More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (2 page)

‘To who?’ I shrieked.

‘To you, you numpt! Who else? I said we could run it with me as bar manager and you as the chef and…’ Her speech accelerated as it always did when she was trying to steamroll me.

‘Hang on, hang on.’ I raised a hand to slow down the onslaught. ‘Who would offer to let two people who have hardly any experience of pouring a pint, let alone running a bar in a foreign country, take over a bar?’ I knew, as soon as I had said it, that our previous careers may have deviated slightly from fish filleters to nightclub management. Joy confirmed that she had exaggerated our talents slightly
and
distorted the actual financial arrangements.

It transpired that we weren’t expected to just run it; we were expected to buy it.

‘What exactly are we supposed to buy it with? Fish heads?’ I spluttered when the actual truth came out.

‘No. We can borrow it,’ replied Joy. Her straight face implied that there was something else she wasn’t telling me.

‘How much?’

‘A hundred-and-sixty-five grand… more or less.’

I blinked twice. Hard. My pint remained suspended halfway between my open mouth and the beer mat. This was surely some seafood-induced dream. Believing that this was just another of Joy’s get-rich-quick schemes that would fizzle out as fast as previous plans, I decided to humour her.

‘You said two couples?’

Joy continued. ‘I didn’t tell you, but I got a phone call from your stepdad before I went to Tenerife. He said that the bar on El Beril, where his apartment is, had come up for sale and he was thinking of buying it as an investment. He asked me to collect the books for him to take a look at. When I called in, the owner said why don’t I take it over. Anyway, when I got back this morning Jack came to pick up the books and I joked about us two running the bar for him. Before I saw you he’d just called to say he’d been talking to your mum, and they both thought it was a good idea. We’d go into partnership with your brother and they’d help us raise the money.’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ I interrupted. This was in danger of becoming serious. ‘From having a bar job in Tenerife, we’ve gone into partnership with my brother and into debt with Jack to the tune of a hundred-and-sixty-five grand. All on an island two thousand miles away with a population that doesn’t speak English. And
all behind my back. Where exactly does my opinion come into all this?’

Joy became defensive as she always did when she was on the offensive. ‘Calm down. It’s just an idea. Just forget I ever said it and tomorrow we can go back behind that crappy stall and stink of fish for the rest of our lives.’

Several pints later – I suspect that they had been laced a little – the whys and wherefores had progressed to whens and hows.

CHAPTER
TWO

I hadn’t seen my brother for several months. Like me he was drifting through life waiting for an opportunity to be handed to him on a plate. Over the three days since the seed of the idea had been planted, I assumed that like me he’d begun to think that this could possibly be it.

Joy and I, David and his girlfriend, Faith, had arranged to discuss the idea at the Stage Door pub in Manchester. It was next to the Palace Theatre where a degree in sociology and history had enabled my elder brother to secure the lofty position of box office assistant.

Although we were virtually neighbours in age – there were only eleven months between us – David and I were poles apart in character. I was the practical brother, he was the creative one. I had logic, he had intellect. Ask about the social order of the Napoleonic age or the consequence of community breakdown in the 1980s and my eyes would glaze over, saliva would forge a path down my chin and my brain would start blowing raspberries. David, however, would casually launch into a scholarly diatribe over the shame of the proletariat and the fortitude of Karl Marx and then try and flog you two tickets to see Widow Twanky played by Keith Chegwin.

University had taught him many things: how to dress like an East European chimney-sweep; how to smoke out of the side of his mouth like an aristocrat; how to behave like a socialist; and how to make £1.50 last a fortnight. Only on weekdays, though. On the odd weekend when he returned to Mum and Jack’s house he would mutter about the capitalist extravagances of home life before indulging himself in a bathroom full of designer toiletries, a kitchen full of food and a car full of petrol. I suspected that David, like me, was also ready for an out.

‘Well!’ I exclaimed, starting the discussion. ‘What do you think?’

‘We’re all for it,’ David replied. ‘We think it’s a great opportunity…’

‘
You
do,’ interrupted Faith, looking up at my brother. Physically they were complete opposites. David had the physique of a retired rugby player but the heart of a teddy bear. At six-foot-two he was a good 12 inches taller than Faith who, with her tiny, doll-like features, seemed too delicate for a man with hands the size of bin lids. Her skin was porcelain white, a nose stud and four gold earrings provided a gilt edge. She looked like a fragile piece of china, but her apparent frailty was used to good effect. David would fuss round her like she was a vulnerable child.

Where David merely had to breathe his words to be heard, Faith had to project her voice with all the force of a shout to reach ears that were rarely close by. ‘It’s a huge risk for me. I’d be giving up my career to gamble on this,’ she strained. Faith’s career had so far reached the dizzy heights of assistant manager at a Virgin Records store in Altrincham. We were not playing with high stakes here. ‘I mean, none of us have any experience of working behind a bar, in a kitchen or running a business,’ she continued.

‘I’ve worked in my Mum’s café and Joe and David have both had bar jobs. It’s just the next step, that’s all,’ said Joy.

‘Selling pies and serving tea is hardly the same as owning a restaurant,’ argued Faith.

‘We’ll learn,’ countered Joy.

‘That’s a bit flippant considering we’ll be in debt for a hundred-and-sixty-five-thousand pounds. It’ll be an expensive lesson if we get it wrong.’

‘We’ll just have to make sure we don’t then, won’t we?’

‘What about my cat? I can’t leave him.’

‘Surely a cat isn’t going to make the difference between going and staying?’

‘I’ve had him a long time.’

‘He’s not even your cat. He’s David’s.’

‘He still loves me though. I can’t leave him.’

‘Well, buy him some sunglasses and bring him along. He looks like he could do with a holiday.’

‘I’m being serious.’

‘So am I.’

This was not a good start to a business partnership. David and I let the girls slug it out for a while as we bought another round of drinks.

‘You know that Mum and Jack said that they’d only lend us the money if we all went?’ I reminded David.

‘I know, but I’m not sure if Faith’s got it in her. You know what she’s like.’

I wasn’t sure if any of us had it in us to leave the comfort zone of undemanding jobs in familiar surroundings, and put ourselves in debt through owning a business that we knew nothing about on an island of which we knew even less. Although I’d been spurred on by Joy’s reckless enthusiasm to give it a go, Faith’s contrary attitude had raised uncertainty about the wisdom of Mum and Jack’s plan. I began to wonder if we were really ready for it. This was a commitment, the very thing that I had done my best to avoid all these years. A small part of me hoped that Faith would say no and we could sink back into the cosiness of a life without change, responsibility or effort.

Although Jack’s offer to lend us some of the money and help arrange a mortgage for the rest was a generous, and perhaps foolish, one, the rate of interest that we’d be paying back was a lot more than the rate he would have gained by keeping the money in a bank. At the end of the day it was a business proposition that was intended to benefit him as well as us. Financial gain was always behind any reasoning of Jack’s.

The appeal of investing in a bar on the same complex as his apartment would satisfy many whims. He could waltz in and out, help himself to large brandies and puff on fat cigars. He would have achieved most men’s dream to own their own pub, without having to deal with the petty whims of a drunken Joe Public.

An added bonus, of course, was that his two stepsons would finally have ‘proper jobs’ rather than messing about with mackerel, Karl Marx and Widow Twanky.

If there was a certain amount of self-interest in the proposition, there was also a smattering of sense in Jack being the one to suggest it. After decades of flogging houses on the home front, he had retired from his UK partnership the year before and had set up a similar venture for property investors overseas. Tenerife was the first port of call, as residential tourism was just starting to follow in the footsteps of its package holiday popularity. For UK investors seeking a red-hot winter bolthole while the rest of Europe turned blue, the Canary Islands had recently emerged as a leading contender, with one advantage over the Spanish Costas – winter sun.

Located less than 100 miles from the coast of North Africa, the seven islands of the Canarian archipelago had all the assets that a North European citizen looking to escape grey winters could ask for. Perma-sunshine, an eternal spring climate, safe bathing and an enlarging expat community.

Historically this septuplet of islands had drawn the attention of many British visitors, most of them unwanted. In 1595 the Canarians beat off Sir Francis Drake as he tried to conquer La Palma. In 1797 Nelson and his arm parted ways during an ill-timed attack on Santa Cruz de Tenerife. And while docked off the same island in 1832, Charles Darwin was thwarted in his lifelong ambition to explore the archipelago because of the risk of a cholera epidemic.

With all the chronicled exploits of the early visitors, it’s surprising that it wasn’t until the late 1980s that the masses cottoned on to the appeal of the Canaries. For Joy and me, though, it wasn’t the beaches, pine forests or volcanic badlands that had provided the lure. If Jack had diverted his attentions towards pig farming in Lithuania and dangled a means of becoming swine entrepreneurs, I think we would have been equally enthused. It was merely the dream of an adventurous escape from our usual drudgery but with the added incentive of daily sunshine, and a potential pot of gold if we managed to avoid spectacular failure.

The problem now was that this dream had grown dangerously close to becoming reality, and for me that would mean having to swap the excitement of making plans with the horror of having to follow them through. But the decision was now down to Faith.

Despite several more remonstrations about what a crazy, illogical plan it was for herself and the cat, Faith finally, though reluctantly, agreed to come. Having overcome our own personal doubts, Faith’s decision took us to Phase Two. We had to start preparing to move.

For Joy and myself the most pleasant part of Phase Two was leaving the market. But that would only come after the most unpleasant part – telling Pat.

He was in a particularly vicious mood that day. ‘You’re not going to sell that fish by whispering, Joe. For jeffin’s sake, shout.’

‘Three fish for a fiver! Fresh in today!’

‘That’s not shouting. That’s talking. Scream it out, you nancy.’

‘THREE FISH FOR A FIVER. DON’T BE SHY, COME AND BUY.’

‘Joy, shift those chicken legs. They’ve been out of that jeffin’ freezer three times now. If they have to go back in one more time, you’re going in with them. Sandra! What the bollocks…?’

Sandra worked alone on the shellfish ‘department’ slotted at right angles to the fish and chicken stall. She was allowed to run it how she pleased and was a particular favourite of Pat’s. This was just as well as the slightest hint of a reprimand would make her reach for the Kleenex. Today, however, wasn’t a good day even for Sandra.

Occasionally, apart from the run-of-the-mill fish like cod, halibut and hake, Pat would take delivery of some unusual marine life. This was partly to show off to the other fishmongers in the market and partly to keep the attention of his regular customers.

One morning, emerging from the cold, dark, hush of Ashburner Street, I was still deep in thought about warm quilts and soft pillows, hands burrowed in my donkey jacket, collar turned up in defence against the biting chill, when suddenly I was eye to eye with what appeared to be a large shark, grinning at me from atop a trestle table in the middle of the market hall. The heart-stopping apparition was indeed a 3-metre shark, Pat’s latest ‘attention-grabber’. It had certainly grabbed mine. Pat’s beam matched the shark’s as he noticed my shock. ‘Think you can sell that?’ he asked.

‘It’s a shark,’ I said.

‘Top marks, Einstein. I can see education’s not been wasted on you.’

But this morning it was fauna of a different kind that was destined to draw the gapes of Bolton’s plastic bag brigade. A fresh delivery of live crabs had arrived and Sandra had carefully arranged a dozen of them on their backs, little legs cycling in unison between the cockles and mussels.

Unfortunately, a sympathetic pensioner had noticed they were upside down and had turned them back the right way while Sandra was off chasing a young boy who had helped himself to a fistful of crabsticks.

Sandra returned to find a man in a cloth cap and a woman with no teeth hopping youthfully in front of the stall. The upright crabs, having sensed a window of opportunity, had hurled themselves off the edge of the stall and were scuttling for their crusty lives between wellies and moon boots in a bid for freedom. The good people of Bolton, unaccustomed to such crustaceous attacks, had also fled. Pat quickly sanctioned an emergency plan of four trays for a fiver plus a free bag of tandoori chicken in a bid to woo the fleeing shoppers.

The crabs were eventually herded together but not before word had got out that Pat’s stall should be given a wide berth. Trade that day remained slack. Worse than that, the other stallholders had gained enough ammunition to goad him in the Ram’s Head for a very long time.

At the end of an unprofitable day, Pat’s usually ruddy cheeks were deepest scarlet, his mood black.

‘Pat, can we have a word?’ said Joy. Pat grunted and kicked a box of chicken legs towards the freezer for their fourth frosty sleepover.

‘We’ve bought a bar in Tenerife,’ I said. Pat stopped kicking and looked up. His eyes narrowed and his cheeks glowed furiously. He was in no mood for jokes, especially if they were on him.

‘What d’you mean you’ve bought a bar? A toffee bar maybe. How can you two buy a jeffin’ bar on three quid fifty an hour.’ He turned his back and shooed us off with a flick of his hand. ‘Piss off. I can’t be doing.’

‘So we’re going to have to hand in our notice,’ continued Joy.

‘You’re serious?’ We waited for an explosion after the pause. ‘Do you want a barman?’ Pat had turned round again. He was looking from me to Joy and back again. We both let out a nervous laugh.

‘No, I’m pleased for you. You’ve both worked hard. We all had a bet on how long you’d stick it out when you first came working here. We gave Joe one day and you two weeks. Didn’t think you’d both hack it. You proved us all wrong. Just let me know a week before you’re leaving so I can get someone else in.’ He turned round and shoved the chicken with his foot as we strode off. ‘Oh, and don’t forget,’ he shouted, ‘if you
do
ever need a barman…’

When the rest of our stall colleagues heard the news, they were sceptical. They expected to see us reappear at one of the other stalls further down the market selling mixed bags of sweets or bundles of low-grade toilet rolls.

The send-off on the last day was full of warm-hearted good wishes. Old fish innards and chicken bits were cheerily stuffed down our clothes and we were both forced to wear rabbit carcasses on our heads for a good deal of the day.

A couple stopped in front of the stall with mouths agape. They both had matching lilac shell suits and absurdly orange-tinted tans. ‘Why have you got rabbits on your heads?’ asked the man, understandably bemused.

‘Because it’s our last day,’ answered Joy.

‘Oh,’ he replied, as though this was a reasonable explanation.

‘Why are you orange?’ said Joy.

‘It’s called a suntan, love,’ said the lady.

‘Oh I see. Been away?’

‘Yes, we’ve just come back from Tenerif-ey,’ smiled the lady.

‘More like Shirley’s Sunarama on jeffin’ Hardwick Street,’ muttered Pat as he passed behind carrying a box Terry had just delivered.

‘Tenerife!’ exclaimed Joy.

‘Yes, we own a villa out there. We try to get over as much as possible, you know, to get away from this frightful weather.’ Her accent had suddenly jumped up a couple of social classes to underline her ownership status. ‘Have you been?’

‘Oh aye,’ said Joy brightly. ‘We’ve bought a bar-restaurant there. We’re moving in a few days. Maybe we’ll see you there.’