Bet and bawd: sign over a sad pub

Dec 8 2006 By Alastair Gilmour, The Journal

Geoffrey Chaucer missed his chance to change the history of the pub. In his 14th Century Canterbury Tales account of a pilgrimage to the city, he could have invented Bet Lynch.

That way we would have heard the last of all blonde, buxom, brash and bawdy barmaids long before the occupation was stereotyped, then every pub in the country would be staffed by normal, approachable, standard-issue personnel.

What Chaucer omitted to bequeath to the nation was The Barmaid's Tale to study alongside The Knight's Tale, The Prioress' Tale, The Squire's Tale and so on.

Each of those callings has changed dramatically since the 1390s - if they still exist at all: what these days is a summoner, a pardoner or a franklin - all of whom had their tales told?

Bet the Blonde Bombshell from Coronation Street would now be Mannerly Mousey Mary selling Newton & Ridley's ales with barely a glance from this side of the counter.

Some of us can recall when in 1970 Hilda Ogden caught a glimpse of the Rover's Return's new arrival from Elliston's PVC factory. At home later with husband Stan, she said: "Talkin' of Rover's, you ought to see the new barmaid, if you can call her that. The first time I saw her I thought it were a jukebox." A profession summed up in 28 words, but it needn't have come to that.

Chaucer's description would have been more of a mouthful, but with the same end result. If he'd written one it would have gone something like: "I noot wher she be womman or goddesse; But Venus is it, soothly as I gesse; The fairness of that lady that I see; Serving ale in buxomly chastitee."

That said, literature could have moved on and we would gradually have dropped the notion that barmaids are bleached-haired, crimson-lipped, amply-bosomed, predatory objects of desire. They would have been consigned to history - like the Canon Yeoman.

But we all have a favourite barmaid, the one we enjoy making eye contact with and the one we feel special being served by.

One of the most efficient, hard-working individuals who has ever slid a half-litre across a counter works in a bar in Prague. Renata Czadkova has served beer for the past 10 years in the Budvar Bar at U Medvidku - a restaurant, beer hall and hotel - in the Stare Mesto district of the city.

"She is the best of all," says Nikola Drevinkova, a senior account executive in a Czech public relations company. "She understands what beer and people need very much - care and patience."

You don't have to wait long to be served by Renata, regardless of the level of custom.

She takes orders; she waits on tables; she serves at the bar; she dishes out change from the purse strapped to her waist; she collects glasses; she washes glasses; she has glasses of Budweiser Budvar - 10 at a time - ready to top up within seconds of the request, "pivo prosim"; she wipes the counter down and tots the orders up.

She is amazing. She is also unusually stern and appears virtually humourless. Bet she's not.

Renata takes the odd breather, of course. Stepping back from the counter she re-pins her hair, glances around to check that all is running smoothly, rolls her head around slowly, takes a deep breath ... then starts collecting glasses.

A group of 20-somethings on a leaving-do bowls in - one of the girls staggering under an enormous bouquet - and, sensing that she is desperate to put it down, Renata produces a huge vase full of water to keep flowers and female fresh. She probably sweeps up as well.

Bet Lynch's theatricals were confined to storylines involving Alec Gilroy, Len Fairclough, Mike Baldwin, Jack Duckworth and Des Foster, but expect theatre of a different sort in Belgian bars where bottled beer is served with style, panache and a conjurer's sleight of hand. For example, the barmaid in De Belleman Pub in Bruges, overlooking Queen Astrid Park - and far enough off the tourist trail to be genuine - takes a bottle from the fridge with one hand, matching glass from an arrangement in the other, flips the crown top, pours firmly at an angle and only stops when the head threatens to overflow and the yeasty sediment begins to surge (she knows instinctively when there's about a millimetre of liquid left).

Any towering froth is determinedly sliced off with a large spatula, the base of the glass is dipped in cold water, pressed onto absorbent paper and placed on a beermat, all in one movement and before your very eyes. She glances across the bar at another customer with that slight tilt of the head that indicates "who's next" in Flemish.

Like the unsmiling Renata, this barmaid's expression gives little away. Does this mean this country has the monopoly on friendly chatter and smiling efficiency? Perhaps not.

One well-known pub in the North York Moors is often described as being in the middle of nowhere, but even on a recent overcast Wednesday lunchtime there's a quiet hum of conversation from an impressive level of custom.

This is definitely somewhere rather than nowhere - somewhere weary ramblers can kick off their boots and enjoy lunch, Yorkshire hospitality and great beer in traditional travellers' rest surroundings. A hapless barmaid, however, spoils the illusion.

When she eventually stops making notes in little pads and disappearing into the kitchen, she pours the Theakston Black Bull Bitter.

The beer billows and swirls, she jots and scribbles. Given that it's a lively pint, we wait for it to settle.

Eventually, the head takes up the top third of the glass and we pass it back - with a smile - to be topped up. She looks up from her jottings and stares in incomprehension.

When the penny drops, she says: "Ooh. Right." A friendly "woops", even in Flemish, would have broken the ice, or "sorry, Cock" in Weatherfield-ese, but we are now left with a bad taste for that particular, stone-walled, heavily-beamed, coal-fired coaching inn.

Chaucer mentions a barmaid, but only on introducing the monk who is on the pilgrimage with him.

He writes: "In towns he knew the taverns every one; And every good host and each barmaid too."

He then ends his magnum opus with his take on The Seven Deadly Sins and a warning for Bet Lynch-lookalikes and avaricious barflies. "After Glotonye thanne comth Lecherie."

Make a note of it.

alastair.gilmour@ncjmedia.co.uk