Review: 'With natural wines and cheese toasties to die for, Loose Canon is the master of simple pleasures'
Review: 'With natural wines and cheese toasties to die for, Loose Canon is the master of simple pleasures'
Independent.ie
It's traditional for the first restaurant review of January to be of the healthy, abstemious kind of establishment that we all associate with post-Christmas self-loathing and recrimination. I'm sure that you're familiar with the type of place that I have in mind. Perhaps you too find it hard to get excited by the prospect.
https://www.independent.ie/life/food-drink/food-reviews/review-with-natural-wines-and-cheese-toasties-to-die-for-loose-canon-is-the-master-of-simple-pleasures-37695339.html
https://www.independent.ie/life/article37695338.ece/2ecba/AUTOCROP/h342/2019-01-12_lif_47044039_I1.JPG
It's traditional for the first restaurant review of January to be of the healthy, abstemious kind of establishment that we all associate with post-Christmas self-loathing and recrimination. I'm sure that you're familiar with the type of place that I have in mind. Perhaps you too find it hard to get excited by the prospect.
It's also customary for new year reviews to focus on pocket-friendly experiences; there are few whose bank accounts are in robust shape in these early weeks of the year.
The place that I've chosen to review this week may not be an obvious fit for the former category, but it's as gentle on the wallet as can be. So I hope that you'll forgive this half-break from tradition, and let me introduce you to a little gem that may have passed you by in the flurry of new restaurants that appeared towards the end of last year.
Loose Canon opened last summer, at the Drury Street end of the George's Street Arcade, in what was the former Appassionata flower shop. On sultry summer evenings it became the perfect place to stop off on the way to or from dinner, for a glass of something interesting from its selection of natural wines. I don't think that there was anywhere to sit back then, but the crush felt vibrant, something new for Dublin.
In Paris, many wine bars now are 'natural', and it was while working there that Brian O'Keefe got the idea for Loose Canon. Brian and his business partner, Kevin Powell, also run Meet Me in the Morning on Pleasants Street, which has to be one of the best cafés in the city, with a menu that focuses on produce from the organic McNally Family Farm in North County Dublin. The pair also have Reference Coffee next door.
Natural wines are made with minimal intervention, hand-picked and then fermented using the natural yeasts that occur on the grapes. Because the wines are unfiltered, they tend to be vegan-friendly. (Many conventional wines are filtered using isinglass, which derives from fish bladders.) As with all wines, there are good and bad versions; some can be pretty funky. They are rarely dull.
At Loose Canon, there are always half a dozen or so wines available by the glass. The staff are friendly and knowledgeable, so it's an ideal place in which to dip a toe into what can seem like an intimidating world if you're starting from scratch. On one occasion, we drank glasses of the Du Grappin Bagnum Gamay, one of the new generation of wines in a bag. On another, a bottle of the Foulards Rouges, Octobre, a 90pc Syrah, 10pc Grenache blend, full of juicy red fruits and with an ABV of just 11pc.
Accompanying the selection of natural wines are toasties, made on Le Levain bread and filled with cheese and other deliciousness that changes daily but might include felicitous combinations such as smoked mozzarella and Gubbeen chorizo, sobrasada (cured pork sausage from the Balearics) and washed rind cheese, and goat's cheese with beetroot crush.
You might think that a toastie is hardly a food experience worth writing about, and indeed this is often the case. (I ordered one in a café in Dublin airport a few months back that was singularly vile - plastic cheese, unripe tomato, rubbery bread.) But at Loose Canon, the toasties are a thing of beauty, made with fabulous ingredients and so gargantuan that really one between two is plenty; they tend to cost between €7.50 and €9.
In the evening, there are sharing plates of cheese and Irish charcuterie from producers such as the Wooded Pig in the Boyne Valley, where engineer-turned-farmer, Eoin Bird, uses proper free-range rare-breed pigs to make salamis of true quality.
On my last visit to Loose Canon, two toasties and a bottle of wine between three resulted in a bill of €51 and a truly joyous food experience, one that I'll be repeating regularly in the year ahead. As it's also a shop, you can buy cheese, charcuterie and wine to take home too.
ON A BUDGET
A grilled cheese toastie - big enough for two - costs well under a tenner.
ON A BLOW OUT
The only way that you could spend a lot of money at Loose Canon is by drinking oodles of wine.
THE HIGH POINT
Loose Canon is charming and unpretentious.
THE LOW POINT
There aren't always enough stools for everyone who wants one.
THE RATING
9/10 food
8/10 ambience
10/10 value
27/30
Weekend Magazine
The Abstemious Sherry Tankards of Horndog-General Joseph Joffre
Horndog-General Joseph Joffre lurched off the barracks training field. His tawny, naked legs trembled with fatigue. He stepped gingerly over the depleted shells of a score of nubile training partners, trying mightily to keep his balance. Yet his eyes burned with savage pride. Ha! Call me elderly, will you?
Behind him, various military staff underlings finally managed to get crowbars wedged between the sweat-gunked clumps of beautiful, exhausted women.
As Joffre waddled from the field, he snatched up his military uniform, shoved one leg then another into trousers, then heaved fiercely on its fly buttons. Oh for God’s sake. No. No. Heave. No. His snow-furred paunch shone with sweat, bulging over his belt. He cursed his tailor.
“A superb performance, Horndog-General,” said a middle-aged man waiting on the sidelines, dapper and crisp and with sumptuous clipboards under an arm. Joffre’s senior secretary. A trail of waistcoated underlings followed, with clipboard sumptuosity in proportion with their rank. A few of the youngest openly stared at Joffre.
“Nineteen in an hour,” said the man. “Napoleon himself could not best your prowess.”
“You stroke my ego just a little too much, Thomas,“ he growled, though not ungruffly. He winked. “But I thank you. Good practice for the meeting ahead. Clears the head. I shall need it. Towel!” he roared.
Thomas’s underling comet jumped back a step in fright. Thomas’s left eyebrow raised four millimetres.
“Where’s a damn towel? What do I pay you all for? I — there we go.”
A curvaceous young staff member had hurried up with a large white towel of splendid fluffiness. She raised it up to him, staring fixed at the sandy barracks ground, lips pressed together. “Thank you my darling,” he smarmed, swiping it from her hand. He patted it over his head, neck, bare chest and tummy, then tossed it back to her. “Off you go.”
The girl caught it, turned to scurry away, he slapped her bottom, she squealed, and tottered on her high heels for a few steps.
Joffre grinned again. “Gorgeous little rump. Send her up to my room after the meeting.”
“As it pleases the Horndog-General,” said Thomas coolly. Fully half of his entourage stared open-mouthed. Only the subtlest flicker of his eyes suggested he’d internally noted exactly who. “But if I may, your meeting with Arana is only ten minutes away. Might we-?”
Joffre gave one final heave of his uniform trousers. “Blasted thing! I swear my tailor shrinks them daily. No, it’ll have to be the dressing gown. The red silk one … damnation, it’s in my quarters.”
Thomas clicked a finger and nodded at another entourage member. “Bring it to the meeting room before our arrival.”
She coloured, then scampered round the barracks square periphery and away.
“Fine thinking,” said Joffre. “Walk with me. We’re meeting in the Breasts suite, yes? Yes. Remind me of the essentials en route.”
Joffre began walking. He circumnavigated Thomas’s entourage, laid his eyes on one of its more demure members, twinkled beneficently into her eyes, grabbed her left breast, admired the way her cleavage swelled out of her blouse, waggled his eyebrows at her, and moved swiftly on. Her irises contracted to needle points and the colour drained from her face.
“Horndog-General,” began Thomas, as he fell into position to Joffre’s left, “I must ask you to keep the fondling of my staff to a minimum.”
“Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen,” said Joffre, all brisk business. “They love it. They know it’s all in a day’s work. Right, girls?” Unenthusiastic murmurs. “Right!” He barked a brief harrumph.
“As you wish, Horndog-General,” said Thomas, tapping his sumptuous clipboard. “But let us continue. To business.”
“To business,” agreed Joffre. “Get crackin’.”
“First,” said Thomas, “Must you conduct this meeting personally? I beg of you to reconsider. My staff have specialist training in the diplomatic niceties required for these meetings. And your areas of expertise lie … elsewhere.”
“Yes I must do it personally!“ snapped Joffre. “Normally I’d leave hobnobbing to you lot, but that uppity bastard Luis Arana has been nothing but trouble for months. He’s insulted me personally. Publicly. No. It’s my responsibility.”
“Very good, Horndog-General,“ sighed Thomas. “Very well, then. Arana. Let us review the facts one last time.”
“Oh, all right,“ said Joffre. “Refresh me.”
“Luis Arana,” said Thomas the principal secretary, reading from his clipboard sumptuosity, “is the leader of the Basque Nationalists. Their historic territorial claims straddle the Spain-France border. Basque culture itself has remained unmolested under our Empire’s nurturing hand, but under Arana’s leadership, the Nationalists’ recent terrorist activity has tripled.”
Joffre snorted. “Those pansies. ‘Terrorism’. Pah. Roses on pillows and moonlit courting? Sounds a bit gay to me.”
“Nevertheless. Arana’s exhortations in our south, and Spain’s north, has attracted much support to their goal of full independence. Spain has recalled eight colonial Army divisions to reinforce their regional constabulary. I must respectfully insist that we must do likewise. A full eight divisions. To do otherwise at this critical juncture would attract unacceptable suspicion.”
Joffre gritted his teeth. “Divert troops? No! We’ll weaken my Plan! Can’t invade our southern neighbours without ‘em!”
“Nevertheless, Horndog-General. Tensions between ourselves and the Spain-Italy dual alliance are at their highest levels in decades. They suspect all. To even hint at our invasion plans against them may prove disastrous.”
“All the more reason to commit to my Plan, then! Can’t fail. We’ll give our enemy duo the ol’ one-two, eh? Eh?” He attempted a few crotch-thrusts as he waddled. “Eh? Spain and Italy gang up on us for decades? We divide and conquer right back. Bish, bosh.”
As he walked, Joffre shadow-boxed the air and tried to dance on his toes. “Their armies are spread thin across their colonies, leaving homelands ripe for plucking. Italy first. We sidestep through Switzerland to skirt Pope bleedin’ Pius Ten’s antiSexy Catholic Line. We give the finger to the Austrians on the way past. We charge down Italy with massive force. We cut off reinforcements from the Sahara colonies. Easy. Then Spain. Wheel back up and take ’em out too, before their own armies return from the Americas. Couldn’t be simpler. And on our way past, we give Arana and his ladyboys the kicking of a lifetime. Problem solved.”
Thomas looked pained. “Horndog-General, I must insist. Spain’s counter-insurgency troops put us in a precarious position. Your Plan requires we capture the full territory of both Spain and Italy, before the colonial armies of either empire can return in force to defend them. Italy, a month. Spain, two. No European Power has ever conquered another in so short a time. The manpower required to meet your schedule has stripped France bare. The month our entire army spends advancing down Italy gives Spain’s new counterinsurgency divisions a terrible window of opportunity. Only weak village militias would block their path to Paris. Like it or no, Arana’s provocations place us in a delicate position. You must persuade him to stand down. If you can achieve that, our spy and diplomatic corps can provoke Spain’s troops elsewhere. But if not, if Arana still provokes, and you do not respond, then international suspicions will raise ever higher, and your Plan may fail. You must pacify Arana.”
“Oh all right,” grumbled Joffre. He scratched his chin. “So … spout off a few empty promises, then pound ‘im later?”
“Indeed,” said Thomas. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I see no reason to keep our promises. Just make them.”
“Right,” growled Joffre, stamping his way forward. All of a sudden he stopped in his tracks. Thomas’s entourage scrambled to avoid cannoning into him. “Say. Could this be a Spanish trick? They make him kick up a fuss as a pretext to move their own troops to our border? Wreck my Plan?“
Thomas gave all the signs of suppressing Olympic frustration. “… Good … good thinking, Horndog-General. Truly, your diplomatic mastery exceeds all bounds.”
“I know, right?“ Joffre chortled. “I’m a goddamn genius. And here’s our meeting.” The group halted outside a mighty set of double doors, ajar. “Where’s my damn dressing gown? Freezing my balls off here.” He patted his furry tummy. Thomas sighed.
An unfamiliar accent wafted through the door. “Slow down baby … your kisses are divine, but perhaps latermmmph-” Heavy petting sounds.
Joffre bristled. “Who the hell is that?” he roared. “Declare yourself!”
A sound not unlike a champagne cork popping. “Hi there!” said that same someone. “Have I the pleasure of meeting the Horndog of France?” Whoever it was, he sounded earnest. “Come in, come in, do!”
“The blasted cheek! Invite me into my own damn meeting room? Who the devil are you?” Joffre kicked the doors open and stormed through. Thomas and his retinue trailed behind like a velvet comet.
Within was a large, antique conference room, rich varnish oak panelling, mighty bookcase ramparts on all sides, distinguished crystalline decanters and lily vases on side tables. Vast velvety red carpet. Servants fussed around two foldout desks in the room’s centre groaning with diplomatic papers and additional paraphernalia, flanked by a pair of comfortable leather armchairs, side by side. Main stage for the debate.
Standing next to the armchairs was a slim, dashing man, dandy and flash, twinkly crow-feet eyes and immaculate groomed moustaches. He had eyes not for a fuming Joffre, but for a waistcoated young lady standing before him. His left hand clasped hers, and his right cradled her cheek. Her lipstick smudged his mouth.
The girl had eyes only for the dandy. Joffre was acutely aware his jaw wobbled, but no sound emerged. And at the red dressing gown dangling from the girl’s clasped hand.
“I can feel myself falling for you …,” the man murmured, staring deep into her eyes. “Yeah, I’d love that drink …”
At last Joffre found words.
“Hands off my crumpet!”
The woman jolted in the dandy’s arms and whirled to face Joffre. She wriggled free, offered the dressing gown to Joffre, face down, arms up.
He snatched it from her grasp and flung the damn thing on.
“Leave us.”
The woman made a half-step around Joffre to the exit, froze, and whirled back to the eyebrow-raised dandy, who by now was really starting to get on Joffre’s nerves. She raised on tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek, then fled.
The dandy frowned after her, stroking his bare chin and looking concerned. Then he faced Joffre and brightened slightly.
“My dear Horndog-General! At last! What a pleasure to meet you in person! I hope I’ve not disturbed your … exercise? We have much to discuss.”
“Damn right we do, Arana,” said Joffre. He strode over to a side table and poured himself a generous sherry. “You lads get to work, Thomas … oh, you have,” he added, noticing he’d already set up shop with Arana’s own staff.
“‘Scuse the mufti,” he gurgled to Arana through his sherry. He patted his new dressing gown with a thwack. “Bin breaking in some new mounts. Sherry?”
“Thank you, no,” said Luis Arana, brushing nonexistent dirt off a lapel. “Not when on duty.”
“Suit yourself.” Joffre drank, then poured out another. “Right! Sit yeself down,” he said, raising a toast to the armchairs, “and let’s have our long-overdue chinwag. I’m dying to hear your explanation.”
“And I yours,” nodded Arana, all cool energy. “Shall we begin?”
“Capital! Let’s.”
The two men sat. Joffre reclined in his chair, fitting like jelly in a mould. Arana perched on the edge of his own seat like a dapper swan.
“So.” Joffre took another swill of his sherry and swished the liquid from one cheek to another. He swallowed. “So! Suppose you explain why you’re kicking up trouble in my France, eh?”
Arana steepled his fingers and signed.
“Horndog-General.” He regarded Joffre with glinting eyes. “You and I have corresponded on this topic many times. The answer remains the same. Our Basque culture, our way of life, is unsuited to your brash militarism. We are lovers, not fighters. Unlike you, we do not thrive on industrial orgies. Or on cumshot-sniping wine bottles off cathedral spires; I understand this is a hobby of yours. Or expiring on one of your foreign adventures to seduce Bongo-Bongo land. We don’t wish to provoke undue unrest within either territory claimed by Spain, or by France. We don’t wish to be enemies. We wish only to live as we always have, romancing, whaling, wooing, and making love. Is that too much to ask?”
Joffre pulled at his sherry tankard and glared at Arana. The liquid was turning sour in his mouth. Normally, he knew, if anyone tried this pansy shit on him, he’d blast the bastard with twin lungfuls of bile, then sentence the scoundrel to the Imperial prostate milking farms.
Sadly, though, Secretary Thomas’s aforementioned national priorities prohibited such jolly japes. Damn shame. He knew from experience that the prostate farms, France’s successor to the guillotine, could reduce strong men to skin and bones by breakfast. Perhaps later.
Very well. Stall. Mollify. Joffre’s brow wrinkled as long-neglected regions of his brain responsible for diplomacy and decency shuddered into life.
“Monsieur Arana,” he began. “The … French Empire spans the world.” Another gulp of sherry. “Our borders encompass a thousand cultures.” A third gulp. Christ, this act was insufferable. Did all the poofs talk like this? And the other bastard was so smooth, too. Every motion smooth and deliberate. Arana gazed steadily back.
Joffre could feel sweat creeping from beneath his armpits. He inwardly shook himself. Dammit soldier, stay on the offensive!
“I don’t begrudge you your pussyhunts, hey?” Joffre winced. “Engage Basque poon however you see fit. This is our policy with all of France’s children.” A fourth sherry swig. Damnation, empty. Pints are so small these days. Damn liberals. “Each gang does their own thing. It’s your extraterritorial cunt hunts I take exception to, Monsieur Arana.”
Joffre leaned forward in his chair and bonked Arana’s shoulder with his sherry tankard. “You stir up trouble outside our borders!” Bonk. “You upset the Spaniards!” Bonk. A bit sloshed out. “Bring their armies down on your heads, and your heads are my heads!” Bigger bonk. “Why, eh? Eh? Why now? What are you hoping to achieve beyond my retribution? Garrisons and curfews? Eh? Eh? Answer me!”
Luis Arana’s face had gone quite expressionless. His pupils had become exquisite needlepoints. Still no change in his face.
“Perhaps I will have that sherry after all,“ the fellow said at last.
Hey, he’s not such an uptight queen after all. And sloshed queens are pliant queens.
“Good man!” Joffre cackled. “Thomas! Sherry! And another mug for our guest.” Joffre turned in his seat at the approaching Thomas, and winked at the secretary from the side of his face Arana couldn’t see. Thomas gave Joffre a tight nod in return.
The ‘sherry’. Yes. With its … additives.
“Good — yes, leave the bottle, old chum. You know me too well.” Joffre picked up one of the pair of actual sherry glasses Thomas had left, brimmed it, handed it to Arana, sneered at the remaining glass, and emptied the bottle into his own tankard.
Arana brought his sherry glass to his lips. He sniffed it, raised an eyebrow, took a careful sip, frowned, and replaced the glass on the table. He shrugged, then resumed the examination of his papers.
Joffre paused halfway through his pint. “Not thirsty?”
“That is not sherry,” snapped Arana. Before Joffre could bleat indignation at how dare Arana accuse him of spiking the sherry, what an outrage etc., Arana continued. “Sherry wines are grown in Andalusia. That was grown on Saturn. Your wine merchant has deceived you.”
Joffre’s vision flamed scarlet. His fists clenched pale. He was all ready to pummel righteous fists upon Arana’s smug mug. But to his astonishment he actually found himself biting his own tongue. Secretary Thomas hovered in his vision’s periphery, with an incomprehensible look across his lacquered face. Joffre could imagine what he’d say. Bash Arana? Basque’s insolence continues unabated. Spain’s divisions stay put, and not even mighty France has the strength for monthly Italian conquest and counter Spain. For God’s sake, appease Arana.
Arana visibly attempted to keep his temper. “Horndog-General,“ he said. He pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. “If we may get to the point. Please. You are evidently unfamiliar with Basque’s mood.” He snapped his fingers. His Basque attendant cluster emitted a superbly elegant middle-aged woman, who clutched a sombre clipboard. Dull as fuck. Zero sequins, not a stitch of velvet, and not even a flash of pantyline. Some females are so inconsiderate. She handed Arana a sheaf of papers.
“The voices of Basque,” said the man. He extracted reading glasses from a suit pocket, applied them, and peered at his papers. “I received this one only yesterday.” He cleared his throat.
“‘We the undersigned wish to lodge a protest at French troops and French policies. No more conscripting. No more penis fencing. No more unisex ejaculate competitions. No more dildo taxes. No more aristocratic boytoy kidnapping. Less champagne. Two-day weekends. More cheese. More salt. We cannot endure French occupation for much longer. Our hearts groan under your booted oppression. We weep for liberty. We do not wish to rebel, Horndog-General, but you have left us no choice.’”
Arana dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. “‘Yours sincerely, Mrs. Sofia’s creche class.’”
He jerked his eyes up and glared at Joffre. “I’ve got hundreds. And we adults feel likewise. We demand full independence, see? We’ll absorb your garrisons. We’re ready to burn Basque as the Tsar burned Moscow against Napoleon. Are you capable of understanding that? I’d hoped to find common ground with you, Joffre, but I see I have been misled regarding your diplomatic capabilities. Whoever I’ve corresponded with in the last months, it was surely not you. Who was it, Joffre? Who?”
Joffre could only stare blankly back at Arana. He’d not been spoken to like that in decades. Bits of his brain tinkled and broke. At the query “how the hell do we respond”, much of the remainder squawked “no information here”. He was vaguely aware he was making a series of popping sounds.
So he fell back on his military training. When in doubt, go on the offensive.
He lurched to his feet. He undid his scarlet silk dressing gown, Luis Arana danced to his own feet, his mouth open and jaw working, Joffre snatched up the sherry bottle and made to smash it on Arana’s noggin-
Thomas the general secretary darted between them. “Gentlemen! Please!” With surprising swiftness he caught Joffre’s descending arm with his own, wrested the bottle from his hands and replaced it on the nearby table with a precise clack.
“Horndog-General,” hissed Thomas, “a moment, please?” Before Joffre could howl at his own secretary, Thomas had already pricked the back of Joffre’s neck with something pointy. Numb chill bloomed from it. He opened his damn mouth anyway and to his surprise, foam dripped out.
“Monsieur Arana, I apologise,” said Thomas, spinning back to the Basque leader. “This is my fault. I was careless with overseeing the Horndog-General’s choice of beverage. Somehow his hobby-brewed sherry moonshine has found its way into your collection. Oh, medics!” he called out the door. Joffre’s knees buckled beneath him. Thomas caught him as he fell and laid him on the carpet, prone.
Clerks of both sides gaped. Arana’s fury had subsided to mere anger. He picked up Joffre’s brimming sherry tankard and sniffed. Slight eyebrow raise. He shrugged and replaced it.
“It would explain much.”
Joffre found himself still conscious, yet noggin-fogged and faceplanted on some damn comfy velvet carpet. What had Thomas done to his neck? What was the man blathering about, what moonshine? Thomas had picked that bottle himself!
Though … Joffre had to admit, he’d made a damn hash of the entire event. Joffre’s cranium had gone all floaty. Wheeee. He’d been about to brain Arana. Intolerable lapse of discipline. He frowned into the carpet.
Wheeee. Pharmaecutical placidity curled around his brainstem. Eh. Maybe Thomas is better at handling the gutter-sweepings than I.
Arana still glinted, steely-eyed, at both Joffre and Thomas. His foot tapped on the velvet.
Thomas snapped his fingers at a member of his clerk nebula. Clipboards converged on him. “Monsieur Arana,” he said, peering theatrically at one with more thorough notes than most, “would you be satisfied with full Basque independence?”
Arana actually blinked. “…Full freedom from France?”
“Indeed.”
“No more French occupiers? We Basque would be free to live alongside other European nations, as equals?”
“Correct.”
“And … your Horndog-General,” he said, mouth curled in a subtle sneer, “would not dispute this?” He prodded Joffre’s tummy with a toe. “From what I have seen, he would dispute the good word of Jesus.”
Joffre snoozed.
“I acknowledge this may be difficult to believe, ” said Thomas, “but he and I have discovered that an assertive negotiating style such as his, in practice it helps more than it harms. Have we a deal?”
“Throw in full female emancipation across Metropolitan France, Monsieur Laquer,” said Luis Arana, “and why yes indeed we do.”
Joffre swallowed his tongue.
Dumped for not offering to pay - the money mistakes that break relationships
One person in six has been dumped to not offering to pay for a date, but that's far from the only mistake being made when we combine money with love.
While 15% of people (one in six) would turn down a second date with someone who didn't at least offer to pay for the last one, close to a fifth (19%) said they have lost a friend due to conflicts over money, research from mobile payment service pingit.com found.
But the biggest money mistake we're making is "taking too long to pay someone back" followed by not paying a fair share of the bill and bragging about salaries.
And the problem is far from theoretical, with almost one person in five (19%) saying they've lost a friend because of arguments about money.
Etiquette and manners expert Jo Bryant said: “Money can be a manners minefield, the best advice I can give is be as generous as you can, don’t show off and always be fair with friends and family when splitting bills for meals or holidays."
Read More How to get it right De-cringe your money (Image: Moment RF)
To try and head off problems, here are Jo's top tips for avoiding financial faux pas:
Be Tactful - Money discussions among friends are always tricky. Some people are savers and others spenders, and what is expensive for one person might not be for another. Don’t force others to unwillingly talk about money by asking overly-direct questions or intrusive questions. If you are in a situation where the money talk is making you feel uncomfortable, don’t panic or feel the need for forced honesty. Deflect the unwanted attention with a change of subject, quick question or simple humour.
Be Modest - Discussing how much we (or our other half) earn, and bragging or showing off about it, can make others feel uncomfortable, particularly if they are on more meagre incomes. While some might argue that the figure is theirs to share, blatant bonus boasts or flashing the cash can seem arrogant and alienating.
Be Savvy - Dating etiquette can be a minefield, and working out who pays is often a worry. As a general rule, the inviter should offer to pay on a first date (and be confident about it). If the date was more of a mutual arrangement, then it is easiest to split the bill to avoid anyone feeling like they ‘owe’ the other person (particularly if wasn’t a success and won’t be a repeat event…). More established daters could add some romance and take it in turns to treat each other.
Be Fair - When it comes to group dining, if everyone has eaten and drunk roughly the same, then the bill should be divided equally. If, however, one diner has indulged and another been abstemious, then their shares should be apportioned appropriately when the bill arrives. If everyone is on a budget, it can feel fairest and most affordable to just pay for what you have ordered.
Be Reliable - It’s a simple rule: if you borrow money from a friend, pay them back as soon as possible or within an agreed timeframe. Debt can easily intimidate, quickly spiral or even break friendships, so be decent and keep your word. A friend reminding you about repayment, no matter how small the amount, will always create awkwardness or even mistrust so it is best to avoid making them have to ask.
Be Considerate - When housemates or partners have different incomes, household bills and expenses should be approached with fairness, kindness and consideration. Work out a reasonable split that all parties agree on, and see if there are other ways to strike a balance. For example, giving the bigger contributor the largest bedroom, or one side of a partnership being extra generous with grocery shopping, meals out or rounds of drinks when they can.
Be Realistic - The easiest way to have conversations about group outings or holidays is to be upfront about costs and budgets from the outset. Rather than seeing what people can afford, organisers should present a few different options for everyone to consider. People should only agree if they can actually afford it; if you need to say no there are plenty of options other than admitting it’s too expensive. A prior engagement, other holiday plans or simply suggesting it’s not your thing usually does the trick.
Be Discreet - If you make interesting financial discoveries about other people (salaries, bonuses, secret savings, funds from the Bank of Mum and Dad etc), then try not to share, no matter how tempting. Most people like to keep their financial affairs to themselves – just think about whether you would want others discussing your bank balance.
Be Unpretentious - Avoid sharing how much everything costs and take compliments graciously, leaving others to guess the price tag (if they are even interested). Serial price sharers who can’t keep the cost of designer items to themselves will soon bore their friends, as well as dent their bank balance.
Be Generous - Remember your social etiquette and tip appropriately when required (eg restaurants, taxis etc). If you are telling someone what they owe you (for example for tickets, flights, holidays etc), avoid being too pedantic or overly precise. Don’t fuss over the last few pennies; round it down rather than asking for coppers and remember it all works itself out in the end.
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