The curious incident of the adman who wasn't who I thought he might be.

A man walks into a bar in the Dordogne. This is no joke. A few weeks ago I was sitting in said bar, sipping a coffee. The time was 10AM, too early for a stronger libation, even on vacation. Even in France.

The pale-faced character entering the room looked about sixty and had grey, curly hair. He was dressed in a well-tailored black suit. A white silk handkerchief peeked from his breast pocket. He walked right up to me as I sat with my host, a retired adman of some fame whom I've know since we were boys in Cape Town a century ago. As he approached us my friend murmured 'It's Barry Fox.'

The man stretched out his hand as I rose from my chair.  'Hello, I'm Barry Fox' he said. My host introduced me, adding 'Brian worked at J Walter Thompson in London for many years.'

'Oh really, how extraordinary' said Barry, 'I was at JWT in the Seventies. They hired me because they thought that the Oxbridge-infested ad agency could do with an injection of working-class grit.'

His story was that, since then, he had divorced the same lady twice and now lived alone in the village. He explained that he always dressed in a black suit because 'I like to keep up appearances.' This in a village where T shirts and shorts, at least in summer seemed, as the French say, 'de rigeur.' 

I studied him while he talked and, as he looked like what I thought might be a passable version of Barry -had he not taken care of himself - I was convinced that this 'Barry' was the same adman I'd known forty years ago.  

(Barry's situation reminded me of a similar former adman I'd stumbled across in the 90s. I was staying in New York state at the hotel that had been the location for THE SHINING - the movie where Jack Nicholson plays the writer who goes nuts. While wandering the hotel I came across a ruined-looking pianist playing 'Unforgettable' (which clearly, he was) in the lounge. Turned out he'd once been a creative director at JWT New York. Who knew?)

But I digress. As my pal and I drove home we pulled up to talk to another man, also dressed in black, walking alone down a country lane. Turned out his name is Steve and he was once the drummer ('a guy who follows musicians around') with Wishbone Ash. 

Given the ubiquity of black clothing, I was getting the impression that some of the male denizens who'd retired in the Dordogne wanted to be suitably attired in the event of dropping dead.

Later in the day I suddenly realized it was a man named Barry COX not Barry FOX, whom I'd known at JWT. Had he changed his name? Did Cox beget Fox? Was it someone completely different? I was curious; the incident remains 'a known unknown' as that old villain Rumsfeld used to say. 

But there's more (if you're still with me)...

The afternoon passed lazily in the Dordogne heat.  At 6pm we made some prudently small martinis in advance of our supper (we'd acquired six martini glasses in Perigeux the previous day as I can't drink this American classic from anything less than the ideal.) We made short work of the cocktails and headed for BRANTOME, an hour away. 

About 28 years ago I'd been violently ill in Brantome. 

I'd gone to France thinking that the Dordogne might be warmer than London at New Year. Wrong!

Anyway, at that time I suffered what a medic - who looked like a teenager but purported to be a locum for the local doctor - diagnosed as a 'cris de fois.' Translation: I'd eaten too much pate.

So it was with an empty but anxious tummy that I approached Brantome's cuisine - me being more mature in years and digestive system. But not, apparently, in wisdom. 

We dined on the balcony at the Hotel Chabrol. Our table overlooked the river Dronne and the handsome buildings edging it. My hosts promised me a fine experience of what they termed 'cuisine bourgeoise': middle class family food, tasty but unpretentious. 

I guess that depends on what you call 'unpretentious.'

Our first course was an 'amuse bouche' that had been prepared from a small, unspecified part of a pig. Then came a tuna tartare, oddly in chunks rather than thin slices. A sorbet was followed to clear the palate; this dish was the prelude to a thin-thighed leg of pigeon, served reverentially to each of us. Then another sorbet preceded profiteroles, seducing us from a pool of chocolate sauce. 

We'd had a 50ml bottle of white wine to start (a perfect size as it's a bit bigger than a half bottle and ideal for three; we noted that this was a cheaper way to order than by the glass - which was a pretty senseless economy, we all agreed, given the price of the food.) We sent the pigeon south with a lusty Pomerol. Amazingly, I felt no ill effects. 

With surprisingly masterful efficiency, given the evening's excesses, my host drove us home

through the moonlit, 'flic'-free roads. Midnight struck as we pulled up. The house cat, waiting by the locked door on what had become a chilly night, looked unamused.

© Brian Clewly Johnson

Amagansett

September 2016