Lunch
He was a tough looking little man, bare-armed and wearing work clothes, she was more sedate, grandmotherly. They were here for lunch and sitting at the next table. The pub was crowded and noisy, being Saturday of a long weekend and the kitchen was flat out delivering heaped plates of fish, steaks, hamburgers, chicken and pasta. Our choice was Camembert covered with honeyed pistachios and spread over toasted sourdough. Sydney comes to Ballina.
Our gentleman neighbour ferried his companion’s lunch back to the table first then returned with his; a large steak with mashed potatoes and a salver of brown gravy, which he fumbled and spilt all over his potatoes and the table. We watched as a puddle of steaming brown semi-liquid slowly seeped from his dish and onto the floor. Families having dinner with small incontinent children might be familiar with the sight, albeit not so much on the table but on the floor.
A man had to do something. They needed a bundle of serviettes pronto to mop up the mess, these were quickly fetched and applied to the mess. Another salver was brought to the table, similar to the first, and full to the brim with a steaming brown gravy.
And it had to be said. Our man gestured at the brown gravy covered mashed potatoes, turned to the couple and suggested it might be apt to quote a classic Australian saying right now.
Being ..
“Shit happens, eh?”
He got it,
she didn’t.
