Serge walked into the pub like a king, head high, gesturing from side to side with a hand palm held upward. He commanded the room, it was his, but there was one who didn’t register the gravitas of the Tunisian’s entrance and Serge’s half smile froze a little as he zeroed in on his quarry. This guy was a regular, a banker, whose job in London was so stressful that on the weekends he just destroyed himself with beer after beer and maybe the aid of some white powder. When he arrived the barmaid asked him if he wanted his Spiderman suit back, he too apparently liked to make an entrance, I was kind of disappointed he hadn’t arrived in costume. He was loud, and he was messy in his movements, Serge collected three coasters, two with thistles and one a swallow. His hands shuffled the coasters and spat them out, “where is it?”, the drunk chose, the swallow, “ah, very good, very good, now how much?” “I don’t know man, I’m drunk man” “How much? 50P, choose” Thistle, “5 quid” thistle, “20 quid” thistle, “I let you win” thistle. The drunk’s volume was diminished, of course he didn’t take any money, but he had confused the guy into a respectful silence. Ego restored Serge sat next to us in the corner to play guitar.

“People in this village don’t appreciate good food, they won’t eat couscous, they want rice. The only way to cook couscous is to steam it and there is nothing that compares.” We had enjoyed a very good meal earlier, but yes the aubergine was accompanied by rice. Dylan had the pub staple of fish and chips, but when quizzed could not name the secret ingredient of star anise.

Sally, his co-owner then joined us looking weary. “People are more alive than dead here, tomorrow we’re holding another wake. It’s a relief to see some young people in here.” She bought us a drink. “People don’t approve of Serge, we mainly get out of towners, there have been several celebrities dining with us tonight.” We looked around, but wouldn’t have recognised these English actors anyway.

“The woman in the shop doesn’t like my croissants!! She refuses to sell them, so I only make them every second Sunday on her day off.” I had tried these the weekend before, they were dark like a true French croissant and melt in the mouth buttery, I was crestfallen we would miss out this weekend having planned our day around it like the food obsessed Melbournians we were, “if you are ever here on the right Sunday I will show you how to make them.” He then started rattling off ingredients and measurements, that we had no hope of remembering, but we were touched by his open spirit.

We had come to see Millar’s first night behind the bar and as it grew later and the crowd thinned the atmosphere settled into that comfortable ease of close friends. Serge tried to teach Paul and me the coaster trick, and it became clear that it was more mental than anything else, the lull and the pounce, everytime you thought you were onto his game, his mannerisms, thistle! Someone offered us some Twiglets, they tasted like Vegemite, but didn’t make me homesick.

“This is how I earned my ticket from Marseille to London” he proudly confided, then he became a successful restauranteur in London, Sally and he were sorely disappointed with Lodsworth. Serge had an air of mystery about him, and exoticism that would be a boon on London or Melbourne, but was met with suspicion in small town Lodsworth. The rumour was his parents were the last people guillotined in France, we didn’t ask. Sally too had lived a full life, wife of an petroleum man, she had lived all over the world, South America perhaps being the most memorable. Houston was the hardest for her, we shared our stories of how Americans were so similar to us, then would say something that would surprise you and the gap of difference would seem an abyss, more often than not it was about guns.

Serge settled in to be the star, fingers dancing over the guitar strings with card shark speed, his gravitational pull swallowed the room. French songs, Spanish songs, then a rather entertaining Buffalo Soldier, in a strong French Tunisian accent. It was one of those nights that glows red hot and you can feel it burned in memory forever, Oregon Fishing, Jazz in New York, a campfire on Mount Tamalpais as the fog closes in, we spilled into the night feeling we had caught a glimpse of something special.