More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman (9 page)

Fortunately we had discovered that a second party wasn’t entirely necessary to partake in one of Friedhelm's conversations, and if you quietly removed yourself from the proceedings he would happily continue moaning to himself, unhindered by the lack of audience.

His second favourite topic was sex, or rather recounting in vivid details his latest exploits at the local brothel. Although we didn’t understand what he was saying most of the time, the constant references to ‘fucky-fucky’ and the faint glimmer of mischief buried deep in those sunken eyes enabled us to get the gist.

The only time we would see him smile is when he would amuse himself with lewd jokes. Although completely wasted on us, Friedhelm would chuckle himself into a gargling bout of phlegmatic coughing that could only be brought under control by chain smoking three or four foul-smelling Kruger’s.

It has to be said though, he was one of our most loyal patrons despite our indifferent hospitality. Every single day he would drag his decrepit body to the same table by the window and struggle for breath as we poured him the first of many large beers. ‘Big problem,’ he croaked, pointing to various parts of his anatomy. The loose flaps of his cheeks wobbled as he shook his head in self-pity.

‘You’re the big problem,’ muttered Frank from his bar throne.

‘Gammon and chips for Suicide Sid,’ shouted Joy from around the doorframe. She reminded me that Friedhelm liked his fried egg hard, his onion chopped fine, his chips burnt and his salad served with sugar.

In the meantime my Hungarian companion was motioning at me with an egg in each hand, reminiscent of the Swedish chef from the Muppets. I smiled obligingly and set about Friedhelm’s meal.

The Hungarian had found himself a pan and spatula and was quite happily standing beside me preparing himself a ham and mushroom omelette. Why couldn’t all of our patrons be this helpful? He even washed the pan afterwards and left a tip. I think we had found the perfect customer.

Joy was frothing the head of Friedhelm’s third pint – he insisted on half liquid and half foam, a request that was fine by us as we could charge full price for what was essentially a half pint. The Germans were most impressed to see us making the effort to accommodate their preferences instead of pulling a pint the British way. If the Brits could lift the glass of the bar without spilling any then it wasn’t a full measure, and they usually let us know in no uncertain terms.

Our Dorada pump was exceptionally good at German-style pints as it was prone to the odd asthma attack, which would see it wheeze up more air than beer. Occasionally it would be having an extremely bad bout and you could end up with a pot of froth with a token inch of beer hiding at the bottom. These we would pour into a jug in the waist-level fridge under the bar top and serve later, when our customers’ attention was more blurred. That’s if the cockroaches didn’t find the beer first.

Roaches are rather partial to a bit of the amber nectar, as we often found out after leaving half-finished drinks on the outside tables overnight. When we came to clean up, it was like the morning after a roach rave with lots of the drunken beasties up-ended in their favourite tipple.

‘Reserving’ the beer, as saving the slops for future consumption was called, was one of the few cost cutting tricks that we played on customers. Many other bars have a larger array of drink scams. Some barmen, when asked for a spirit, would discreetly dip the rim of the glass in a hidden saucer of whisky, gin or vodka and fill the glass with ice and a mixer. The only alcoholic content was on the edge of the rim but the taste would be there at least until half the drink had been consumed, by which time it was not worth complaining about.

I decided to bring out Friedhem’s offering as I could see Joy was busy at the bar, but as I was lifting the plate, the egg slipped onto the floor. Luckily it bounced, as I’d cooked it to our German customer’s preference. To fry another would have meant the rest of the food going cold, besides which I had to count our empty beer barrels before the beer men came and nicked a few, charging us extra on the non-returns and pocketing the money themselves.

I scooped the egg off the terracotta tiles and dusted it down with the edge of my apron, then replaced it on the plate and made my way out of the kitchen. At the bar, two men that I hadn’t seen before were drinking beer from the bottle. They had the deeper tan of residents, appeared more confident and purposeful than holidaymakers, and there was something too cocksure about their manner. After placing the plate in front of Friedhelm I went behind the bar to get a closer look.

One had a scar running from just below his left eye to the corner of his mouth, while the other looked old enough to be his father and wore a cocky smirk across a boxer’s face. Joy was chatting to them; ‘This is Joe, my other half,’ she said, throwing an anxious glance my way. The younger of the two nodded while the other ignored me and looked round the bar.

‘This your gaff, then?’ asks the older one in a nicotine-raked London accent. He continued to survey the premises.

‘Well, ours and my brother’s, actually,’ I replied, figuring there was strength in numbers.

‘Nice place,’ he rasped, nodding. ‘Make much money?’ I could feel the younger one’s eyes boring into me.

‘We get by,’ I said. ‘Are you staying round here?’ I quickly added in an attempt to steer them away from that line of enquiry.

‘Might be. It depends.’

They were both staring silently at me now. I picked up a clean glass, pretended to notice a mark and put it in the sink.

A moment passed before the elder one spoke again.

‘See you later, then,’ he smiled insincerely. They both turned to Joy who was nervously shining a little circle on the dark wooden bar top.

‘Nice to meet you, Joy.’ The younger one broke his silence and lifted her hand, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on mine while placing a kiss on the back of Joy’s fingers.

‘Did they pay?’ I asked Joy nervously after they left.

‘Did they pay! We’ve just had a visit from the Godfather and you want to know if they’ve paid!’

‘Who were they?’

‘The older one was Ron and the younger one was his son, Micky.’

‘Well, what did they want?’

‘They didn’t say. They just said they wanted to move in somewhere and were looking for the right area.’

The words ‘move in’ slammed the panic button shutting off the valve to my heart and releasing a flow of emergency expletives.

‘I’ll tell you what they want,’ said Frank. He’d been sipping quietly on a beer at the far end of the bar. ‘They want shooting. If you don’t shoot them they’ll be back here demanding money. It happens all the time in Las Américas. I’m telling you, get ‘em shot… fucking
bandidos
. It’s The Firm, the East End mafia. It’s like herpes, once you’ve got it, you can never get rid of it.’

We were in trouble. Big trouble. In my mind, troops of fishmongers assembled for inspection. We had heard of protection money being paid to some of the gangsters who ran Las Américas but had always thought we were safe up here, out of the way. Six weeks into our new lives I was beginning to think I may have been wrong.

I wandered back to the kitchen, ignoring Friedhelm’s glass-waving appeal for another drink. Like lambs to the slaughter, I thought. I wondered how much we were going to have to pay to retain all of our limbs.

I spent most of the afternoon obsessively drying a big-enough-to-hide-in metal saucepan. I toyed with the idea of refusing to pay, but as soon as I heard Joy acknowledging anyone’s arrival, my hand was already in my wallet.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

The busy summer season was upon us and the decision was made that next week we would open for breakfast and lunch, as well as evening meals. In light of this, the last thing we needed was an added hassle but naturally, we got one. Our apartment had been sold and we had three weeks to find somewhere else to live.

Other news to reach us confirmed that an East End gang from London were doing the rounds, targeting British bars in the South. We called a meeting to discuss what to do when Ron and Micky came back.

‘We’re not paying them,’ said David. ‘Give in to them once and they’ll just want more next time.’

‘So what do we do? If we say no they’ll smash the place up and we’ll lose business, plus we’ll have to pay the cost of repairing things,’ I argued.

‘The police?’ suggested Joy.

‘Well, your paperwork’s not arrived and we still haven’t got an opening licence so I don’t think we want to involve them,’ I said.

‘Look, we’re assuming they’re going to come. They might not. We’re away from the main drag. They might not come up here,’ said David.

‘They’ve already been in,’ revealed Joy. We hadn’t told David and Faith about our visit. There was no point in worrying them if it proved to be nothing.

‘Ah,’ said David.

‘Ah,’ said Faith.

We decided that there was nothing that we could do. If we were going to be approached for extortion money, we’d have to pay. It was not a particularly pleasing prospect but one that was better than having a beer barrel delivered through the window.

Ron and Micky were conspicuous by their absence over the next few days, serving to heighten the suspense, although we did have our fair share of alternative dubious characters frequenting the bar. Some were daunting, some just plain demented.

We assumed that the King of the Canary Islands was one of the wigwam residents from Spaghetti Beach but we had no proof. Just like we had no proof that he wasn’t the King of the Canary Islands. He said he was, insisting that it was for this reason that he never paid for anything on the island.

Since his first appearance a fortnight ago, we had put up with his renditions of songs from the musicals, hoping that once he had finished half a chicken and chips he would move on. Alas, he knew every verse that Rogers and Hammerstein had ever bickered over. In between mouthfuls of food, flourishing gestures would accompany his recital.

‘Can you keep it down a bit?’ I asked.

‘Gonna vash zat man right outta my hair…’ he continued, a chicken wing finding unexpected flight as he swiped it over his head.

‘Come on, either keep it down or you’ll have to go.’

‘Gonna vash zat man…’ he continued in a stage whisper.

I headed back to the kitchen and smiled apologetically at the bemused family of Germans on table four as a rousing chorus trailed after me.

He bowed deeply but on hearing no applause, shrugged, sat down and continued gnawing on the chicken carcass, humming to himself.

Joy went out to collect his plate and deliver his bill.

‘Did you like my show?’ he asked, grinning inanely.

‘Yes, very good,’ said Joy trying not to make eye contact. ‘850 pesetas, please.’

The man frowned.

‘You want that I pay?’ he protested. He raised his hands in disbelief towards the other diners sat outside. ‘But I give you songs.
You
must pay
me
.’ Beneath the serious expression, playfulness surfaced but Joy had people to serve and had no time for games.

‘Come on, pay up. I haven’t got time for this.’ She extended an outstretched palm.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘I am the King, the King of Canary Islands. And you are?’

‘Batman. Now pay the bill.’

‘But I am the King. I pay for nothing. All this is mine.’ He stood up and thrust his chin skywards in an attempt at looking regal but the mop of blonde surf hair, cut-off jeans, lack of shoes and Teutonic accent belied his status.

‘Pay!’ Joy demanded.

‘But…’

‘Pay. Now!’

‘Do you want me to sort him out, Joy?’ Frank’s son, Danny, had heard the argument from behind the bar where he was cleaning glasses. His skinny frame barely came halfway up the doorway where he stood, drying his hands on a tea towel.

‘No, it’s all right Danny,’ smiled Joy, ‘He’s just leaving.’

‘Aha! Your husband,’ said the King, and bowed in Danny’s direction.

Joy’s resolution held firm and he thrust a crumpled note into her hand. After bidding everyone a fond farewell he disappeared up the steps singing more tunes from
South Pacific
.

He was to become a regular visitor and one who tried our patience but always knew when he had crossed the mark. Once, when he came in calm and ashen-faced suffering from the flu, we found out his real name was Johan, and he was a dropout from Germany. His father was an executive for a medical research company and his mother had died when he was fourteen. His father gave him a bundle of money with which to make something of himself. Johan was clearly not one to take fatherly advice.

That was the only time we saw his real self. Whether it was drugs, mischief or schizophrenia, he would always be the King after that visit. One day, he turned up wearing a bin liner around his waist and a sawn-off 5-litre water bottle on his head as a crown. It was, he said, a very important day for him. He had been King for ten years and he was celebrating. Instead of a bottle of Dorada he ordered a bottle of house wine and insisted we joined in his jubilee.

‘To my kingdom… and my people,’ he toasted.

If he sensed that we were getting tired of him, he would pick himself up by the collar and lead himself out with a look of self-pity. Only once did we have to see him off ourselves. He must have been drinking heavily, as from the top of the stairs he pretended to pull down his zip as if to flash at customers that were coming or going. I don’t think he would actually have gone so far but it wasn’t exactly the maitre d’ welcome that customers anticipated, so we shooed him off with threats of the police. In due time he returned and apologised profusely, presenting Joy with a posy of dying bougainvillea and a handful of bottle tops as a peace offering.

One thing that Mario and his partners didn’t do was provide any kind of entertainment, and for the busy summer season we needed a way of persuading people to spend more time in the bar. We were sending out a steady number of meals but then emptied early when the kitchen closed at 10 p.m., and our customers would head for the bright lights of Las Américas in search of ‘a good turn’.

Currently, the only night-time distractions in our vicinity were provided by the sporadic ‘cabaret’ acts in the basement bar of the Altamira, where star quality was never a priority. At best they were captivatingly crap, at worst, monumentally appalling. If it wasn’t a bunch of overweight waiters attempting flamenco with all the fiery passion of damp matches, it was Derek and his dancing poodle – which, nine times out of ten, didn’t. It appeared that sunshine and sangria were a potent partnership in anaesthetising the handful of people who attended such ‘extravaganzas’.

We decided that a scouting mission was in order to see if we could offer a plausible alternative to Derek’s uncooperative canine. It was either that or karaoke and we were all trying to hold out as long as possible before succumbing to such painful pleasures.

‘Tina Turner, Rod Stewart and Neil Diamond’. For a newcomer to Tenerife, an advertisement like this outside somewhere like the Mucky Bucket in Torviscas must have seemed a tad extraordinary. Free admission, beer at a pound a pint, three mega legends and bingo in the intervals. Where else could you find that?

On any given night, sandwiched between ‘play your cards right’ and ‘spin the wheel’, the likes of Elton John and Meatloaf could be found picking out the night’s raffle ticket winner before bursting into ‘I’m Still Standing’ and ‘Dead Ringer For Love’ respectively.

You have to be extremely vigilant to avoid a collision with a major celebrity on the streets of Las Américas. While a selection of Elvis Presleys would be puffing and panting in full regalia en route to their next half-hour spot, turned-up collars and two-foot quiffs flapping up and down like a flock of crested eagles, Tina Turner would be stumbling along Avenida Rafael Puig, one hand holding down her wig, the other restraining a threatened breakout in the cleavage department.

We were tempted by the enthusiasm of a voice interacting with a crowd in a nearby bar. On closer inspection, perhaps this wasn’t the show for us. A six-foot transvestite with neck to wrist tattoos was trying to whip his audience into a frenzy. ‘Everybody on the left shout “hoo”, everybody on the right shout “hah”.

A bewildered table of pensioners who looked like they had just stepped off the wrong bus and a young family playing Connect Four obviously felt inclined to shout neither ‘hoo’ nor, indeed, ‘hah’. We moved on, opting instead for an Elvis bar that offered the bonus of food at this late hour.

The show hadn’t yet started as an ageing waiter in sauce-stained black and whites motioned towards a table, close to the strands of glitter dangling stage right. From here we had a perfect view of two urinals and a vending machine offering heightened pleasure for only 500 pesetas. In hindsight, our money would have been better spent there.

A plastic menu was thrust upon us, listing such imaginative delights as egg and chips, sausage and chips, burger and chips. Each one was accompanied by a glossy photo for the benefit of those who had never eaten before.

The
menu del dia
of prawn cocktail, half a chicken in mushroom sauce and a choice of ice cream would suffice and I gazed around for someone with whom I could share our opinion. Both waiters were now loitering round a table of giggling teenage girls and despite much eyebrow raising, finger extending and finally arm waving, their attention would not be diverted.

We were in no great rush as the real reason for this visit was to steal Elvis, so we sat patiently until a shadow loomed over our table. A barely visible flick of the head signalled that our waiter was now prepared to take the order, and I decided to attempt to utilise the nursery level knowledge of Spanish that I had managed to ingest.

‘
Dos de los menus del dia, por favor, y un medio litro de vino tinto,
’ I offered jerkily.

‘Prawn coat tail, half a chin with sores and I scream. Yes?’

There was a slight pause as we stared at each other.

‘
Pardone
?’ I said, somewhat baffled.

‘What?’ He flicked his head again.

‘
Repitez s’il vous plait
?’

‘
Como
?’

‘I’m sorry?’

By some miracle we both glided back into our own languages and, shaking his head, the waiter whisked away the menu.

In a worryingly short space of time, two prawn cocktails and specimen jar of wine were, if not slammed, then sternly placed in front of us. The prawn cocktail comprised just that. A solitary prawn, friendless in a pink and white sea of stirred ketchup and mayonnaise.

The ensuing main course was covered in a sauce so thick and sticky that I feared plunging my knife and fork into it lest I was unable to pull them free again. However, I managed to persuade some of it to let go of the plate and just as I was lifting it to my mouth, a tray of glittering jewels blocked its path. ‘Good price for you, Jimmy. Asda price. Give me five thousand, any watch. Good quality. Okay, okay, my friend. Four thousand.’ A representative from one of Asda’s African branches had chosen this moment to show me a range of watches that they apparently were now stocking. ‘For you, special price three thousand and I give you a bag. Asda price. Two thousand, yes? Take two, one for your special lady.’

I fended him off with a stale bread roll that I hadn’t ordered but was sure to be charged for and he wandered away to barter with himself at another table, a piece of my chicken dangling from beneath his tray.

Just at that point the lights dimmed and, to an impressive fanfare of feedback, Elvis appeared on stage. Now, correct me if I’m wrong but Elvis was tall, talented and dashing. The spectacle before us was dressed in extra-wide Bacofoil, was about four foot ten, 160 kilos and had a voice like George Formby on helium. The only thing that distinguished him as The King was that after every song, following a short bout of eye-crossing concentration, he would contort his mouth into what was presumably an Elvis sneer and mumble in the lowest falsetto that he could muster, ‘Uh-huh. Thang-you, thang-you. You’re all won’erful people. Uh-huh’, in a thinly veiled Scottish accent.

We persevered through the main course but our appetites for the food, and for this particular Elvis, had long since fled.

We arrived at the next bar amidst quavering brass and a crescendo of keyboards. A man in too tight, spandex blue trousers flamboyantly introduced his beaming assistant to the handful of audience. Undoubtedly a dropout from the ‘Delightful Debbie’ School of Stage Assistants, the poor girl’s feathered crown slipped over her eyes as she curtsied to the non-existent applause. She dutifully returned the compliment to her master who accepted the silent adoration and feigned modesty.

Formalities over, both flourished into position. The girl manacled herself to an upright slab of black hardboard while el maestro dramatically threw his arms to the heavens and strode towards a spot some twenty feet away from her.

He withdrew three metal strips from a black velvet bag. We were to presume they were knives but they looked more like crucifixes from year one’s first metalwork project. Evidently he was going to hurl these primitive missiles at his trusting assistant but in case there was any doubt amongst the audience he went through three demonstrations in a bid to heighten the tension.

The only change in emotion seemed to be from his assistant whose toothy smile was beginning to wane as she tipped her head back, peering from beneath the band of plumage, which again had come to rest on the bridge of her nose.