rant on a saturday

It was probably, on reflection, an inappropriate time for a first date. Saturday night in Dublin - so far, so good - meet in a city pub and then go for dinner, somewhere intimate, cosy and serving quality food, reasonably priced.
So, eliminating all the overpriced and pretentious, you had to think cheap and cheerful; convivial.
My date had a wheat intolerance issue - not coeliac, just prone to bloating, she explained. Sympathising, I ticked my favourite pizzeria off the list.
And where to meet? Well, the first obstacle was the football. Ireland was playing the first leg of the World Cup qualifier against France in Croke Park. If you weren't at the game, you were almost certainly in a pub, nursing a pint and watching the game with your mates on a big screen.
The first pub I suggested was Neary's of Chatham St, the only pub I knew in the city without a tv. Of course, it's near Pizza Stop, my favourite pizzeria but that was no longer our dining destination.
My date fancied French food, oblivious to the implications of having the customary Gallic shrug replaced by a Gallic gloat, in the event of a score in favour of the visitors.
Although I knew Le Geuleton on Fade St did not entertain bookings, I thought I might have a punt at it anyway. The girl on the line confirmed my suspicions but then suggested I come in at 6.30, put my name on a list and then wait for the summons. Luckily I was sitting down or I would have staggered.
I booked Chez Max instead. It's a tiny place but cosy and reeking of garlic and Gallic charm. One very long table in the centre of the room was occupied by a rather noisy birthday party who, when they weren't whooping and hooting, were telling everyone else to 'shush.' They were Irish.
There was a big screen and yes, it was showing the match but the sound wasn't turned up; the staff were discreet about the solitary French goal and I sat with my back to it anyway which was no bad thing when I heard how boring it turned out to be. So all in all, a splendid night was had apart from the phone call to Le Geuleton, a drafty, overpriced monument with Gallic arrogance.