More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (12 page)

‘Sign it,’ she screamed, tossing a chewed biro onto the desk. The clock chimed twelve as we flung open the doors. The daylight streamed in, causing the clerks to wince and groan. We had won. Joy was at last going to be legal; well, almost.

There were around twenty of us huddled in a small lecture room at the town hall, ready to be hygienically educated. The Canarians were seated at the front, notebooks, pens and pencils at the ready. The other half were foreigners like myself who had not been advised what to bring and were trying to borrow pens from each other.

From what we could gather, day one would involve learning about what we could and couldn’t do in catering via a slide show, lectures and reading material. Day two would be concerned with seeing how much of it we had absorbed by means of a multiple-choice questionnaire.

The lights dimmed and the slide show commenced. Pictures of pans, chopping boards, cats struck with large red crosses, and various examples of fire extinguishers slid before our eyes as the young man in charge explained the relevance of each and answered questions from the Canarian contingency.

It became quickly apparent that no English was going to be spoken that day and the Brits looked at each other as we realised the maximum we could contribute was our attendance.

After a short break for lunch, we resumed. Within minutes, a pack of cards was produced and whist broke out at the back. For three more hours occasional glances were thrown at pictures of cattle and cauliflowers projected onto the front wall.

The test paper consisted of 35 questions of which you were expected to get at least 30 correct to qualify for a certificate. There didn’t seem to be too much fuss made when consultations were made over some of the more obscure questions. Others, like ‘Are cows allowed in the kitchen?’ needed little help to choose the right box to tick from Yes, No or Sometimes. All the foreigners passed with exactly the same score – 34 out of 35. The question that baffled us all was so obscure as to defy all logic, and neither of the three answer options provided a satisfactory response. But we had passed and been certified and could now add this qualification to the bundle of papers that were required by law before you could boil an egg for payment.

Our health and hygiene inspection surprised us one particularly frantic morning. We had both woken up late after a frustrating night struggling to separate an amorous French couple long enough for them to realise that the rest of the world had gone home. It was 2 a.m. We had washed up, swept and mopped around the remaining table. We cashed up in the kitchen and finally turned the lights off, but still they remained resolutely embraced for another ten minutes.

In the morning we had less than an hour to get to the cash and carry
and
prepare the restaurant for opening. A queue of people clutching newspapers had formed outside the bar as I pushed past with the last of the boxes of supplies. With no time to put them away, I dropped the boxes wherever there was a space and lit the oven in readiness for the orders. A tray of chicken fillets that I had left out to defrost lay still half-frozen on the worktop and several oranges rolled off a box of iceburg lettuce that was balanced precariously on 24 double-ply toilet rolls.

‘Four full breakfasts and a scrambled egg on toast. Then two full, and two bacon sandwiches.’ Joy looked around at the mess but could see my eyebrows were raised and said no more.

The eggs were spitting viciously at me when Joy returned. ‘Joe, the health inspectors are here.’

I turned around. Over Joy’s shoulder I could see two teenage girls, one of them holding a clipboard. I wondered for a second if it was a wind-up.

‘Them?’ I asked, waving a spatula at the two girls who had now started giggling.

They strode over the packets of serviettes that were littering the floor and asked in broken English if they could look around.

‘
Si, si.
Be my guest. We’re in a bit of a mess this morning, though,’ I started to explain but they were too busy trying to find out how to open one of the fridge doors.

‘Handle came off yesterday.’ I smiled and kicked the bottom rim with my foot. It sprung open. The girls looked at each other. The one with the clipboard wrote something down. The other seemed quite impressed with my Tupperware collection. ‘
Bien
,’ she said. They seemed to be playing good cop, bad cop.

‘
Tiene un uniforme
?’ Asked the clipboard.

I motioned towards the aprons that were hanging from the first aid cabinet. She asked me to put it on. After checking the interior temperature of the freezers, looking into the extractor hood and standing on one of the stray oranges, they signed a form, asked for my autograph and disappeared, giggling again.

I didn’t know if we were to be congratulated or condemned until a week later when a letter arrived telling us that we were officially regarded as healthy and hygienic and the confirming certificate could now be proudly displayed on the wall. Possibly in the kitchen I thought, over the hole through which cockroaches made a hasty retreat from our napalm bug spraying.

CHAPTER
NINE

The latest rule change that abolished the need to employ Spaniards before foreigners meant that we could now think about taking on some extra help for the rest of the summer. Our Spanish language deficiency had rendered taking on a local an impracticality but we badly needed someone. Faith was becoming increasingly discontented, adding to the strain.

Her latest outburst involved a kilo of sugar and a box of Golden Delicious. Apparently she had now developed a fear of baking and couldn’t sleep because of crust-topped nightmares. In order to save her last remaining shreds of sanity, Faith was relieved of pie-making duties.

Fortunately one of the very few culinary skills that we had imported between us was Joy’s knack for baking apple pies. The Smugglers had recently gained a reputation for its exceedingly good cakes, apple in particular. Holidaymakers with all the time in the world to chat (but a disproportionate lack of subjects to chat about) would bask around the pool and make plans for their next meal, which would invariably include the famous Smugglers Tavern apple pie.

Sunlounger word of mouth marketing was so efficient that by mid-morning we would receive a procession of people popping their heads into the kitchen to reserve a slab of Joy’s speciality. No matter how many we made, the majority of slices had already been claimed by the time the evening meals started.

By now our meal count averaged around 40–50 breakfasts and lunches combined, and 100–120 evening meals. Naturally we had had to increase our efficiency to turn around more tables, but it was no mean feat in the searing July heat. All the more draining as we now provided entertainment in the evening. We needed help.

We knew it was going to be almost impossible to find anybody that could cook and that would endure the heat and pace of the kitchen for the paltry wages we were offering. The biggest help that we could hope for would be a couple that could come in after all the food had been served, clean up, and run the bar until closing time. This would at least put an end to some of the 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. bedtimes that we were suffering now it was summer.

The most annoying nights were when only one or two tables remained at a relatively decent hour i.e. before 1 a.m. Thoughts of an early night would prevail, especially if all remaining tables ordered the bill before midnight. It was hard to resist breathing a sigh of relief and start visualising fleecy bedsheets. But, as Murphy would have it, the plot would always change. Just as the last people were bidding their goodnights, after the floor had been mopped and all the tables cleaned, a taxi-f of young revellers who had been turned out of a club in Las Américas would shatter the calm and crash into the bar like a herd of rabid cattle. Having slowed to almost a standstill, trying to shift from first to fifth gear in one go required a major effort, both mentally and physically. We’d smile, we’d serve, and we’d even laugh at their drunken banter. Tonight’s idiots could be tomorrow’s breakfast crowd and, having been rebuffed by the nightlife downtown, there was also the possibility that they would choose to dump their entire binge budget in our till if we pushed the right buttons.

This involved much more than jolly smiles and chirpy banter, however. Picking diced carrot out of the bathroom plugholes was a real delight, especially after we’d already cleaned the bathrooms ready for the morning. Oh, how we would chuckle at that little jape, coming as it did at the end of a 13-hour shift!

We also had to persuade latecomers that high decibel renditions of ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt’ were not a particularly good idea at 1 a.m., especially as they’d normally be followed by a visit from the local constabulary with threats of arrest and deportation for them, and a stern warning from the community president for us.

But to be truthful most of our efforts would be focused on getting them out, our persuasion based on the theory that if they didn’t let us close, we wouldn’t be able to open again for breakfast. If you’ve ever tried to have a serious discussion with a group of radically inebriated youngsters whereby the main aim is to convince them to give up their drinks, you’ll understand that it’s something of a an uphill battle.

‘Come on now, last orders has long since gone. We’re closing up now. We’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Oh, you can’t close yet, it’s still early. Look, it’s only…’ Several attempts at focusing on a watch face would prove futile. ‘It’s… it’s still early. Here, here’s some potatoes. Buy yourself one. Sit down with us. Chill. How long have you been here? Do you like it? Do you not miss home? Will you ever go back? I’d love to live here. Have you got any jobs going?’

This was part of the same interrogation that we faced dozens of time each day. We toyed with the idea of putting a notice up behind the bar, answering all the inquiries including, ‘We’re not going to tell you,’ in answer to question number seven – ‘How much did you pay for the bar?’

There was certainly an element of envy in the tone of the questioning. There aren’t many people who have been on holiday and not at least momentarily flirted with the idea of making their stay longer than intended. To come in contact with someone that had more or less done that seemed to elicit a certain amount of awe. Some had to justify why they hadn’t taken that step, ‘I thought about moving out here, but my girlfriend/boyfriend/wife/husband didn’t fancy it.’ You could tell some were always going to be ‘just about to’ move over. And then there were those who, after seeing it
was
possible, became fully committed to changing their lives. Wayne Greaves was one.

Wayne was on holiday with his girlfriend, Becky, a pretty but painfully thin slip of a girl who wouldn’t have suffered adversely from a couple of weeks of force-feeding. Wayne was an ex-gas fitter who we coerced into fixing our oven when the four rings suddenly developed delusions of grandeur, throwing circles of flames high into the air like four Rolls Royce jet engines.

We had attempted to persuade a gas engineer to pay us a visit after Frank had removed the safety catch from the propane bottles but our hopes were not high in securing a return visit in time to stop the kitchen ceiling being cooked. Wayne and Becky were sat at the bar early one evening, when David came out from the kitchen with distinguishably less eyebrow hair than he had gone in with.

‘I think we’ve got a problem with the gas,’ he said, and steadied himself with a shot of brandy.

‘What’s up with it?’ asked Joy.

‘I can’t turn the rings down.’

‘Us’ll have a look for you. Us used to be a gas fitter,’ said Wayne, making his way towards the glowing kitchen. Memories of Frank’s near-deadly meddling caused frowns all round. As it was, Wayne discovered the problem and without need for any spare parts had the flames tamed within a matter of minutes.

He emerged covered in black grease but with a big toothy smile. Becky welcomed him like a hero, like the rest of us, except thankfully she was the only one he pawed with greasy hands.

The young couple spoke in singsong Wolverhampton tones, an accent that I’m ashamed to say I find hard to take seriously. It was as such when Wayne announced on the last day of his holiday that he’d be back in a few weeks. Sure he would, I thought. However, one morning after a frenzied breakfast rush, Joy and I sat flicking baby cockroaches across the bar top when suddenly, Wayne appeared in the doorway. ‘All right?’ he waved. ‘Us told you I’d be back, didn’t I?’ He was alone. Becky had not been as convinced as him about stepping out of the dole queue in Wolverhampton to make a new life for herself overseas. ‘Us dumped her, us did. She wasn’t for moving, boring cow.’

Wayne was one of the many wannabes who we had automatically strung along with half-hearted suggestions of employment if he ever returned, which naturally we thought he wouldn’t. ‘If you come back, look us up. We might have work for you,’ we said. It’s surprising what benevolence four large beers can evoke.

Fortunately for Wayne, he arrived at a time when we were wondering who we could find that would work for low wages in appalling conditions, and be trusted to put more pesetas in the till than they would take out. We had all liked Wayne. He was cheeky but sincere. He had no reservations about telling us of his dodgy past and short spells spent at her Majesty’s pleasure, then quickly adding ‘but that was all in the past’.

We decided that we would give him a few DIY jobs, coupled with a few hours collecting glasses during the busy times. In return, we could pay him just enough money to afford rental on a studio apartment and would also provide him with a meal while he was working.

Wayne fancied himself as a builder, though his actual skills had been greatly exaggerated. However, what he lacked in construction know-how he made up for in determined aggression and he usually accomplished a project by using brute strength and loud obscenities. Building a stage was one such example.

The French timeshare line in the office above us had renewed their efforts at attracting fly-buys to the Altamira and the hotel was swarmed with more bewildered Galls than they knew what to do with. To take advantage of this new trade, we enlisted the help of Romain, one of the timeshare reps, to find us some entertainment that would appeal both to his nationality and also the Brits. Romain recommended an act called Mystique.

Some people take light entertainment very seriously. Their act is their life and more often than not, their life becomes an act. ‘I… am Gaston. She… is Monique,’ said Gaston as he swept an open hand in the direction of a timid blonde teenager lurking several feet away. Romain had sent them to introduce themselves and for us to see if they’d be right for the bar. The elevated nose and pigeon-chested stance of Gaston suggested that
he
was seeing if
we
were right for him.

They were a magic act, or ‘
illusionistas
’ as Gaston preferred to be known. ‘I am a member of the Magic Circle,’ he offered, pausing for a suitably admiring response. None was forthcoming so he continued anyway. ‘Our act is a mixture of
son et lumière
and tricks of the mind. We can only perform if the conditions are absolutely perfect. The slightest noise will disturb my concentration and there will be a disaster. Your customers will love us. They will want more. We will leave them pleading. You will pay 30,000 pesetas.’ This was roughly £150 at the time, twice the going rate.

‘How long is your act?’ I asked.

‘It depends how good your people are,’ replied Gaston loftily. ‘You have a stage of course?’

‘Of course,’ I lied. I had taken an instant dislike to Monsieur Mystique but Romain had convinced us that the French would love him and insisted that we should book him for at least seven nights a week.

We agreed to try out the act the following week and if it proved successful, we would give the couple a regular once-a-week spot. Wayne was set the task of building an outside stage and a backdrop using four sheets of hardboard, a dozen plastic beer crates, a double bed sheet and a can of black spray paint.

The next two afternoons rang with the sounds of a hammer knocking, a stapler thudding and a Wayne cursing. The excessive din drew the attention of some of the older residents in the Altamira.

‘What the hell is all that noise. It’s siesta time, stop that infernal racket.’ Phil was one of our older regulars. An old sea dog from Dorset, he would often come into the bar wearing a nautical themed hat and sit with his long-suffering wife, Yvonne, who would do nothing but wince at his eternal moaning.

Unfortunately, amiable though Wayne was, public relations were not his forte: ‘Fuck off, you old git, before us wrap this hammer round your wrinkled face.’ Phil was battle-savvy enough to know when to retreat, and saved his admonishing for a more congenial occasion.

We had commandeered the patio space immediately to our right, in front of the  empty end locale. Although we knew it had been sold, it remained unfurnished and didn’t look as though it would be put into use for some time. Above this space was a second short walkway connecting the locales upstairs. From this we draped the bed sheet down behind the stage. A backdrop was born. We also positioned a couple of stage lights that we had borrowed from another bar. The result was impressive, though immoveable. With four nights to go before the French debut, we were stuck with what looked like a huge washing line airing erotic black bed linen.

Fortunately, the laundry show only proved to add to the mystery of the forthcoming performance and on show night an eager crowd filled the entire area outside the locales. In between washing up, garnishing orders and helping to deliver and collect plates, I was also dashing upstairs to ‘borrow’ more plastic chairs and tables from Bar Arancha, which had fortunately closed for the night.

Unsurprisingly, a large contingency of the audience was French. Romain had done a good job of ‘selling’ the night and was wandering amongst his clients, spilling sangria over them from two earthenware jugs he was waving about in a welcoming fashion.

By the time the show started the terrace was packed to capacity. Joy was having trouble delivering drinks to the distant tables and was reduced to asking people to pass them along. The British cooperated gladly but the French weren’t impressed at having to work as waiters. More curious onlookers lined the railings above us, all poised to enjoy the free entertainment, but reluctant to buy even one drink.

Joy made it a personal mission to extract some money from them. She took a tray up and started to take drinks orders. The majority were brazen enough to admit they weren’t staying: ‘No thanks, love, we’re just watching,’ they smiled. Joy was in no mood for reciprocating the friendliness. This act had cost a lot of money, not forgetting the extra strain on the four of us. Her subtle looks of annoyance were wasted on the majority who hadn’t fathomed that somebody – namely us – had to pay for this spectacle.

Wayne was doing his best to gather empty glasses but he quickly became marooned in a corner, trapped by a group of anticipant French, and so happily resigned himself to admiring his beautiful stage.