The Foxrock Food Bank is open, and the needy are arriving in droves – and Porsches, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
THEY’RE PORKED the full length of Brighton and Torquay Roads, causing absolute mayhem. We’re talking Volvo S60s and Ford Explorers. We’re talking Mercedes S Classes, Volkswagen Touaregs and Porsche Boxters. We’re talking Audi TTs and Jaguar XKs. There’s even a Maserati Quattroporte.
They’ve come from literally the four corners. Glenageary. Milltown. Ballsbridge. Rathgor.
Solicitors. Estate agents. Architects. Quantity surveyors. On and on, they just keep coming, the queue 200, maybe 300 yords long, some collecting food porcels, some bringing them.
The village has never seen anything like it – the first night of the Foxrock Food Bank.
The old dear, Helen, Fionn and JP are stood behind this long table at the entrance to the racecourse, literally surrounded by food. It’s everywhere.
In plastic boxes, glass bowls, steel terrines, earthenware dishes. It’s wrapped in tinfoil, clingfilm, greaseproof paper.
Vichyssoise soup. Apricot and smoked bream paella. Venison sausages and Oilean mash. Shrimp bisque flambé. Enough to feed an actual ormy.
The old dear’s in her absolute element, of course. “Deeva Newton,” she’s going, “did one of her faba-lous guinea fowl fricassees. Alice Roos took it – poor Alice – said it’ll do her for the week,” and then she’s like, “Next!” They’re listening to people’s stories as well. “That’s awful,” I hear Helen go. “Thirty years paying into a pension fund, then to find that out . . . How about a hunter’s pie with Madeira and redcurrant?” It’d nearly put you in good form just to stand there watching.
Fionn asks me what I think and I tell him I’d have to say, in all honesty, fair focks.
“Yeah,” he goes, “we just can’t believe how people have responded. We’ve had as many givers as takers, Ross.”
“I ask you again,” JP goes, all smug with himself, “whatever happened to this self-centred, cut-throat people we’re supposed to have become during the Celtic Tiger?”
To be honest, roysh, I’m only, like, half paying attention? Honor’s in training, you see, for the Little Roedean’s Montessori Sports Day at the end of April and I have her running laps, back and forth between the post office and the Gables, just to build up her stamina for the 50m sprint.
I always said, roysh, that I’d never end up being one of these, I suppose, pushy parents? But at the same time, I do want my daughter to be competitive. See, it’s suddenly a tough world out there. Make eye contact with someone these days and the next thing you know they’re asking you to validate their porking.
I suppose it’s all about finding a happy medium.
I click the stopwatch as she comes toddling over to me, all out of breath.
“That’s a personal best for you,” I go, because athletes need constant positive feedback – I know I did.
“Again, Daddy!” she goes. “Again! Again! Again!” Her face is suddenly lit up like a Polish church. It’s possibly the endorphins.
But, at the same time, I’m thinking, if only I’d had her appetite for training, Declan Kidney wouldn’t have been talking about my rugby career last weekend in terms of what might have been for Ireland.
“Okay,” I go, “just two or three more,” but then I end up having to physically stop her, because Sorcha suddenly arrives on the scene – she doesn’t exactly agree with me training our daughter – followed by my old man.
He has, like, a brown paper bag in his hand? “We’ve brought some fish and chips for the workers,” he goes, except he says fish and chips like it’s some foreign food he’s only just heard about.
“Fish and chips?” the old dear gives it. “How fun!” He puts his orm around Sorcha’s shoulder. “Well, I’m going to have get used to it, it seems. My election strategist here tells me that junk food – inverted commas – is all these chaps live on during campaign time.” He really believes he’s going to be the Mayor of Dublin.
Sorcha’s there, “Even though I’d recommend a healthy, balanced diet, fast food is good for, like, short-term energy bursts?” I go, “Maybe we’ll take Honor to Abrakebabra for brekky before the big race then!”
Sorcha gathers her up in her orms. “Oh my God!” she goes, with the big-time dramatics. “She’s burning up, Ross! Have you had her running?”
“Hey,” I go, “I can’t stop her. It’s in the genes. It’d be like John Oxx telling Sea the Stors not to run. Do you think the horse would listen? Er, I don’t think so.”
The old dear changes the subject then. “Oh,” she goes, as she hands out the last of the ballotine of Anjou pigeon, “how’s the speechwriting coming along?” This is Sorcha’s new job, by the way, since her shop went tits-up.
“Wonderful!” the old man goes. “Sorcha’s just been
showing me some of her early drafts. Oh, it’s all suitably inspiring stuff. Hope, I think, is going to be our leitmotif, if you’ll pardon the French.” Sorcha
goes, “We want to, like, emphasise to people – like president Obama did? – that even though we’re facing difficult times, we can, all of us, still be inspired and stuff? Despite everything, Dublin is still an amazing place to live.”
“Well, south of Leeson Street Bridge,” the old man makes sure to go, “and east of the M50 . . . Portmornock and Malahide can be pleasant – they just built them in the wrong bloody place, that’s all.”
A cork suddenly pops and we all automatically cheer. Helen has opened a bottle of champagne. She pours it into plastic cups and we all sort of, like, stand around, waiting for someone to make a toast.
“To the Foxrock Food Bank,” the old man goes, “and your wonderful success here tonight. And to the future. Happier transports to be!”
rossocarrollkelly.ie
