“Can I have a glass of wine?” Honor goes.
And I’m there, “I don’t see why not.”
"Er, she's, like, 13 years-old?" Sorcha reminds me. "That's why not."
But Honor goes, "I know – oh my God – loads of girls who are allowed to have a glass of wine with their dinner when they're on, like, holidays."
Sorcha's there, "Well, we're not the kind of parents who allow our children call us by our first names and buy them condoms with the weekly grocery shop. You're in Mount Anville, Honor – not a certain other school I could mention?"
I’m there, “My friend Christian’s old pair used to let him have wine with dinner from the time he was, like, 10 years-old. Although he ended up an alcoholic, so he’s probably not a great example of what Honor’s talking about.”
"Ross, our daughter is not having wine," Sorcha goes. "Now, can we please, like, drop the subject?"
This is us, by the way, sitting in A Fishy Business, a restaurant in Dingle recommended to us by Claire from Bray of all places.
Honor’s there, “I hate it here.”
"It's got, like, two Michelin stors," Sorcha goes.
“I’m talking about Kerry. It’s always, like, raining and it gets dork at, like, midday?”
"Er, slight exaggeration? It was still bright at, like, five o'clock today?"
“The only way I’m staying is if I can, like, drink through it. If I can’t have wine, can I have a gin and tonic?”
And that ends up setting the boys off.
Leo goes, “I want a gin and tonic!” at the top of his voice. “I want a focking gin and tonic!”
The owner goes, 'You know you're endangering the lives of everybody in this restaurant?' <br/>
That’s when the owner of the place decides to stop by our table for a quiet word.
“Hello there,” she goes – she’s smiling but you can tell she doesn’t mean a word of it.
Sorcha's like, "Oh my God, hi!" like Meghan Morkle meeting the Queen for the first time. "I've been dying to try your restaurant for – oh my God – so long? I've heard only good things about your barramundi thermidor."
“Do you mind me asking you,” the woman goes, “when did you arrive here?”
Sorcha looks at me.
"Er, last night?" she goes. "We went to see, like, Fungi the dolphin today – didn't we, goys? – and we're going to take a drive out to, like, Slea Head tomorrow."
“You know you’re supposed to be quarantining?” the woman goes.
And that's when I pick up on the fact that every conversation in the place has stopped and everyone is just, like, staring at us?
Sorcha's there, "Er, excuse me?" in her best L&H Society debating voice.
“The rules are that if you come here from America,” the woman goes, “you’re supposed to self-isolate for two weeks.”
Sorcha laughs. She's like, "Er, the thing is, we're not actually from America?"
“You sound like you’re from America. Several other people thought it as well.”
"Oh my God, I get that all the time? We're from, like, south Dublin – the accents would be definitely similar."
The woman looks like she might be about to buy this when Honor all of a sudden pipes up.
"Why are you telling everyone that we're, like, Irish?" she goes, in an accent that's, like, pure Beverly Hills 90210. "I'm, like, proud to be American?"
That ends up drawing a few howls of anger from our fellow diners.
The owner goes, “You know you’re endangering the lives of everybody in this restaurant?”
Honor looks at her phone and goes, "Oh my God, you will not believe who Casey is taking to junior prom!"
Sorcha's there, "You're not, like, helping here, Honor?"
“I’m sorry,” the owner goes, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
"But we're not actually American," Sorcha goes.
“Please leave or I’ll call the guards.”
There’s suddenly a shout of, “Go home, Yank!” from a table on the far side of the restaurant and I sense this could get ugly.
I’m there, “Sorcha, we should maybe, like, split?”
“No,” Sorcha goes, “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll have the barramundi thermidor please.”
“And I’ll have a focking gin and tonic,” Leo goes.
The owner turns on her heel and focks off – presumably notto get my wife the main course she ordered, or my son his G&T.
There ends up being – I can’t help but notice – an atmosphere in the restaurant after that. Sorcha folds her orms, like she’s on one of her Mount Anville Peace and Justice Committee lunchtime sit-ins, while Honor looks at her phone and shouts out updates about the lives of Jaydon and Brandon and all her other imaginary high school friends.
“Probably Trump voters as well,” a man at the next table goes.
I'm going to be honest with you here – I'm actually relieved when the Feds shows up? It ends up being two Gords – a Man Gorda and a Bean Gorda.
"Hello," the Bean goes. "Is there a problem?"
“There’s no problem,” Sorcha goes. “Except I placed my order, like, 10 minutes ago and it still hasn’t arrived.”
“Where are you from, do you mind me asking?”
"Oh my God, we're from the Vico Road!"
“And what state is that in?”
Sorcha ends up suddenly losing it.
She goes, “Are you saying you’ve never heard of, like, the Vico Road?”
They don’t even bother answering. Instead, the Man Gorda goes, “Was it not explained to you on your arrival in Ireland that you were expected to self-isolate for two weeks before you went out into the community?”
“We’re not American!” Sorcha roars. “This is how people from south Dublin talk!”
Honor’s there, “Oh my God, Harper has mono! She’s going to miss cheerleading camp!”
The Man Gorda looks at me then and goes, “Where are yee staying?”
I’m like, “The Corca Something or Other Guest House.”
“It’s well I know it. I’m going to escort you back there now. And I’m going to be checking on you every day to make sure you’re quarantining.”
Sorcha goes, "Oh my God, I can't actually believe this is happening!"
As we make our way to the door, everyone in the restaurant storts clapping. And Honor turns around to the owner and goes, "Can we get a bottle of Cab Sav – to, like, go?"