In the Dordogne on holiday with my parents,
13 years I was.
My mother heard via-via-via-via over a barbecue restaurant near Sarlat.
Really something for us!
… Thought my mom.
It was very approachingly
There was no complicated about the food and…
You got unlimited wine.
So my father also agreed.
In the car, it was not far drive anymore,
We heard loud music.
What a noise!
… nagged my mother.
As we approached our destination, the music was getting louder.
My father and I kneeling at each other.
And indeed, we stood at the source of the music.
We arrived at barbecue restaurant “Le Grel”.
We were one of the first.
The barbecue chef,
As he ignited the fire,
was able to dance with a beer in his hand with two very charming waiters.
The tone was set.
My mother did not know where to look of shame,
But my dad and I loved it.
We were embraced by the owner,
A flamboyant Englishman in Indianenpak.
He had, that was clear, certainly a few glasses on.
That Indianenpak was just one of the many suits he would wear that evening.
The whole evening, every half hour, he came up in another appearance.
The tent walked completely full.
We came with all of them, packed together, to sit on long tables.
The notion of “eating together” was given a new meaning.
It was sung together, danced, stupid jokes about Frenchmen were made,
And all this under the watchful eye of the owner.
If you did not join, you were put in an awful
You were erected the improvised stage and had to sing a song by Elton John.
So that went.
The waiters were very sociable and made sure everyone had fun.
My mother was right:
It was accessible.
The food was of course disastrous.
Mountains frites, liters of mayonnaise, burnt sausages.
No one could care,
And the owner still the least.
You only lived once.
Rich he didn’t have to be,
Old he didn’t have to be.
The valve was the fireworks in which his pack of flame summed.
This was not the intention of course.
Or maybe even…
Reflecting, I think that this Englishman was capable of everything.
We went exhausted, met back home.
My mom drove back.
This was not an outlier.
Every day in the summer, the tourist season, it was there hit.
Remarkably, this flamboyant Englishman,
Who was already at age,
Still seems to live.
A tent made of a plastic sail, with fixed a tiny house of concrete blocks.On the way a cardboard board with “BBQ” and an arrow pointing to the cottage.There was enough space for one picnic table. There we could just sit with 8 people.
About 25 years after the war, there is still a lot of poverty in Croatia.The country runs empty and people can only just get around. Benefits of a monthly wage in any country in Africa and food costs approximately equal to Germany. People actively seek ways to make a little money and fill the stomachs. So you can imagine a little more than 10 years ago the situation was even more poignable.
The curve is that I and the family just came from a super deluxe camping.Not even a kilometre from this concrete hut on a large barren plain. Several swimming pools, a sea, a restaurant, shops everything was available. However, the population often sees little money from tourism in the country flowing in.
And my judgement?
BEST BBQ I’ve ever had!A large pot of ajvar on the table and food until the tummy were full. Of course that had to be washed away with a glass of Rakija. My parents found one shot glass okay, after all, I was only 13. Yet I thought at one sipje: (And I just let it stand for half)
Bonus: No abdominal cramps, no disease, no food poisoning, nothing!