Paul Allen's weekly look at the world

JOURNALISTS are often accused of intruding on private grief. Doorstepping bereaved families, rushing out to road accidents or asking the survivors of nasty events how they feel are examples.

But sometimes you just can't help it.

My wife and I had a late-season break in Normandy and found ourselves in the spectacular hilltop town of Dinan, where driving rain and low cloud meant that sitting outside a bar for lunch was not an option.

We scuttled into the nearest caf and it was immediately clear that something was horribly wrong. The place sold mostly galettes, a sort of super-thin pancake which comes with savoury or sweet fillings. It was the first time I'd been faced with one.

Personally, I would have preferred one of those superb salads dressed in vinaigrette, or a sandwich, which in France means half a baguette, stuffed with goodies. But as we had previously chickened out of buying a dozen oysters on the seafront nearby (I'd never done that before, either, and wasn't entirely sure of the procedure with the knife and the lemon), I felt it was time to take the bull by the horns.

Anyway, back to the private grief. The caf was run by a middle-aged man and a girl in her twenties. They could have been married or she could have been on work experience. But whatever, they were having one hell of a row. One of those under-the-breath, seething rows that couples have when there are other people about who aren't supposed to spot the bother going on.

Monsieur was doing galettes, smearing batter on a hot plate and producing sheets of pancake that were so thin you could see through them. His other half was behind the bar, on the other side of the room, where she was trying to serve beer from a pump dispensing mostly froth.

And the animosity between them just crackled. "It would help immensely if you could get your ass in gear and serve some of these meals to the customers," hissed the man to the girl. That's an approximate translation, but I did follow the rough drift of his management style.

"You know what you can do with your galettes," she retorted, "and it would help if someone went and changed the barrel on this beer." Or words to that effect.

With all this unpleasantness flying to and fro across the caf, it was difficult not to notice, but the polite thing to do seemed to be to keep your eyes averted and wait for something edible or drinkable to turn up at the table.

But couples having rows in public look for allies. As there were only a handful of people in the bar, and we were in line of sight as the pair sniped at each other, we were dragged into the conflict.

"Pouf!" (or some similar expletive) went the man, raising his eyes heavenward to indicate to us that it just wasn't possible to get the staff these days. We smiled nervously, not wanting to take sides. "Merde!" (forgive my French) went the girl, indicating with a quick look and a Gallic shrug in our direction that the man was a nightmare to work with. More tentative smiles.

Finally, the man exploded into action. Leaving a galette on the hotplate, he stormed across to the bar, picking up dirty glasses from the tables on the way, slamming them down behind the counter and washing them up. Barging his assistant out of the way, he re-emerged with clean cutlery for those waiting to eat, slapping it down with barely-controlled rage - but quite precisely for all that - in front of the would-be diners. Briefly, he vanished out the back to change the barrel, returning to pour half a dozen glasses of beer which were also banged down on customers' tables.

Mesmerised by the fury, I hadn't the heart to tell monsieur that he'd left his galette for too long and it was turning black. Fortunately, it wasn't mine. We finished our meal and departed, leaving a 10 per cent tip for the floor show.