I Twice Met George H W Bush

In 1986, my company transferred me from London to Sydney and put me up in a small flat at the end of Darling Point, a quiet, smart part of town.

Directly across the road was the United States Consulate. Apart from a flag and a discreet plaque, it looked much like all the other waterfront mansions in the area.

Driving home from my new office one evening, I was surprised to see a couple of police cars outside my apartment block, with all their lights flashing. I was directed to pull over and then ordered out of my car. A beefy Sydney cop pinned me against my vehicle – but wasn’t keen to explain why.

I worked it out when several large black limos came round the corner. They were too big to get through the gates of the Consulate. So the passengers, including the then Vice-President George H W Bush, had to get out in the quiet street.

Bush looked around, spotted me being

President George H W Bush, 1989

detained against my will and worked out what was going on. He walked towards me and said something along the lines of ‘I’m terribly sorry. This sort of thing seems to happen wherever I go.’ Once he was safely inside, I was released.

Around ten years later, I found myself in Houston, Texas. My colleague Bill and I were waiting for a taxi outside a big, modern hotel. Suddenly the double doors behind us were flung open and a group of big men in dark suits pinned us both against the wall.

Then out came the then ex-President George H W Bush, with his wife Barbara in tow. He paused briefly, looked directly at me and said something along the lines of ‘I’m terribly sorry, this sort of thing seems to happen wherever I go.’ Once the Bushes had sped off, we were released.

I very much doubt he recognised me and he certainly didn’t hear me shouting at his departing motorcade, ‘Just make sure it doesn’t happen again, George!’

Tom Moult

Egon Ronay’s exceedingly good taste

honour my side of a £50 bet I’d desperately needed to win to see me through the last of my African days.

It seemed worth a try.

Sipping my White Cap beer in Nairobi’s celebrated Thorn Tree Café, I noticed the small ad in a well-thumbed English newspaper: ‘Egon Ronay seeks hotel and restaurant inspectors.’

Well, I’d made it through catering college and cooked professionally before setting off to busk and bum. With my cash reserves down to zilch, I scribbled off a few lines to Britain’s ‘Mr Gastronomy’, extolling admittedly limited virtues and not expecting any sort of reply.

To my great surprise, an envelope was waiting when I arrived home in early December, wearing nothing but a kikoi and a pair of flip-flops to

I managed to somehow bluff my way through the interviews and arrived on Day One of the job from heaven. Presented with a list of smart London hostelries, I duly booked accommodation for the forthcoming week and reserved tables at a selection of restaurants, including fellow diner I’ve known who sent back his soup because it was too hot.

Claridge’s, the Dorchester and the Connaught, dining twice daily in the company of the organisation’s chief inspector, Géza Luby.

We once travelled together overnight as part of a cross-Channel ferry survey, and after dining separately – he in the restaurant, I in the cafeteria – we set off to our respective cabins, arranging to meet and exchange notes over breakfast.

Usually the epitome of calm politeness, he appeared ruffled by his night afloat when I breezed in with a ‘Morning, Egon. Did you sleep well?’

‘No, I did not,’ he grumbled, his Hungarian accent more noticeable than usual. ‘It voss like trying to sleep all night long on a … a … a vibrator!’

By Tim Broadbent, PontSaint-Esprit, France, who receives £50

Readers are invited to send in their own 400-word submissions about the past Ronay with Wedgwood teapot, 1984

My training period over, I’d leave the office every fortnight with a huge wad of cash (no credit cards in them thar days) to see me through another gruelling round of browsing and sluicing the length and breadth of Britain and Ireland. And Egon? Struggling occasionally with the vagaries of the English language, the Budapest-born Ronay was unerringly charming and affable, passionate about his food, of course, and generous to a fault. He paid me handsomely (and unexpectedly) for a silly poem I’d scribbled and included it in his swansong 2006 Guide (he died in 2010, aged 94). He is also the only