The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [56]
Julia arrived ten minutes late.
‘Perfect timing,’ said Bruce, rising from the bar stool to plant a kiss on her cheek. ‘For a woman, that is. And you look so stunning too. That dress . . .’
Julia beamed. ‘Oh, thank you, Brucie! It’s ancient – prehistoric, actually. I bought it from Armstrongs down in the Grassmarket. You know that place that has all those old clothes. Très retro!’
Bruce touched the small trim of ostrich feathers around the neck of the dress. ‘It’s a flapper dress, isn’t it?’
Julia was not sure what a flapper dress was, but it sounded right. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s good for flapping in.’
‘Very funny!’ said Bruce.
They both laughed.
‘Let’s go to our table,’ said Bruce. ‘That’s the maître d’ over there. I’ll catch his eye.’
‘You can catch anybody’s eye, Brucie,’ said Julia, playfully. ‘You’re eye candy.’
‘Eye toffee,’ said Bruce, taking hold of her forearm. ‘I stick to people.’ He smiled as he remembered something. ‘You know, we had a dog up in Crieff and he had a sweet tooth. I gave him a toffee once and he started to chew it and got his teeth completely stuck together. It was seriously funny.’
Julia laughed. ‘When I was at Glenalmond, we gave our housemistress a piece of cake with toffee hidden in the middle. It stuck her false teeth together and she had to take them out to get rid of it!’
‘The things one does when young,’ said Bruce.
‘A scream,’ said Julia.
They moved to the table. ‘You must let me treat you,’ said Bruce as they were handed the menu.
‘Oh, please let me,’ said Julia.
‘All right,’ said Bruce quickly. ‘Thanks. What are you going to have?’
If Julia was taken aback, it was only momentarily. ‘I love oysters,’ she said. ‘I’m going to start with those.’
‘Make sure that you put a bit of Tabasco in,’ said Bruce. ‘And lemon. Delicious.’
‘What about you?’ asked Julia.
‘Lobster,’ said Bruce, examining the menu. ‘Market price. That’s helpful, isn’t it? Everything is market price if you come to think of it. Anyway, I’ll start with lobster, then . . .’ He examined the menu. ‘Which do you think would win in a fight? A lobster or an oyster?’
Julia looked out of the window. ‘That’s a very interesting question, Brucie. I’ve never thought about that, you know.’
‘The lobster would have the advantage of mobility,’ said Bruce. ‘But the oyster has pretty good defences, I would have thought. It would probably be a stand-off.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Julia. ‘Interesting.’
The waiter came and took their order. ‘And wine?’ he asked.
Bruce looked at the list. ‘You know, I was in the wine trade for a while,’ he said to Julia, but loud enough for the waiter to hear.
‘I’ll fetch the sommelier,’ said the waiter.
‘No need . . .’ Bruce began. But the waiter had moved off and was whispering something into the ear of a colleague. The sommelier nodded and came over to Bruce and Julia’s table.
‘So, sir,’ he said. ‘Have you any ideas?’
Bruce looked at the wine list. ‘Bit thin,’ he said. ‘No offence, of course. No Brunello, for instance.’ He smiled at Julia as he spoke. She made a face as if to mourn the absence of Brunello.
‘Oh, but I think there is, sir,’ said the sommelier. ‘Perhaps you did not register the name of the producers. Look, over there, for example. Banfi. We don’t always feel it’s necessary to describe exactly where a wine comes from. We assume that in many cases people know . . .’
‘Where?’ snapped Bruce. ‘Oh, yes, Banfi. Wrong side, of course.’
‘Of what, sir?’
‘The river,’ said Bruce.
‘But there isn’t a river in Montalcino,’ said the sommelier gently. ‘Perhaps you’re thinking of somewhere else. The Arno perhaps?’
Bruce did not respond to this; he was peering at the