reading, having lunch - but not selling.

I end up near the castle, which is still bring restored. It doesn't look like a lot of progress has been made since I was here almost a year ago. No sense in rushing these things I suppose.

A strategic lettuce leaf completes the meal

Passing through the square near the castle, with its restaurants with tables set up outside, I decide to have lunch today. After all, I might not make it to dinner since I know jet-lag is going to set in around that time. Normally these sort of restaurants don't have a lot of appeal, since they invariably seem to aim rather low in terms of quality, relying on a tourist trade that doesn't depend on repeat business. But I see quite a few groups that look like they might be local, so against my usual (and it turns out, better) judgement, I sit myself down at one of the places. The blackboard menu announces the day's special: Souris d'Agneau au miel et au thym, avec garniture du chef. The 'garniture du chef' turns out to be chips and a single lettuce leaf. Clearly the chef is lacking a little imagination. The lamb isn't bad, but it's not at all inspiring either. Plus it takes forever to arrive, which is pretty impressive, considering it's the special of the day and it's a dish that is cooked well beforehand. Perhaps it took them a long time to select which single lettuce leaf to add to my plate.

Still, the Madiran by the glass arrives quickly, and isn't actually at all bad. While I'm waiting for my food there's plenty of opportunities for people watching in a place like this.

An impossibly cool (at least, I suspect he thinks so) guy in a suit and sunglasses walks by. Or rather, he struts by. He's the sort of person who'd be wearing those sunglasses inside as well. A little later, Ronnie Corbett (half of the Two Ronnies) walks by. I know it couldn't have been the Ronnie Corbett, but it was definitely his twin. At the restaurant across the street, a woman who looks nowhere old enough to be the mother of the girl she's with - but probably is - is changing tables to take the one vacated by someone there. The waiter arrives and she explains that her daughter wasn't happy at the other table; the waiter obligingly shuffles tableware between the tables to accommodate her. A bit later the daughter decides she wants to sit on the other side of the table, meaning she's pretty much sitting on the street now. The mother is negotiating with her daughter about this, but clearly losing the argument. Not long after the daughter decides she's had enough of the restaurant and they leave. Clearly it's the daughter who is running this relationship.

At the table next to me is a guy in his early sixties with his daughter. Or is it his girlfriend? It's hard to tell, and although I do my best, by the end of the meal I still haven't worked it out. It keeps me occupied though. Surprisingly he asks me if I mind him smoking - an unheard of question in France, particularly when sitting outside. Even more amazingly, he doesn't light up when it's obvious that I do mind. I am impressed.

The dessert I've ordered finally arrives and proves itself to be definitely not worth the wait. I remind myself that this is the reason why I don't eat at places like this and tell myself "I told you so". Maybe next time I'll pay more attention.

Fragile eggs on the road