A quick peek through the curtained windows fails to reveal even a single ray of light. Closed. But, the propped-up sandwich board outside the front door describes Sunday brunch at The Sun: “YOUR CHOICE OF TURKEY, PORK, LAMB OR BEEF, all the USUAL accompaniments.” The sign hanging from a dingy window reads: “Open at 12:00 NOON.” I glance at my watch. Eleven forty-seven.
“I wonder if they’re open on Sundays,” says Anna. It is her first visit to London and she is understandably tentative. “Perhaps we should just resort to McDonald’s.”
“McDonald’s? In London? Not on your life. You’re having a proper English pub lunch if it takes all afternoon. There’s nothing like it. Besides, they wouldn’t have the board outside if they weren’t open today.”
Click. Click. A lock unlocking. We push open the heavy, ornate door, inscribed “Est. 1851”, and step inside the dark, gloomy entrance of The Sun.
“Are you open for lunch?” I ask the ridiculously young bartender. He is polishing wineglasses; he looks as if he has come to work with his pyjamas recently removed.
“We open at noon.”
Yes, we know. That was not our question. “Well, we’ve been sightseeing for hours,” I explain. “We’re a little tired. Do you mind if we sit and wait?”
“Not at all,” he says, “but the bar can’t open before twelve. The law.”
“We’re not in any hurry,” I assure him, draping my overcoat over the heavy ornate pub chair. I immediately miss its comforting warmth and debate if I should put it back on. The Sun’s furnace hasn’t been on long.
“Do you want to eat right away?” The waitress, probably employed here since the joint was Est., has the same just-out-of-bed appearance. Not the same bed, I presume, perhaps mistakenly.
“Oh, we’re not in any hurry,” Anna assures her. Despite the chill, she, too, removes her coat. We are settling in for the long haul. God, it feels good to get off our feet.
“Always the way,” the waitress says, stacking plates on this counter, filling pepper shakers on that table. “Whenever you’re not ready, the place gets busy!”
She wasn’t ready because she’d gone--the whole staff had gone--to a jazz concert last night.
“Andrew Mealy, do you know him?”
She doesn’t wait for our reply. She drank too much, got home too late, slept in too long after her husband had turned off the alarm.. Between monologues, she removes plates of this and that accompaniment from the ancient dumb waiter and presses a buzzer to indicate her readiness to return the food elevator to the upstairs kitchen. Anna and I exchange glances. We have already divined that lunch may be a long-term time investment.
“I’m Dory. I’ll be serving you. Might as well have a drink while you’re waiting, luvvies,” she says. Must be noon.
She takes our wine from young Mr. Barkeep, spilling a few drops on the front of her none too pristine uniform. “I’m going to lose it if anything happens, Ben,” she says. “Know what I mean?”
He nods. I suspect he has travelled this bumpy road before. For all I know, he may be riding in the same car.
Six women, all elderly, most fat, walk in and try to seat themselves at three corner tables. Dory pales and drops a salt shaker. “I don’t believe this! Always happens when you’re not ready!” She manages to steer them to two larger tables. “Where you girls from?”
She doesn’t wait to hear they’re from York, in for a day of touring.
“I’m kind of busy getting ready here. Why don’t you get your own drinks from Ben there?”
They do as they’re told. They’re used to doing as they’re told. They’re with a bus group, but they have lunch hour free. Leave for home at two o’clock sharp.
Dory, now visibly harried, takes our orders, both turkey, then theirs, one each of turkey and pork, two lamb and two beef.
A family group (mother, father, three children sadly in need of Ritalin) sits at the table next to us. Three young men, looking almost as much the worse for wear as Dory and the bartender, beeline for the bar stools. A man and woman, obviously elderly siblings, wander into the gloom of The Sun and seeing no one in command, seat themselves.
By now, Dory is frantic. “God, I can’t believe this!”
“Turkey’s not ready yet,” a rough loud voice booms down the dumb waiter shaft.
“Chef,” says Dory, explaining the sudden intrusion. She treats the pub audience to a nearly X-rated description of Chef and his moods, especially his present mood. “Turkey’s not ready. Why don’t you have pork?” she asks the elderly touring lady.
“Well, I don’t really care for pork.”
“It’s good. You’ll like it.”
Anna and I change our orders to pork, barely able to conceal our laughter. The dumb waiter groans and creaks and occasionally barks. Chef making known his displeasure. The York ladies sneak looks at their wristwatches, wondering if they’ll finish their lunches before they must catch their bus. Much time passes before Dory places two plates of pork, the usual accompaniments, on our table. We don’t dare ask for more wine; I get up and visit Ben at the bar. She deposits six plates at the York ladies’ table.
“Where’s the gravy?” York lady # 1 wants her gravy, bus schedule be damned.
“Chef!” yells Dory. “You forgot the gravy for table four!”
The dumb waiter creaks and groans. A brimming gravy boat appears. All six York ladies apply it liberally to their plates.
“Excuse me, miss,” says York lady # 1 after her first gravy-sodden bite. “I ordered pork. This is definitely lamb.”
“Oh, God,” Dory moans, holding her aching head. “Chef!” she yells up the shaft. “Table four ordered one pork, not three lamb.”
Anna and I have lost count by this time. We almost choke on our own succulent pork slices. Anna wonders if Dory will suggest we share ours with the lady from York. I wonder if we shouldn’t leave before Chef, whom we are convinced is Dory’s husband, commits spousal homicide.
“I’m looking at your order, Dory!” Chef barks. “There’s no mistake. You ordered wrong. Wake up!”
She shrugs a helpless, vulnerable shrug and puts her hand on # 1 York lady’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose you could just eat the lamb?” she pleads.
“Oh, all right,” says York lady, checking her watch, “but could I have mint jelly instead of applesauce? It’s on the menu.”
Dory shivers. “Chef,” she calls, her mouth grimacing, anticipating his reply. “Mint jelly, please.”
“You have the damn stuff,” he shouts. “For God’s sake, Dory, don’t drive me absolutely crazy.”
The family of five, whose order has not been taken, retreat noisily, hopefully to the McDonald’s down the street. The men at the bar eye the proceedings with amusement. I suspect they, too, have been here before. I also suspect their luncheon order will not include solid food.
All six York ladies eye their plates. “I do hope this is hot,” says the brave soul who disputed the mixed order. “I can only eat lamb if it’s really hot.”
“Oh, it is, Frances,” says one of her friends. “Look, the steam is rising from it.”
“Probably Chef breathed on it,” says Frances.
“Turkey’s all gone,” Dory tells the latest arrivals, resorting to little white lies, hoping the elderly brother and sister aren’t wearing their hearing aids.
“Not as long as Chef’s in the kitchen!” snorts Frances of York.
Anna takes a tissue from her purse and attempts to cover her exploding mouth. Unsuccessfully. Tiny bits of pork and mash escape and make a dash for the floor. When she can speak without choking, she leans over and pats my arm. “Jeez, Ev,” she says, “you’re right. Thanks. I’m not likely to forget my first London pub lunch.”
.2006 Ev McTaggart
