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Tales
From The Trocadero
"You lucky, lucky, thing! And darling, just
think how we shall all envy you. I mean, the frocks are terrific, all
that lovely purple and black. Those fabulous gold crosses. And then, when
you get the top job, you get to wear that big red hat!" The Trocadero
restaurant had put two big tables together to hold thirteen of us. The
particular party was to say goodbye to one of the most beautiful guys
Dublin had ever seen, who had announced his intention to join the priesthood,
and had been accepted pronto by the boys in black. (A late vocation, say
no more.) And how those tables did not collapse that evening as we roared
when one of his best friends, dressed for the occasion as Oscar,
complete with green carnation, expressed the above. In my celebration
of daft nights in this legendary restaurant, that speech stands out as
one of the all time greats.
Since they put up the stunning picture of Alan
Rickman, I haven't minded at all if people turned up late to meet
me in the Trocadero. They can be as late as they like. That black coat
and those eyes. All the pictures are special, as I was reminded the evening
I was obliged to quickly leave down knife and fork when a walking stick
was thrust in across me, and a voice said, "Ah look, I knew it was
around here somewhere. There you are!" I looked up to see Ulick
O'Connor
grinning apologetically as his friend - I'm sure it was Ben
Kiely - tapped the photo with his stick, said "good evening"
to me, and left.
Various reviewers have described the Trocadero decor as like being in
a theatre. It certainly produces theatrical behaviour. There was the wonderful
woman who, because she lived in County Meath, parked her car round the
back of some shops, those interesting little shoe shops and veggie restaurant
places which front on to Wicklow Street, and said she would treat herself
to a taxi home. After much dissecting, re-living and howling at the escapades
of the hunt ball, our fearless heroine decided, with the great clarity
that comes after two bottles of red wine, to drive home. She got into
her car, turned on the ignition and shot straight into the back of one
of the shops. It was a new sports car. Best not to dwell on the next few
hours. (Lest anyone think I'm perfect, when my "time of great clarity"
came, I was arrested in my old Rover, sitting in a tax and insurance checkpoint
in Westland Row.)
There was the night that somebody at our table had a cup of coffee knocked
over him quite by mistake and the ensuing row ended up in the gents toilet
with one person yelling at the other: "You hate me because I'm gay!
You've never liked me", and the other person shouting back, so loudly
that the people in the ladies could clearly hear: "I never hated
you because you're gay. This is a very expensive suit! Jesus, I never
even knew you were gay." The point of this story is that until then
nobody knew he was gay. I think some women were very disappointed.
The night of a wedding anniversary, and my then husband had forgotten
to book a table, and the staff hastily made one up at the window, just
inside the door, which must have made things incredibly awkward for them.
We didn't mind in the least. The atmosphere was just the same to us, magic.
It certainly wasn't the fault of the Trocadero that we got divorced years
later!
Lord Henry came in unexpectedly one night and there were no tables available
and he waited like all the rest, talking to Robert or whoever could stop
around the front desk for a few seconds, in the middle of the usual mayhem.
The people at my table were incredibly impressed. They were English. They
somehow had the idea that perhaps someone would be moved! We explained
about Henry, and his restaurant, and the castle and the concerts, and
being human. Gasps from the assembly.
A worthy discussion was going on about whether a trek over India would
be a valuable and life enhancing experience, and one of the party, running
her hand through her gorgeous hair, said, "Well, yes. I've always
wanted to do that too, and I would love to go of course, but then I think:
"What about my roots?'
Then there was the night of meeting the guy better known as Miss Candy,
the two of us getting tipsy together and me discovering that Princess
Marcella Borghese was the best lipstick to use for long time staying.
My partner came in to collect me and went away again, describing the scene
afterwards as "like something out of Ab Fab".
The staff in the Trocadero are so special, that once, after a serious
celebration, I woke up in the back of a taxi when the driver said "Which
road is it now, love? The chap at the restaurant said to drive to the
sea and then take a left.' I looked out the window and sure enough there
was the sea at Portmarnock. Robert or somebody must have poured me into
the cab, and given some vague directions to the driver.
My partner's son Johnny was to be married. Hearing the word "conventional"
and feeling that the bride and groom did not need any extra stress I made
the decision not to go. I booked a table at the Trocadero for myself and
Bill, friend through thick and thin, who gave the wedding about two minutes
air time as the first bottle of wine was opened.
No Trocadero stories would be complete without Frank. I sympathise with
anyone who never dined in Frank's station. Whether it was a casual meal
for two women friends, a romantic celebration, or a noisy table for six
with everything up for loud discussion, Frank added to the evening, giving
it exactly the right note. There he was, dressed in those impeccable black
tails, the white starched dinner shirt and bow tie; his splendid white
hair perfectly groomed. You knew you were in for a very special night
if you were lucky enough to get a booth in Frank's section of the Troc.
At one time I was staying so late in the restaurant that I often shared
a taxi home with Frank. He lived in the Fairview area and I went on up
the Malahide road to Donnycarney. I have a memory of him once warning
a taxi driver not to drive away until I had gone in my front door and
closed it behind me!
Frank's spirit is still in the restaurant. I left
Ireland for good in the spring of this year and naturally enough I
had a goodbye dinner in the Trocadero. I asked for table in his old spot.
It was the best of the goodbye dinners and I tottered happily out as I
have been doing since the seventies. This time the friends in the taxi
waited to see I got in the front door safely.
by
Jane Shortall
8th November 2003
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