Fran the pie lady.

In the Northern Territory distance is a bastard.  There’s many, many hours of travelling time; many hundreds of kilometres between one anything and the next, be it a town, a service station, a pub or a mostly pointless World War 2 ‘historical’ site (generally an old airstrip).  Nothing is close and the things that are there exist on a completely different judgement scale than things in the city.  In the city you’d be unlikely to look twice at the things that can capture your imagination out here.    Fran’s Devonshire Teahouse is a classic example.

In the Northern Territory, Larrimar can be called a town (anywhere else it would be called a pub and a caravan park).  On the outskirts of Larrimar (about 300mtr from the pub) sits Fran’s Devonshire Teahouse.  Now, Fran’s teahouse doesn’t sneak up on you.  There are several signs on the side of the road, all professionally signwritten and positioned at intervals to capture and maintain your interest.  The signs make Fran’s Devonshire Teahouse very appealing – advertising Espresso and cold drinks and pastries and bread and pies, all homemade and fresh.  After 200km of carbon-copy scrub and no-longer-interesting termite mounds, Fran’s signs catch the eye and set ones mouth to watering.  Along a highway where service stations position themselves as offering fine dining, Fran’s Devonshire Teahouse looms so large that it becomes impossible to drive past, for us anyway.

And so it was that we were standing alongside a chainwire fence reading hand scrawled words mis-spelt across a blackboard.  Looking across the fence we could see a corrugated iron shed and a banana yellow fibro house with a lean-to awning attached to its side.  Beneath the awning were three long tables with stools, bright blue plastic flystripping flapping in the breeze.  It was bordered by concrete ornaments – donkeys, gnomes, smoking frogs, etc.  At one table sat two people and two others alighted from a car behind us, headed for the gate.   If it was just Shana and I then maybe we wouldn’t have entered but, following the theory of safety in numbers, we followed the crazy-paving towards the tables.

I was first in the line and I walked past the tables and in through the blue flystripping.  I was quickly rattled by a high pitched voice.  “Out, out” it screamed from somewhere in darkness.  “You’re in private property.  Out. Out”.  I back peddled quickly, apologising to the faceless voice. The people already seated pointed to a sign near the door.  It read:  ‘No entry. Privat Propity. Order outside’.   Laughing, but feeling unsure, the way schoolkids do sometimes after being roused on, the four of us sat at the tables.  The man eating shrugged and said “Tried to warn you”.  He and his wife were halfway through a large slab of pie covered with mashed potato and mushrooms, Cheshire cat grins on their faces.  “Any good” the other new guy said to him.  “Beautiful” he replied. The aroma from his plate supported his opinion.

We scanned the hand written menu board while waiting for Fran.  It was reasonably extensive, advertising various pies, pasties, home cooked corned beef rolls, chicken and gravy rolls, bread, and more, all fresh because made on site.  Looking around it was obvious that ‘on site’ referred to Fran’s house.  There was no attempt made, beyond the menu boards, to decorate the place as a shop or a place of business.  When seated at the tables you felt as if you could be sitting at the home of an eccentric Aunty or Grandparent.  One you haven’t seen for a while, and who you remain unsure about, so trepidation and excitement merge in nervous confusion.  Other than a woman with a loud shouting voice, we weren’t sure what to expect.  And the grinning couple beside us weren’t giving anything away.

Fran appeared through the blue flystripping, a short, stocky Aussie battler of a woman, wearing black thongs, brown slacks and a blue checked short sleeved shirt of ‘Western’ design.  She had a flabby belly and flabby cheeks, mid-length dirty grey hair, pale blue eyes set in a brown, weather-beaten face and what looked to be a fresh purple bruise along her left cheek.  She shuffled on her thongs but was a woman short of time; too busy for chit-chat. 

“What do you want” she said tersely and then rattled on without drawing breath, “I recommend the buffalo pies. Fresh made.  It’s a meal in a pie. Ask them” she continued, nodding her head toward those eating.  The grinning couple nodded back, agreeing but also playing along.  Their eyes sparkled with amusement.  “So” Fran continued, “wattaya want?”

“I’ll have a buffalo pie” I said. I’d decided 20 kms back that’s what I’d have.  No ordinary bloody city meat for me.  Out here in the outback I’m taking on the buffalo.  But Shana rarely eats meat.  She will if she feels she has to, or feels it easier to do so, but she rarely enjoys it.  Scanning the menu board Shana said “I’ll have a pastie thanks”. 

Well, Fran looked daggers at Shana.

 “I don’t like meat” Shana said, almost apologising.

 Fran was gobsmacked.  She half-shouted “You don’t like meat?  What do you think is in the fucking pastie then?”

 Shana was taken aback, but by this stage we felt like we were in a pantomime.  She quickly regained her composure and, laughing, pointed to where ‘spinach and cheese pastie’ was written on the board and said “spinach and cheese, like it says there on the board”.  Again, Fran continued without drawing breath. “Nuh”, she said, “Only got buffalo pies and meat pasties.  The pies are fresh but I cooked the pasties yesty.  I recommend the buffalo pie – it’s a meal in a pie”.

Shana couldn’t imagine eating buffalo and so opted for the pastie, hoping it was plain mince. The man who walked in with us then ordered, provocatively I expect, a corned beef roll. The look Fran cast him was withering.   He re-ordered buffalo pies for himself and his wife and we all smiled naughtily.

Shana and I also ordered a ginger beer each.  We imagine ourselves connoisseurs of ginger beer and are easily enticed wherever a new variety is sold.  According to Fran hers is (of course) “beautiful” and made to an original recipe. 

Fran left for the kitchen and we all spat out the laughter we’d stored though politeness.  It rumbled out of us as if on cue.  We then chatted like old friends, united by the bizarre, laughing easily together while awaiting Fran’s return.  None of us could believe that we’d entered, let alone sat down to eat a meal here.  We were in a fenced yard, beneath a rickety awning, beside a tumbledown house, and being treated like errant children.  And we were all loving it.

Fran returned with our pies on melamine plates, a billabong of tomato sauce beside each one.  “They’re lovely” she said to nobody in particular and without looking up, “Fresh today. A meal in a pie.”  She then sat on a vacant stool and exhaled deeply.  “It’s hard work this” she said, looking around this time, “I’m knackered”.  She continued informing us of the complexities of her pie making life -  the baking, the shopping, the early morning starts.  28 years she’d been doing it. “28 bloody years”.  For our part we kept reaffirming how tasty her pies were.  She only had six more to sell she told us.  Then she was finished for the day.  It was just after noon.

The pies were very good. (Not Shana’s pastie though.  It was of indiscriminate age, poorly microwaved and frozen in the middle).  I couldn’t honestly say whether it was buffalo or chuck steak with lots of seasoning, but it was certainly tasty and filling.  However, the ginger beer was disappointing.  I may not be correct by saying this but it tasted like flat Saxbys or Shellys or some other non-brewed variety.   Maybe Fran’s original recipe was to leave a lid off for a while.

 The pies cost $11 each - the ginger beer $6 a glass.  We all paid of course, we’d eaten the food and none of us had enquired about price.  We whispered conspiratorially about how expensive it was, but not begrudgingly.  What price deep and genuine laughter?

Just as we prepared to leave another couple arrived, the woman looking very proper and overly made up.  We nodded mutely as she walked to the blue plastic flystripping.  Fran met her just in time.  “Do you have soy milk?” the woman asked.  We giggled like children, knowledge binding us together.  Obviously, out on the highway, Fran’s signs were still working.   Forget soy milk, we knew that any ‘espresso’ came straight from a tin and that any concept of ‘Devonshire tea’ was pure fiction.  “Nuh” said Fran, sweeping her hand across our stack of empty plates, “Just beautiful buffalo pies.  Made fresh today.  It’s a meal in a pie.  How many you want?”