The Dinner, Sarmantelle?

Shrewd Graham had another view of the situation in that, he felt we had been stitched up by this false, slimy wine dealer, who, after he had taken one look at our disheveled common appearance, thought it best, by association, not to embarrass himself in front of the respected, esteemed gathering that would be present at the evening’s festivity. Luckily, I remembered that I had brought the receipt for the cases of wine I had previously purchased from Prothero and Son; possibly it may contain the suppliers name but more hopefully a local address? Tres bien, the letterhead boldly proclaimed that the wine would be provided by Monsieur Philippe Pons from his cave at Chateau Chirac, rue Marie de Lolly, Beaune. There was no time to waste, this scouse git was not going to get the better of two tricky yickers and three very street wise Wiganers. Geoff, with his good French, asked for directions, we climbed into our chariots without delay charging determinedly down the road. By now, it was 8.15 but by 8.30 when we were finally driving up the tree lined avenue leading to the Chateau. If we had stopped to fart we would not have made it. A craggy, ancient French farm labourer complete with Galloise hanging precariously underneath the grandest moustache in the world greeted us. Bonsoir monsieur, nous avons un rendezvous avec Monsieur Pons c’est soir, pour le Beaujolais Nouveau, there goes Geoff, again, with his crap French. He led us into the main hall where everyone had congregated. There, on the top table with Monsieur Pons alongside the rest of the ‘tres importantes personnes de Beaune’, was our devious supplier. We quickly discovered that there was ‘no room at the inn’; we were resigned to the fact that we had been well and truly tuttled by one of own. But as we were about to leave, astonishingly, from the top table an English voice bellowed across the room aimed in the direction of Graham. 
The person in question then began to leave his seat intrepidly making his way through the assembled crowd towards us. As he got closer, Graham roared with laughter as he recognized Martin a long past, but loyal friend. It so happened that Martin Fitzpatrick was a sleeping partner in the Prothero’s wine business and was rightly appalled when Graham told how badly we had been treated by his colleague. Martin returned to the top table to whisper into the ear of Trufore. Ashened faced, mortally wounded he consequently found himself banished to the lower ranks, to some dismal insignificant corner of the cave. Space was suddenly created; we were duly installed on the top table as Martin’s personal guests. Everyone shook our hands; warm smiles welcomed us to the festivities. We never actually found out what Martin had said to his disgraced ex-colleague but he had obviously shot himself in the foot, it was us who were now installed on the best table, it would be us who would profit from the evening.          

 Monsieur Philippe Pons rose from his seat to address his audience extolling the plumy aromatic virtues of the present vintage. He was eagerly followed by the Mairie who, again, praised the wine passionately. The Priest finally then gave a blessing and we were off and running. The meal was served cold, as was the wine. Fresh, wet, naturally chilled cold bottles brought in from the frosty night air were repeatedly presented at the table: every time one emptied another full one was produced. Interludes, during the many courses included Jack’s rendition of ‘ne rien, ne rien’, coaxing the tune from his aged squeeze box to the delight of the immediate company, especially Monsieur Pons who by now was neglecting his grim faced wife boldly sitting alongside his girlfriend, who also seemed curiously amused or perhaps the expression one of smugness? Geoff, John and I also wore the satisfied guise of cat with cream. Graham continued to relate old shady suspect times with Fitz.