Three tenors and a famous Eighties pop duo might sound like an unusual combination, but when the Celtic Tenors met Air Supply in Vicar Street last year, it was love at first sight. Musical love, that is. Within a few months, they had invited us over to record with them in a studio just north of New York, spending two days reinventing their smash hit single, All out of Love. When the recording session ended, Graham Russell, the more extrovert member of the duo, invited us to dinner. “I’m compiling a book called The Rock’n Roll Guide to Indian Restaurants,” he explained. “I’ve reviewed over 700 world-wide so far and I hear there is a great one near by.”
But those long and winding roads through upmarket Connecticut can be very confusing. After passing the same McDonald’s five times and making two accidental freeway entries (“Take the next exit or else we’ll end up on Route 66!” I yelled), we pleaded with Graham to telephone the restaurant for directions. But he stubbornly refused. Then, suddenly, he pulled over at the side of the road and jumped out, saying, “Back in a minute.” I assumed he had gone for a slash behind the fence but, a short while later, when he got back into the car, he appeared to be a changed man. “I know the way,” he exclaimed with an evangelical passion. “My angels have just told me.”
The car moved off with a screech. “It’s just down this road, through the next set of lights, and then a sharp left beside Walkers Convenience Stores,” he said, with fervent excitement. Within a few minutes we were at the restaurant and Graham had parked the car cavalierly outside with one wheel on the pavement. I was just about to close the passenger door when he shouted over at me: “Niall, get my cell phone, will you? It’s in the glove department.” I stopped in my tracks. So if his phone had been in there all along, who had given him such accurate directions while he was behind the fence? I gave him a puzzled look and he read my thoughts. “Never doubt your angels,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.
The restaurant manager had a smile so bright it could be seen from space. He also had a sense of humour. “Sorry, but I’m all out of poppadoms,” he quipped, and followed with a rendition of his own New Delhi interpretation of All out of Love. When dinner was over, Graham took out a large black leather-bound book and, with the detailed precision of an accountant, asked us all to give the restaurant a score between 1 and 10 for service, decor and ambience, and for each individual course. It was all very Eurovision, with lots of political rivalry between the chicken tandoori, the pilau rice and those onion bhaji upstarts that always seem to be winning these days. Once we had given our points, he buried his head in this book, feverishly adding and subtracting, while all the time he was being watched by the manager who was nervously humming inthe corner.
“Excellent!” said Graham, finally. “I can give this place an overall seven out of 10 and will be happy to include it into my soon-to-be-published Rock ‘n Roll Guide to Indian Restaurants,” he said, with considerable pride. The manager let out an audible yelp of excitement and approached the table to take the credit card that was being offered. At that moment, a huge rat ran across the floor. It was a big, hairy bugger the size of a domestic cat and it ran directly under our table and disappeared through a half-opened door in the far corner of the restaurant. For a moment, everyone was speechless. Even the manager stopped humming Eighties hits and turned a whiter shade of pale. Everyone looked at Graham, still clutching his big black book, and waited for him to say something. He paused – and then, with consummate timing, said: “I don’t remember inviting my lawyer.”
In the car on the way back to the hotel, I asked Graham if he still planned to include the restaurant in this rock ‘n roll guide book. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “I have to ask my angels.” Then he swerved suddenly and pulled over at the side of the road. “I won’t be a minute,” he said, as he disappeared behind a bush. We all waited while he had his transcendental moment.
When he came back, he looked very relieved.
“Did you ask your angels?” I said.
“No,” he replied. “I was just taking a piss!”