More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (10 page)

I have to admit that at this stage I was intrigued. Was the girl’s life really going to be put at risk for the sake of half a dozen customers who seemed more interested in a large cockroach that was scuttling along the dirty tiled floor? It began to appear not.

I noticed that the man had discreetly shuffled to within six feet of his assistant during his mimes of ineptitude. The music turned to a drum roll and he asked the silent audience for complete quiet. The man’s face took on a look of serious concern. By now, we couldn’t see the girl’s face at all as the crown had managed to slip past her nose and was only being prevented from travelling further south by her resolutely puckered lips.

Gripping the knife between finger and thumb, the man drew his arm back and brought it sharply forward again, leaning close enough to his target to be able to actually place the knife in the board. When all three objects were safely embedded he span round, arms aloft and stamped a foot almost in time with the final cymbal crash. Neatly, it came down square on the cockroach for which he gained a trickle of applause.

Obviously money had exchanged hands for this performance but who in their right mind would book such an act? Not us, that was for sure. After a fruitless search we decided that we were going to have to resort to the dreaded sing-a-long. The question was who to get to run it. We needed a compere and with the summer season a mere week away and all the best performers booked up, we needed to act fast.

Another pub owner who had come to the bar one night to check us out recommended a friend who had just arrived on the island and was looking for work. She had her own gear and although it had been a while since she’d been on the circuit, we were prepared to give her a try.

However, while the rest of Las Américas were regaled by the slippery patter of their own Graham Goldenthroat, Johnny D’Amour or Simon J. Shinyshoes, our Delightful Debbie turned out to be a Dour Doreen.

Despite last minute protestations, particularly from David and Faith who absolutely detested any form of cheesy entertainment, table number five was dragged down the bar towards the kitchen to form a partnership with table number one. We decided against dangling tinsel as a backdrop and instead bought a huge piece of black cloth to force those sitting outside to watch the fun from within.

We have to admit that although ceiling fans were constantly in use, causing surface ripples on our patron’s pints, they only managed to circulate the hot air that was trapped inside. The heat in the bar area was occasionally overbearing, leading to an exodus to the outside seating. However, it was nothing compared to the heat in the kitchen.

Sunday’s were the busiest nights for food with a hundred people plus ordering a traditional roast beef dinner. The piece of topside delivered to accommodate this demand looked like a full quarter of a cow, and the effort just to lift it into the oven when the kitchen thermometer read 140 was enough to guarantee a tidal wave of perspiration.

Mario had built up quite a following for his Sunday roasts, with people coming from all over the South to get their helping of edible reminiscence. It was all that we served on a Sunday and made for a somewhat more relaxing shift in the kitchen, except for the washing-up.

Mario had installed a dishwasher, which we promptly uninstalled. It was proving just as efficient to wash by hand as the machine would take the best part of an hour to trudge through its cycle. Not only that, close inspection revealed that it was the home of probably the cleanest community of cockroaches anywhere in the Western world. The damp, warm interior provided their perfect pied-à-terre, a veritable holiday camp of spindly beasties waiting to jump out from gleaming crockery.

Proportionally, the little things in life shouldn’t scare the big things. But it happens. It was a common sight to see a bar load of adults fleeing from one side of the room to the other just to avoid being anywhere near a two-inch insect. Of course, the bug realises the terror it can cause. Think of the power trip it must be on, scattering people like a motorbike in a ballroom.

It’s believed that the cockroach is the only creature that could withstand a nuclear holocaust and thereby take over the world. If those aspirations were being considered, we were doing our utmost to rain on their parade.

One of our more common purchases was Raid. At the cash and carry it was the pharmaceutical equivalent of buying condoms. You hid a couple of cans between the beans and frozen chips before making your way sheepishly to the checkout.

If you had a can of Raid amidst your stock you might as well have stood up, raised one arm and admitted, ‘Hello, we’re the Smugglers Tavern and we have cockroaches.’ Our bar was constantly the scene of an aromatic battle between Tetramethrin and Airwick. We’d spray the little buggers like it was napalm, despite the fact that only a little zap was actually required to send it into a frenzied breakdance.

We also scattered several cockroach traps around the bar, kitchen and patio. These are not leg-grabbing bear snares but little black discs filled with an alluring chemical. The intention is to attract the bugs into the maze with the equivalent of a cockroach cream cake. While in there, in the excitement of finding such a treat, they trample through a slow-acting poison which they then unwittingly tread back to roach HQ to contaminate all their friends and family. Consequently, not exactly being the most popular roach in the neighbourhood, they’re sent to Coventry and die a lonely and miserable death in someone else’s dishwasher. Or something like that.

Fortunately, the novelty factor of the Smugglers Tavern hosting a karaoke night had overcome our customers’ aversion to heat exhaustion and the bar was packed.

At 10 p.m. when the kitchen closed, the karaoke screens flickered into life. ‘Right, I’m off,’ announced Frank, slamming his empty glass on the bar top. ‘I’m not listening to this shite.’ Danny stayed behind, loyal to the end while his sister shrugged her shoulders, smiled and ran after Frank slipping an arm round his waist, happy to have her dad to herself for a while.

Maxi Belle – it goes without saying, her stage name – was a large lady who would have looked more at home on a milking stool than on a makeshift stage. Her mouth was fixed in what looked like a cross between sheer terror and hysterical laughter. She wore a billowing lilac dress under which any number of small cars could easily have parked. For a supposedly experienced artiste, and a large one at that, Maxi displayed a dazzling lack of stage presence.

Although the majority of diners had stayed seated after finishing their meals to join in the karaoke, the majority were paying very little attention to Maxi-Belle’s debut. As we flicked off all but one of the house lights, she gripped the microphone nervously with two hands, mumbling about what a great night the audience were in for. If the customers continued to purchase frequent rounds of Dutch courage to appear in the spotlight, we were also in for a great night.

‘Thank you.’ She ended her introduction to a barrage of unrelated conversation. ‘And now, without further ado…’ She burst into song, unsuccessful in her attempts to coax the crowd to clap along in time.

We had cleared the corner area around table five to provide a small space for our patrons to dance, should the mood take them. It was also supposed to be a performance area for our dazzling compere but she currently appeared to have no intention of coming out from behind the microphone stand. This was unfortunate as a brother and sister, bored with their parents’ company, took the opportunity to use the area for an impromptu game of catch while Maxi continued singing.

‘
Yurr simply the best
…’ she sang in a heavy Blackburn accent as the two kids threw the ball back and forth at an ever increasing pace right in front of her.

‘
Betturr than all the rest
.’ Her eyes belied the pasted smile as they flicked nervously back and forth to the children. Invariably the little ball went wayward, striking her in the middle of her forehead before disappearing beneath the many folds of her flowery frock.

‘
Beturr than…
Gerroff!…
anyone
.’ With one hand she swatted at the kids who, still oblivious to her performance, were lifting the hem of her dress in search of the small plastic ball.

‘Have you found it?’ asked a young mother who was sat at the nearest table. She stood up and bent forward to help in the hunt. Her micro miniskirt slid north, revealing to the audience a pair of tiny pale blue knickers doing its best to accommodate the flabby white twins within. This in turn brought a spontaneous round of applause, both encouraging and surprising Maxi. To her credit, and in the best traditions of showbiz, she carried on with renewed vigour, bobbing and bending to sing past the ever-expanding search party. It was an unexpected highlight, but one which recaptured the attention of the wilting audience and caused another surge of orders at the bar.

Soon Maxi was swamped. Muffled requests were booming through the speakers:

‘
Start spreadin’ the news
…’

‘It can’t have gone far.’

‘There it is!’

‘
I’m leaving t-day
… Ow! Get your ‘ands off me toe.’

‘Sorry, love!’

‘
I wa-nna be a parrt of it
…’

‘Hey, hasn’t she got big feet?’

‘I like that nail varnish. Irene! Come and have a look at this nail varnish.’

Strangely, the ball never was found even after Maxi left the stage sobbing.

The karaoke started after our host had managed to compose herself and we had persuaded her not to hand in her resignation. A litter of miniature Spice Girls got up and stared open-mouthed at the screen for three minutes and twenty-five seconds before skipping back to proud parents under rapturous applause.

‘Doing all right, I see,’ shouted Micky above the karaoke riot. His father had his back to the bar and was smiling to himself, evidently pleased with the crowded atmosphere. We hadn’t noticed them enter the bar.

‘It’s going all right,’ I answered. ‘We’ve not seen you around for a while.’

‘No,’ shouted Micky, ‘we’ve been taking care of a little business. Thought we might take a little time off now, spend some time round here.’

‘Have you bought somewhere on El Beril, then?’ I gulped.

‘You could say that.’ Father and son looked at each other and laughed.

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Down on the front, number 28. Nice place, or at least it will be after a bit of work.’

‘That’s Richard Forgreen’s isn’t it? I didn’t know he wanted to sell it.’

Ron turned round. The smile had gone. ‘Neither did he.’

Richard Forgreen was another of the original El Berilians, an estate agent who was rarely seen on the complex. Probably a wise move considering his less than shiny reputation. He and his family had been in the bar only once and even then he never seemed at ease, constantly looking over his shoulder.

‘You and the missus still living at the back?’ shouted Ron. I figured Joy wouldn’t have told them where we lived. I certainly hadn’t. I was feeling uneasier by the second.

‘For the time being. We’re looking for somewhere else though, so we’ll probably be out of there soon.’ The truth was, ‘soon’ was at the end of the week and we still hadn’t been able to find anywhere.

‘Why don’t you ask Terry, the geezer next door to us? He’s looking to rent out his place,’ said Micky. ‘We could be neighbours,’ he added, leaning in at Joy.

The thought of borrowing a cup of sugar from the local mafia wasn’t overly appealing and for the time being we dismissed the idea.

Several young lads tunelessly shouted the words to ‘Wonderwall’ for what seemed like a couple of days, until finally, after many other wannabes had demonstrated that they were clearly nevergonnabes, the big finale was provided by a short man in a well-worn suit, who made his way unsteadily to the stage from a dark corner of the room.

In the bar, we had often witnessed the sad sight of couples who, after many years of marriage, had simply run out of things to say to each other but who still fulfilled their social duties by sitting together for hours in complete silence.

‘This is for my wife, Madge, who I have loved dearly for 65 years.’

With alcohol inducing romantic memories of cavernous dance halls and the smell of Brylcreem, he proceeded to wring out a teary-eyed version of ‘My Sweet Love And I’. The depth of his passion did little to compensate for the ear-slashing rendition of what was probably once an adequately tuneful ballad. At the point where it seemed no more emotion could be wrenched from the discordant song, he broke down and buried his head in the ample bosom of the embarrassed compere. Maxi Belle led him back to the source of his anguish.

‘You silly old sod. You’ve had too much to drink,’ said his wife, unmoved. ‘Get your coat, we’re goin’.’

Needless to say, two bouts of onstage blubbering finally put a bit of a dampener on what was supposed to be a night of family fun, but the chaotic mess left on the bar after all the customers had left was proof enough that the entertainment had been profitable.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

The day before we were due to move we had resigned ourselves to not finding a new home. We had neither the time nor the energy to look round properly and had no option but to rent a holiday studio in the Altamira for the time being.

The view from our new home was jaw dropping. Double patio doors framed a tri-band of green lawn, turquoise sea and blue sky. However, the inside was not so agreeable. The small living/dining room doubled as a bedroom. The bed had to be folded away every night to make room to sit down, but the biggest problem was the sun’s rays which loitered on the glass doors for most of the day. Inside, the temperature was stifling.

Although air-conditioning units were fitted in the hotel, they were never activated. The community of residents who owned several apartments had decided that the costs of such a luxury would weigh too heavily on their community bills. All units were controlled by the same master control so if one was switched off none of them functioned. It was like being in the Smugglers kitchen.

What little available time we had for sleep was spent tossing and turning, trying to find a cool patch of pillow. Joy had taken to lying on the tiled floor in a bid to cool down. Even with the patio doors open, the breeze that circulated was only marginally cooler than the stuffy air we had trapped within, plus it was an open invitation to mosquitoes.

We were growing more exhausted by the day, averaging only a couple of hours’ sleep a night. Our tempers were frayed and our quality of life had taken a serious downfall. Something had to give. After one week of living in a sauna, moving next to the mafia was beginning to sound like a preferable alternative.

By now the season was at its peak. Our mortgage repayments, added to the monthly amount we had agreed to pay back to Jack, meant that it was vital we maximised the potential of this busy period.

The summer routine was for one couple to prep and shop from nine in the morning then open the doors for breakfast at 10.30. They would then work until 1.30 before heading off for a siesta and handing over to the others, who would then work alone until the other couple came back in at 6.30 p.m.. The couple that started the day would also finish the day, locking up after the last person left, which was frequently on the yawning side of 2 a.m. The rota would be reversed the following day. This meant that there were always four people working through the busiest period of seven till ten. It also meant that I worked with Faith in the kitchen while David ran the bar and helped Joy on the waiting side.

Being thrown in at the deep end and all being equal partners resulted in the familiar ‘too many chiefs, not enough Indians’ scenario. Menial tasks were being overlooked while everybody was keen to put their stamp on the surroundings.

In the backroom, Faith was in charge of the cooking while I took the orders, prepared the garnishes and accompaniments and washed up as we went along. By now we were regularly topping a hundred meals a night in a four-hour slot. In the 140-degree heat, stress cracks were beginning to show.

Faith in particular was suffering. Inhaling chip fumes while leaning over four super-hot gas rings and an industrial oven were visibly melting her work capacity. Orders were backing up on the board and Joy, who was undergoing a barrage of hassle from hungry patrons waiting to be fed, was exerting pressure. There was no time for small talk; the only conversations ran along the following lines:

Faith: ‘Got two pork chops, a chicken in wine, two cheeseburgers and three mixed grills coming up. Fries ready?’

Me: ‘Two minutes for the fries. Still waiting for an egg for the gammon.’

Faith: ‘I can’t slow these meals down. Speed up with the fries.’

Me: ‘There’s nothing I can do if the fryers are full. You know we can only do six portions at a time. I need that egg, the gammon’s going cold.

Faith: ‘I can’t do everything at once. Send it without the egg.’

Joy: ‘Where’s the egg?’

Faith: ‘I’m not doing it.’

Joy: ‘You take it out then.’

Faith: ‘I’m not the waitress.’

Joy: ‘Exactly. You don’t get the grief.’

Faith: ‘Oh, you don’t think working in here is grief? That’s it. I’m not having this.’

And with that Faith would fling her apron to the floor and go on one of her regular walkabouts down to the sea, leaving an ensemble of meat cuts shrinking on the hot plate. Invariably, David would then abandon his bar duties and become stand-in chef until Faith reappeared a little cooler in body if not in temper. Subsequent meetings led to the admission that Faith found the cooking too stressful and thus swapped roles with David.

However much she thought working in the engine room was the hardest job, being transferred to the front line brought no respite from the stress, particularly with our more boisterous customers. Although our clientele still consisted of around 90 per cent British, the German timeshare line selling units in the Altamira was working overtime to bring in German ‘fly-buys’, enticed to Tenerife by free accommodation. As such, Faith had not only to learn the basics of the language but also intervene when some of the more embarrassing British patrons found it hilarious to perform goose step marches and make Pythonesque references to the war. Once or twice German customers were forced to leave before finishing their drinks. At times we were embarrassed to share a national identity.

For good and bad we had a veritable mix of customers frequenting the bar. From the empty heads who thought they were in Spain and enquired about coach trips to Barcelona, to the sanctimonious expats who bore the unmistakable hallmarks of British colonialism at its worst. They knew that ‘abroad’ wasn’t part of England (yet), but was full of half-witted foreigners waiting to be educated in the superior ways of pallid supremacists.

We were forewarned about an inspection visit from some swallows, the older expats who spent their winters in sunnier climes. One of their flock deemed it necessary to make a special trip to announce that he, and eight of his compatriots, would descend upon us the following day. ‘We heard that the good old Smuggs had changed hands. We’re coming down tomorrow to have a recce, check you’re keeping up the standard.’

Sure enough, at 7.30 prompt the following night, a group of neatly groomed expats loitered around the entrance gazing disdainfully at the free and easy atmosphere in the bar. Two children no older than eight or nine stood on chairs behind the bar washing glasses. Danny was cleaning one of the glass tabletops, misdirecting Glassex over a couple of diners at the next table.

We had inadvertently become a drop-off zone for parents who wanted a few hours on their own. ‘I’m leaving Adam and Georgia here for a few hours while we go out for a meal. Let them have whatever they want and we’ll sort it out later.’

Joy had instigated this trend by offering to provide ‘work experience’ to one young holidaymaker who had followed her round all week awestruck, and announced, with all the seriousness that a six-year-old talking about careers could muster, that she intended to be a waitress when she grew up.

Naturally this set a trend with other children. ‘Can I help, can I help?’ One week we had a supplementary staff of nine junior Smugglers cleaning tables, washing glasses and delivering a round of drinks – one at a time. In times of extreme business it was helpful to have extra glass collectors but sometimes it wasn’t possible to get behind the bar without trampling on at least a couple of mini recruits.

‘We have a table reserved for eight. Name’s Connaught-Smith.’ The man leaned into Joy as if facial proximity would overcome any possible confusion. He wore beige slacks and a long-sleeved silk shirt topped with a gold cravat. The other members of the party were equally eccentrically attired. One lady wore what appeared to be a resting stoat around her neck.

They swept through the bar towards table one like a troupe of variety performers. One of the party made a show of running her finger along one of the tabletops and shared the result, aghast.

I watched through the kitchen doorway and offered a smile to each of them but they looked beyond me to check out the state of the kitchen. Luckily, we had decided on a blitz several days earlier and the tiles on the facing wall had returned from a greasy rust colour to their natural white. The plastic ketchup bottles were lined up in military fashion on a ridge just below the serving shelf, nozzles cleared of hardened sauce and bodies wiped of sticky surplus.

We didn’t pretend to be a high-class restaurant. We were catering for package holidaymakers, timeshare fly-buys and loyal residents, the clientele who happened to be on hand. There was no demand for haute cuisine, despite David’s urge to extend his creative culinary skills further than fried or grilled, microwaved or mashed. On the odd occasion when he had satisfied his own artistic urges, pumpkin soup was sneered at in favour of prawn cocktail; beef pie and chips was preferred over beef bourguignon, and crème brulée was laughed off the menu when competing with apple pie and custard.

Our weekly fish and chip special was also popular. David had developed his own batter, trying out various secret ingredients before choosing half a pint of Dorada as the winning addition. The crispy cod was another sure-fire winner, especially with the older set who ‘knew what they were getting with a nice piece of fish’. For some stalwarts even our ‘Hawaiian Burgers’, simply chicken breast crowned with a pineapple ring, would prove too exotic for simple palates: ‘Hawaiian burger? Oooh nooooo. Foreign food doesn’t agree with me. Have you not got anything like curry or bolognaise?’

Although the menu could hardly be called inventive, aside from the odd, extravagant excursion offered by David, it consisted of meals that we knew would sell, principally steak, chicken, pork chops, mixed grills, burgers, salads and omelettes.

The swallows clearly expected more as they surveyed the handheld blackboards that we employed as menus. ‘Would you wipe this table before we start. It’s filthy,’ said the cravat. ‘It’s like a greasy Joe’s.’ Joy resisted the temptation to tell them that it
was
‘Joe’s’.

‘Do you have a special of the day?’ barked another.

‘I think we’ve got one portion of home-made beef and mushroom pie and two portions of chicken curry,’ answered Joy.

‘Oh, no thanks.’ replied the man, unimpressed. ‘Well, would it be at all possible to order some drinks while we’re browsing the menu?’

‘Certainly,’ smiled Joy.

‘Right. Five gin and tonics, one without lemon, two without ice, all Gordons of course. One Pernod and lemonade, one dry Martini with a twist of lime and a whisky with just a splash of water and definitely no ice. I shall send it back if you put ice anywhere near it.’

Joy’s capacity to remember orders was infinite. However, behind the bar, Faith’s was not.

‘How am I going to remember all that? Write it down,’ she complained. The bar was filling up quickly by that stage and Joy scribbled down the order for Faith and rushed off outside to greet some newcomers.

I was chopping more cucumber to deal with this unexpected rush, when I noticed two men in shirt and tie and carrying briefcases were on their way in.

Only yesterday we had heard that the supermarket had been the target of a work permit inspection. Thankfully Patricia, the only member of her family with work papers was on shift at that time.

I rushed out of the kitchen, called two children out from behind the bar and grabbed Joy’s elbow just as she was about to bring in an order. ‘Grab a seat and act like a customer,’ I hissed. ‘I think the inspectors are here.’

Our gestoria had repeatedly warned us that it was only a matter of time before we were visited.

Joy immediately sat at the nearest table and started to make small talk. Unfortunately it was a table of bemused Germans so she quickly sidled outside to a family of regulars whom we had got to know over the past week.

Faith was leaning over the bar. ‘Joy. Joy,’ she shouted. From behind the two officials I motioned with my head at the two men in front and opened my palms like a book. Faith’s eyebrows launched into orbit. ‘Can you take these drinks to table five for me?’ she asked in a nervous high-pitched voice.

I could see Joy peering through the window as I delivered the drinks to table five.

‘Could you send the young lady over now, we’re ready to order.’ said the cravat.

‘I’ll take it for you,’ I said. ‘She’s just had to go outside for a minute.’ I took their order and rushed into the kitchen, explaining to David what had happened.

The two at the bar ordered a drink and watched the comings and goings. The table of Germans near Joy were sat in front of empty glasses and tried desperately to get her attention. Joy ignored their waving for as long as possible then snatched their glasses and took them to the customer side of the bar. She was sweating visibly as she asked Faith for two more beers, pretending they were for her. The two suits by her side stared at her.

‘Err… can you put it on my bill please,’ she smiled and returned outside, discreetly placing the beers in front of the Germans before sitting down again. One of them lit a cigarette and mimed that he needed an ashtray. All of the ashtrays were being used so she apologetically passed them an empty can of Diet Coke that was on the next table, motioning for them to drop their ash in the top. The Germans looked at the can, bemused.

Another table that Joy had given the menu to were beckoning her over. ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ she waved and sank down in her seat picking her nails.

We were all doing two jobs now. Faith and I were waiting tables and working the bar and trying to dissuade our junior helpers from furthering their work experience for the moment. David had to cook and provide his own accompaniments, as well as keep on top of the washing up.

The suits finished their drinks and stood up. They tried to catch the eye of Faith who was doing a better job of avoiding it. I decided we might as well get it over with so they would leave and approached them, removing my sweat-stained apron in a token gesture to look businesslike. The taller and more sullen one raised two fingers and waved them over the empty glasses. They wanted another beer!
How long does it take to see who’s working and who’s not,
I thought.