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 option.
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 9 in the morning then open the doors for breakfast at 10.30 a.m. The same couple would then work until 1.30 p.m. 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 frequently was 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 7 p.m. until 10 p.m. It also meant that I worked with Faith in the kitchen whilst 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 whilst everybody was keen to apply their stamp on the surroundings.
In the backroom, Faith was in charge of the cooking whilst I took the orders, prepared the garnishes and accompaniments and washed up as we went along. By now we were regularly topping 80 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 whilst leant 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 fly-buys, cannon fodder for the salesmen who were enticed to Tenerife with 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.
‘They started it,’ the British contingency would argue.
‘They were just having a drink,’ we’d retort.
‘No, they started it in 1939 in Poland. Serves them right.’ This coming from a sunburnt skinhead in white vest and Union Jack shorts, young enough to have no personal experience of the war and old enough to know better than to exhibit his prejudices in front of his young offspring.
The diverse type of customers that frequented the bar was astounding. From the empty heads who thought they were in Spain and enquired about coach trips to Barcelona, to the sanctimonious older expats who bore the unmistakable hallmarks of British colonialism at its worst. They knew that ‘abroad’ wasn’t part of England (yet) but was merely waiting to be educated in the superior ways of pallid supremacists.
We were forewarned about a swallow inspection visit. 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 p.m. 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 the clientele who happened to be on hand, most notably package holidaymakers, timeshare fly-buys and loyal residents. 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 and heated or chilled. On the odd occasion when he had satisfied his own artistic urges, pumpkin soup was sneered at in favour of prawn cocktail; chicken and chips were preferred over coq au vin, and crème brulée was laughed off the menu when competing with apple pie and custard.
The expats 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 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 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.’
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 to whom Joy had given the menu 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.
By now, Joy had slid as far down in her chair as she could without lying on the floor and was the focus of all the table’s around her. Faith and I were doing our best to take and deliver orders and explain to people that Joy was on her break. Faith was just on the verge of hysteria when Patricia walked in.
‘Are you on strike?’
‘Work inspectors,’ whispered Joy, jabbing a finger towards the bar.
Patricia laughed and went inside. She returned a moment later with the two suits. ‘Alejandro and Raul,’ she said introducing each one. ‘They’re in my Jehovah’s Witnesses congregation. They’ve been pioneering round here, that’s why they’re dressed up. You’re safe.’
Joy sunk a little further. She was safe for now but the false alarm fuelled the growing insecurity of working illegally. Our gestoria had repeatedly warned us that it was only a matter of time before we were visited.
By the time Joy returned the expats had grown agitated.
‘Why your boss lets you take a break whilst you’re so busy I’ll never know. It’s just not on. We had to wait 40 minutes for our food. And the cleanliness ... well, what can you say? It’s just not good enough.’
Joy smiled. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I guess we’re not up to the high standards to which you’re obviously accustomed. Perhaps you should try MacDonalds. I hear they’re very good.’ We never saw them again, surprisingly.
The scare with the officials strengthened our resolve to make Joy legal and we made another appointment to see Julie, our gestoria.
The appointment was at 4 p.m., which gave us just enough time after finishing our morning shift to move our belongings from the studio into Terry’s. It was a two-bedroom apartment at the bottom of El Beril near the sea, one of the few homes on the complex that had an upstairs and downstairs plus a small lawn in front. Compared to the studio we had been boiled in for the last week it was cool luxury. Terry informed us that we could have it for as long as we wanted as he had bought another place for himself and his wife. We took a little time to arrange our home, taking great pride in spreading our meagre possessions as widely as we could.
In Julie’s office a ceiling fan stirred the pages of the local English language newspaper. The dour expression of a local politician flipped over to reveal a smug tourist posing alongside an enormous blue marlin on the next page.
I wondered if Pat had tried this magnificent fish as an attention-grabber on the market.
As Joy and I sat and waited for Julie, I thought about what would be going on at the market at this time. It would be the final few minutes of trading time and for those shoppers in the know, the time when all the bargains could be had.
In a desperate attempt to eke out a few more sales, Pat would take to the front of the stall himself, bellowing his final offers. ‘Five trays for a fiver. That’s a freezer-full of Fleetwood’s finest for just a tenner. Try saying that when you’ve had a shandy love,’ he’d wink.
Even with such discounts, the wily shoppers who hung back until the last moment knew that for the stallholders it was a time when any sale was better than none.
One habitual bargain hunter never failed to show up at the eleventh hour. He was a wiry man who always wore the same clothes; brown scuffed shoes stamped down at the back, fawn trousers with an increasing variety of stains each day, a dirty dark brown raincoat with matted black woollen collar and lapel and a trilby cocked over a few strands of dull grey hair.
He would stand in front of the stall sucking his teeth, waiting until Pat shouted for us to start packing away. Then gingerly, he’d shuffle forwards and go through the routine of prodding various pieces of fish, asking how much for each and shaking his head at the response.
‘Thre
e-fifty? Noooo, I haven’t got three-fifty. I’m a pensioner you know. I can hardly afford to eat nowadays. I’ll give you two pounds.’
‘I’m a fishmonger not Father Christmas,’ Pat would reply. ‘Gerroff with you,’ he’d say, waving him away. ‘You’re on more money than me, you jeffin’ robber.’
The man knew the score and would shrink a little further into his coat looking hurt before turning slowly around as if to leave.
‘Here, Grandad. Give me three quid and I’ll throw in the plastic tray. You can put some soil in it and grow yourself some new hair.’ Pat would have already wrapped the fish aware that a deal had been reached.
Back in Julie’s office it was now approaching 5 p.m. and she still hadn’t seen us. This was normal for our gestoria appointments but nevertheless irritating.
Another British couple had joined us in the waiting lounge. Both faces were caked in white sun cream and they wore matching safari hats. They smiled nervously and hesitantly sat down in the threadbare sofa opposite.
‘Hot today,’ the man offered meekly.
‘Scorcher,’ I replied. ‘Been on the island long?’
‘No, just arrived yesterday. We’ve bought a bar, The Rum Jug, just down the road. Julie’s sorting our paperwork out for us,’ said the man. Like many other British bar owners, the previous owners of The Rum Jug were regulars for our Sunday roasts. Theirs was one of the first English bars in the south. They’d seen many comings and goings from other sunshine landlords and landladies. ‘If you can get through the first six months and you’ve not divorced, gone mad or killed each other, you might just make it in the bar world. In Tenerife it’s called the six-month itch. Ninety per cent fail in that first half year,’ they warned.
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