A heated discussion before "luncheon"

At a squeeze it would have been possible to sit five around the table in the bay window. That would have been three on the bench built into the wall under the window and two on stools. Apart from sitting at the bar near the till it was the prime seat in the saloon bar. The table top was covered in polished copper which caught the sun on clear days and made the area bright and cheerful. And even better, under the entire bench built into the wall was a discrete radiator.

Saturday lunchtimes could be a bit strange to start with. There would either be a rush of early customers at mid-day and if that didn’t happen we knew it would happen around one.

This one Saturday during the summer started off quiet. Then just after mid-day three men whom I knew from earlier days at the Hinds Head in Bray came in. Mr Maxwell, Mr Garner and Mr Pepper were characters that P G Wodehouse could have easily created and included in his Bertie Wooster or Blanding’s Castle stories. They were all gentlemen in every sense of the word. Well mannered, well spoken and well-dressed even for a Saturday morning. Those rare times when all three of them were ever together they exuded companionship and a bonhomie that could only have been cultured over several years of enduring friendship.

They took over the bay window and one of them came to the bar to order their drinks emphasising they could only stay for forty five minutes as they had to get back for “luncheon”. Please note, that the word “luncheon” was used and not “lunch”. A further indication that they all came from another era.

From behind the bar I could see that the three of them were beginning to get involved in a heated discussion. Without straining I could clearly hear snippets coming from each of them. One was sure it was “twelve”. Another one said “That was ridiculous as it was more like five”. And the third was convinced it was “twenty”.

After they bought the second round of drinks their respective declarations became a bit louder with all three of them maintaining that it was five, twelve or twenty. Then one of them said “Well, if you are both so sure shall we have a small wager?” Three one pound notes were retrieved from wallets and placed on the table.

One of them came to buy the third round. After they paid they asked if they could borrow the bottle of Noilly Pratt from behind the bar. I handed it over and they passed it around, Each of them adjusting or changing their glasses to read the label.

“Well I never.”

“I am surprised.”

“I was closest so I should win.”

“No, no, no…that was not agreed it had to be spot on and not the closest.”

“But I said twenty and it’s eighteen…that is jolly close enough.”

So that was what the animated and heated discussion had been about; the alcoholic strength of an aperitif whose bottle if it had not been dusted daily would have been caked in dust and held in place by countless cobwebs like a vintage wine in a fine cellar.

They all got up from the bay window and returned the bottle.

“Cripes, its ten to one…we will be late.

In the narrow doorway there was the politest of scrums to get through with mutterings of "After you Max", "After you Philip, I insist".

Then when they had all gone through the doorway I could still hear the discussion about the strength of Noilly Pratt continuing on the way to their car.

“I still think I won…I was the closest…you two were way off.”

“Come on you two…we’ll be late for luncheon.”