When Alain announced that he was ‘retiring’ (having once already retired from the gendarmerie) there was consternation among the disparate and ragged band that frequented the village bar. Always an uneasy coalition of the French barflies and international expats, both groups considered their future with trepidation.
Both the French and international community tended to be split down the middle. Many indigenous inhabitants never went near Alain’s. The combination of rugby decor, constant TV and dubious hygiene arrangements attracted some and repelled others. The same equation applied to the village incomers – some would walk by on the other side of the street, others regarded Alain’s as their spiritual home from home.
Perhaps the major factor driving footfall into Alain’s was the issue of tobacco. Alain’s outrageous flaunting of the indoor smoking ban, permitted through his contacts with his ex colleagues in the gendarmerie, attracted some but left others cold. Literally cold in the winter. Either you tolerated the smokey interior or missed the bonhomie inside.
For welcoming, Alain’s bar certainly was. The consummate people person, Alain had time for everyone. Conversations were of course generally conducted in French no matter your level of comprehension, although Alain did attempt to make payment advice in English as a friendly joke. It would take a special person to replace the flawed genius that was Alain and his cafe.
The idea that he should close, therefore, brought a mixture of delight and fear amongst the village, depending where you stood on issues such as smoking, TV sport and of course decor. Would smoking be allowed in the new establishment? Where would those without expensive TV packages go to watch the Champions’ League? What could possibly replace the bright green and red paintwork?
For at least a year, rumours circulated and swirled around the leaf festooned pavements of the village. Potential patrons came and went. A team of international inhabitants even put up a proposal for a community buy out. Eventually, however, a long handover process began whereby Alain transferred his reputation and good offices to a new couple – Stéphane and Juliette.
This being France, the bureaucracy and paperwork took around six months. There were issues of finance and restrictive covenants; Alain should not inaugurate another bar within a certain radius. An unlikely outcome, at least not until Alain had regained his energy by sleeping for around 18 months, for he was observably shattered at the end of his tenure. Running a bar from eight in the morning until ten at night with only one week’s holiday a year does tend to take it out on a fella.
So, with impeccable timing as we arrived for our autumn visit, hoping to complete some essential jobs in the house, Alain’s bar shut its doors for the last time. We missed the closing party by a day. During the next two weeks we occasionally peeked a look inside at the work which was being undertaken. This was probably not a good idea. One morning we arrived to see Juliette on her knees scraping away the layers of protective grime that had accumulated behind the bar over the years. Sadly, there were probably antibiotic organisms there unknown to medical science now lost forever as the cleaning frenzy began.
The renovation period stretched from the planned two weeks to four and then six. By this time we had left the village for a while in order to satisfy our contractual employment commitments and replenish our bank account before sterling became even more of a joke currency as the UK voted once again for a europhobic government. Fleeing back to the village a month or so later, auspiciously the day after the UK drifted off somewhere into the middle of the Atlantic, we discovered the bar was now open once again. We stepped across the threshold.
Although we had been partially forewarned by Bud our German/American friend who had sent us some pictures, nothing could prepare us for the transformation. Gone the tobacco stained ceiling. Gone the green and vermillion paint job. Gone the coffee and wine stained wooden bar. Alain’s had been transformed into a hospital clinic waiting room. All was white, even the wood. There was no escaping the new decor as multiple 1000w lamps beamed down from the ceiling, illuminating the new owners’ statement of intent. We are CLEAN! they shouted out. There was certainly no denying it.
RIP the Last Greasy Spoon in the Minervois
