Read Part 1 of this saga here:  https://orladoherty.com/road-trip/

Throwing back the last of our drinks at Hotel REZz, we left it to Val’s navigational skills to get us to our dinner location.

It was a glorious evening in Cork City. The weather did not disappoint as we strolled across the river Lee. We took the bridge for safety measures. None of us lay claim to having any miracle-related skills. (Apart from Val of course, who’s cousin witnessed an apparition of Holy Mary in Knock, but that’s for Val to share). Stopping to take the obligatory selfie – sure ‘twas a beautiful night, like! (STOP with the Cork accent) we headed for Koto, a terrific Asian restaurant on Carey’s Street. The anticipation of meeting up with another of our writers’ group had us all shivering. (10 points for anyone who sees what I just did there – please do comment).

SUPERNOVA – A star that suddenly increases greatly in brightness because of a catastrophic explosion that ejects most of its mass.

Such was the foursome that erupted in the Koto restaurant on Friday evening. There, nestled in the corner nursing a distinguished looking Vodka and Tonic was another writer in our group, the enigmatic Nora Mathers. How does one describe Nora? Firstly, she’s taller than me. Actually, come to think of it, all three of them are taller than me. If you stood us all in a prison line up, it’d look like the bars on your smart phone GPS. Me being the shortest, Nora the tallest, with Val and Annabelle a close middle. Between the four of us, you’ve got a very strong signal.

Nora is funny. Val is funny. I like to think I’m funny. Nora. IS. The funniest. No question. And we’re okay with that. Annabelle, is also funny in her own realm, but in a cuter, more Maltese sort of way. She was perfectly content to sit back and absorb the three stooges in the corner who provided her with free entertainment all night. God knows we needed someone to steer us in the right direction.

We were lucky to have two very cool servers, Cian and Amasha (I really hope I haven’t butchered her name). Intrigued by the drink’s menu, Annabelle and Val ordered a couple of Pornstar Martinis. I went with the Sunset Phuket, simply because I wanted to say it out loud. Nora, had another Vodka and Tonic. It took the three of them to figure out how to open the can of tonic. Our food was delicious and served quickly. Nora and Val had their First Page Pitches with them. (I was not so well prepared for a dinner reading). Passing them around the table, Amasha overheard us talking about the Cork World Book Festival.

Her interest peaked, she asked “are ye all writers?” with a glorious lilt.

For some reason, both Val and I gestured towards Nora saying “SHE is”, telling Amasha how Nora was going to be reading her pitch tomorrow. Amasha was ecstatic, telling us she was studying journalism. The four of us engaged with Amasha, admitting we were all writers, inviting her to come to the festival. For a brief moment, we were expecting her to ask for our autographs. Meanwhile, Cian popped over to see what all the ruckus was about and asked if we’d like another round. I sheepishly replied I’d have another Phuket, and to my delight, Cian responded “arra sure Phuket, ye might as well, like”.

I was in heaven. Melted by the accent. I love Cian.

The Lone Campari

Our next stop was the River Lee Hotel where we had arranged to meet one of the Goddesses of our writers’ group, Maria McHale. She was having dinner in the hotel restaurant with her very tall partner Diarmuid. (He’s so tall that I get a pain in my neck talking to him. He’s absolutely lovely, but I do find myself staring at his chest more than his face). Maria is a co-founder of our group and oozes with joy. She is a joy-oozing-machine. She’s the reason I have grown a set of steel balls. Thanks to her, I have no problem sending off a piece of work to every literary agent or publishing house in Ireland. That, and the fact that I’m 51 with no filters, makes for the perfect combination of ‘what-have-I-got-to lose-ness’. Or as Val always says “what could possibly go wrong?”

The River Lee Hotel, in my humble opinion, should not be regarded in the ‘fast-service’ category. Not even in the ‘medium-paced-service’ category. We entered the main bar area just after 9pm, which was not at all busy. There seemed to be more bar-staff than customers – not a great sign, although it did mean (or so we thought) that we’d get our drinks pronto. Nora had left us at Koto to meet her brother briefly, and was to join us at the hotel bar. Val and Annabelle chose to sit at a long 8-seater high top table with comfy barstools. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, not without first instructing the girls to order me a nice cold pint of Heineken. There’s only so many Phukets one can drink in a night.

While in the squatting position hovering over the shiny bowl, I texted Maria to announce our arrival. She replied that they were still finishing dinner, that the wait-staff had got their order wrong, and it seemed as if they’d left the county to catch her chicken. I’d worked up a thirst after all that texting and squatting and hovering, so imagine my disappointment when I arrived back to the table to be told that a server hadn’t even been over yet. A blond lady, looking important, wearing a pressed grey uniform and shiny name tag, whisked past.

“Excuse me”, I called.

“I’ll be back to you soon”, she replied flurrying away to overlook another waiter.

By this point it was 9:25pm – we’d been there 20 minutes, and still not ordered our drinks. Important Blond Lady fluttered by again, avoiding eye-contact. Where could she possibly be going? All that back and forth, running up and down, and not a tray or drink in her hand.  She must have been VERY important.

A sharp dressed young man, also in a dandy uniform, approached us and offered to take our order. He had that half-shaven look, with wet-looking hair that wasn’t neat, but dangled behind his ears. Upon closer observation, it appeared he’d overdone it with the gel. It was an easy order.

Me – “A pint of Heineken please”,

Val – “I’ll take a G’n’T”  

Wet Hair Man replied “could I recommend a Gin for you?”. A nice touch, I suppose, but having waited 20 minutes just to order our drinks, Val spouted “just a Hendricks will do”, eyeballing me, as if to say why is it so difficult to order a drink?

Then it was Annabelle’s turn. “I’ll have a Campari and Orange please”.

Oh dear. A What? Trying not to look stunned, Wet Hair Man asked her to repeat that.

“A Campari and Orange please”. Annabelle spoke clearly in her best English. (The running joke is that as a Maltese native, she has very good English. In actual fact, English IS her first language).

“Oh, I’m not sure we have Campari” he nervously replied. Annabelle has this je ne sais quoi quality about her. She’s the A part of our NOVA – don’t be fooled by her soft voice and good looks. I think Wet Hair Man figured this out. Looking over at the giant bar laden with spirit and liquor bottles from floor to ceiling, Annabelle calmly said “I’d say you’ve got it”. Meaning, if I were you, I’d take my order and go get it. Now.

It was now 9:30 pm, 25 minutes had passed with no drinks to be had. Meanwhile, Maria texted from her dinner table, saying they were still waiting for the bill to arrive. In the distance, I saw Nora sauntering in to join us grinning from ear to ear. Our Ova would be complete now with Nora in the group. Important Blond Lady and Wet Hair Man wouldn’t know what hit them.

“If I were you, I’d order at the bar”, Val suggested as Nora pulled out a stool. It was 9:35pm and before we knew it, Nora was making love to a Vodka and Tonic, while the three of us sat agitated, tongues hanging out like parched animals.

I’m not known for my patience, so I wandered over to the bar to see what was going on. There, on a tray was a frothy pint of Heineken calling my name. Next to it was a sharp looking Gin with three cubes of ice, and what looked like pomegranate seeds, nestled close to a small bottle of crisp-looking tonic. All alone, on the corner of the tray was a large tumbler, with a sorry looking shot of Campari. All by itself. No ice-cubes. No orange juice. It looked sad, lonely, desperately trying to fit in with the Gin and Heineken, aware that it was lacking something. To start, the glass was too big for it. It was as if its mother had given it a still-too-big second-hand pair of trousers that belonged to its big brother… This Campari looked mortified.

I paced back to the table, noticing Nora sucking on the straw to get the last drop of her vodka. “They’ve got your Campari wrong”, I said, explaining the awkward looking beverage that would be arriving. Annabelle rolled her eyes. She drinks Campari and Orange all the time. Well, not ALL the time, not for breakfast or anything, but on an evening out, it’s her standard drink of choice.

When Wet Hair Man arrived with the drinks it was 9:40pm, so a few disgruntled words were spoken, not to mention the death-stare that poor Campari got. Val, Nora, and myself knew the correct protocol. Send back the Campari, and wait. Do not drink our own drinks. We must wait until a proper Campari and Orange is returned.

Of course, that didn’t happen. Val immediately poured her tonic into her pomegranate infused gin, gave it a stir, and had a lady-like sip. “Slainte”, I said and took a handsome mouthful of my Heineken. “Another Vodka and tonic, please,” asked Nora.

Poor Annabelle. She was pale from the thirst. “Campari and ORANGE” she went on to explain. “It’s not that difficult. It should come in a highball glass, 1 part Campari and 3 parts orange juice, with a few ice cubes”, she said.

Wet Hair Man couldn’t have been more apologetic, between the delay in getting served, to the mistake in Annabelle’s drink. In his defence, he did sprint back to the bar with strict orders on how to make it, and within 60 seconds was back with an Orange Campari – a bucket of Orange Juice, and a dash of Campari. Oh dear.

“It’ll do”, Annabelle was just happy to have a drink in front of her after half an hour.

Things got better, as Maria and Diarmuid arrived, recounting how she’d been served a chicken dish that wasn’t gluten free (Maria is intolerant to gluten), that the service was SO slow, they’d been falling asleep at the table. Diarmuid having worked all his life in the hospitality industry, was astounded at the slow service. He ordered a pint of Guinness and drank it like a shot of tequila, then ordered another. Sipping on her glass of red wine, Maria was keenly aware that the waiter had a tear in his eye as he said “We have to change the keg, sir”.

Oh boy. I think Diarmuid and I share the same no-patience-talent. After about 5 minutes, there was still no pint of Guinness in site, so Diarmuid had a few stern words. I’m sure I overhead him offering to change the keg.

After the initial fiasco, we were served quite promptly, perhaps because we started ordering two drinks at a time. And then the bill arrived. Classic server mistake – give the wrong bill to the wrong table. Ours listed 17 pints of Guinness, of which Diarmuid had only consumed 4 or 5. It also had multiple pints of cider, and not a mention of a Campari and Orange. By the end of the night, there was so much perspiration on Wet Hair Man’s head, he could have saved a fortune on all that gel.

Still, we sorted it out and bounced out the door into our respective cabs, Val’s teeth smiling through her pomegranate seeds. Nora bid us farewell as she happily strolled the 100 yards to her hotel. Our SuperNova lost its N, leaving OVA to rally home together, where we unfolded ourselves into our Teeny Tiny rooms at the REZz. Annabelle had consumed enough Orange Juice to cause a drought in a small orchard, and my bladder was sending warning signals that an emergency was imminent.

We didn’t erupt in a catastrophic explosion in Cork, but between the four of us and our collective dazzling personalities, our own SuperNOVA certainly left a mark on the Rebel City.

Thank you for reading about our little adventure. For an ‘official’ recollection of the Cork World Book Festival the day after our shenanigans, please click here:  https://www.writing.ie/resources/cork-world-book-fest-musings-from-the-second-row-by-orla-doherty/