Liverpool Stories
The stories on this site are not included in my book.
The tales are snapshots of my life in Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, and the echo chamber of the Mersey Sound that in the sixties resonated around the planet like an acoustic Tsunami. The stories cover a period of 50 odd years and so they touch on every aspect of my life from the rites of passage to the passing of youth. I hope you enjoy them.
Brunellis - Eating out Liverpool
By
John Williams
London Road, Liverpool. The names conjure images of stage coaches and heavily laden wagons trundling through the milling pedestrians en route to and from the Capital.
That of course was back in the 19th century. By the time I was born London road was a simply a route from the outlying suburbs to the heart of Liverpool. Throngs of shoppers and workers were packed aboard the many trams, and the newer buses, in a never ending traffic of tired humanity.
For me, as a child, the thoroughfare meant excitement in the form of Woolworths, T.J. Hughes' Grotto and trips to the Odeon cinema. I can remember crucifying my mother for weeks to take me to see the great Romano-Christian epic, 'The Robe'.
My eagerness to see Richard Burton, Victor Mature and Jean Simmons going nobly to their techni-coloured deaths for their faith sprang not from any religious fervour, but because I desperately wanted to see the modern miracle of Cinemascope. My mother eventually gave up the ghost and accompanied me to the temple of dreams. I was never so disappointed with anything that the cinema had to offer until I myself was tortured into taking my youngest child to see Pokemon the Movie.
Don't misunderstand me, 'The Robe' was a great film, and I would walk a million miles to witness Victor out acting a plank, but I just couldn't see what all the fuss was about. To my childish way of seeing the gain of the extra wide screen was somehow offset by the flattening out of those elevated portals to heaven which transformed ordinary mortals into Gods.
It was no doubt an ordinary mortal who, in the latter part of the 20th century, decided that the ancient highway to London should become a one way traffic system; and the once vital arterial road deteriorated until, slowly but inexorably it was visibly dying from the forty year old progression of that urban epidemic, Sclerosa Bureaucratica.
The symptoms of the disease were manifested by the relentless rash of 'Closing down' signs and by the spread of fly posters on vacant shop windows singing the praises of everything from Rock music to the laid back solutions of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.
However, it needed more than meditation to breathe life into the old road but help was on its way, in the shape of local men and women who refused to go with the flow.
One such person recently opened a cafe/restaurant, Brunelli's, on the corner of London Road and St. Anne Street.
I first noticed it several weeks ago when I caught sight of the gleaming chrome and glass facade, and the offer of re-fillable coffee or tea with breakfast. I decided that when I had time I would sample the fare.
My chance came today when I was taking my wife and youngest boy to see the Shirley Hughes' exhibition at the Walker art gallery. The thought of climbing those granite steps leading to the gallery stirred in me a sudden hunger, not for art but protein and so we walked past the cane chairs and tables on the pavement and made our way to the servery.
A charming young woman directed us to a table and offered to bring us our order when we were ready. Now I've grown so used to standing in queues at the likes of Subway that my tired legs almost cheered. I mentioned to my wife that the site had once been part of the court system.
It's been a long time since anything I said sparked any interest in a young woman. In truth the lapse could accurately be measured in light years, so you can imagine my joy when the beautiful young waitress promptly asked me to elaborate as the staff were always being asked what used to stand where the new building, hosting the cafe, presently is.
Honestly, asking me to talk is a bit like commanding Niagra to fall. Totally unnecessary!
I explained that it used to be a minor court and that I had once been invited there for jury service. If the young woman had entertained any hope of a juicy criminal trial she would have been disappointed to hear that the trial fell through and I was discharged.
I managed to give the tale a slight coat of gloss by telling her that I never claimed my expenses, thereby creating the illusion that I was fairly affluent in the sixties, but failed to mention that I was only offered my bus-fare, which amounted to threepence! I still have the unclaimed expense sheet.
Just then my son noticed that in the well stocked drinks cabinet were genuine glass bottles of coke. I am a sucker for fizz Americana, and so when he returned with two bottles and two tall glasses holding masses of ice I really began to warm to Brunelli's.
The interior was very spacious. Indeed, there appeared to be enough room between the large glass-topped tables to accommodate a formation dance team and the Birch furniture seemed even lighter in colour than usual as it reflected the ample light flooding into the room from the gleaming windows that also a afforded a great view of the bustling road beyond.
I hate eating in those awful cafes where the light is filtered through condensation and vapor du lard.
Just as illuminating was the menu that comfortably bridged the gap between cafe and restaurant fare, but at cafe prices. My son was soon tucking into a kid's portion of Spaghetti Bolognese, which would have satisfied an adult, and pronounced it delicious. I settled for a turkey and sage and onion stuffing sandwich, while my wife plumped for beef.
Our sandwiches arrived set amid a plate of salad that contained tomatoes laced with a sweet tangy dressing. As I bit into the softest bread I've tasted in years and savoured the genuine stuffing and thick sliced turkey I couldn't help but think of those times many years before, and a unique restaurant called Samson and Barlow's.
I say unique because on Sundays, after hosting weddings etc on the previous Saturday, the restauranteur used to festoon the windows of his establishment with the carcasses of chickens leftover from the feast. It was in the austerity years and people used to buy the carcasses and either pick them clean or make soup.
'Pickin' a chicken with me' was a popular song in those days.
As we were leaving I mentioned to the proprietor that closing at seven o'clock seemed an awful waste of good restaurant time. He agreed and told me that it would soon be a cafe by day and a licensed restaurant by night.
I wish him the very best of luck and I'm sure the visitors to the city of culture will join me. Places like his are such a welcome change from the 70's when Liverpool's civic slogan was 'City of change and challenge'.
There was change aplenty in those days but the only challenge lay in finding any that benefited the people of the town.
Update August 2005 Wouldn't you know it, the bloody place has changed hands