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Book: More Ketchup Than Salsa - Confessions of a Tenerife Barman by Joe Cawley
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Authors: Joe Cawley
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island,’ he muttered. A wry smile suggested he found it amusing now this was no longer his problem.
‘Does that happen often?’ I asked.
‘Depends. Sometimes not for a week, other times it pops all night.’
He’d conveniently forgotten to mention this defect when he sold us the business.
Back in the kitchen I had to wait for the chip fryers to heat up again.
Joy popped her head round the wall.
‘Two half chicken and chips, one no salad, and two chicken in wines, chips no salad.’
The dreaded chicken in wines! When Mario had showed us how to make this creamy dish, his instructions were rather vague. A bit of this, a pinch of that, some of these, not too many of those. I suspect that it was his own recipe and he was reluctant to give away the exact ingredients, even to Joy and I who were now supposed to recreate it.
It’s just a matter of timing,I told myself, trying to quell the nerves. I worked out which meal would take the longest to cook and began the preparation. This happened to be the chicken in wines. I tenderised the chicken fillets, coated them in flour and flopped them into a frying pan with a knob of butter. While they were gently cooking, using a large pair of dressmaking scissors, I cut a pre-roasted chicken in half and put the two parts in the microwave.
Turning round to face the hot plate, I flipped over the meat, and turned the chicken fillets in the pan.
‘Steak medium to well, Canarians and salad, gammon and egg, chips and salad,’ came a voice from over my shoulder.
I had stuck a large sheet of ‘write and wipe’ onto the huge fridge doors and added this order to the previous two. Now, which would take longer between those two, I wondered? I spun round as the aroma of burning chicken filled the air.
The fillets had fastened themselves to the base of the frying pan and were releasing plumes of smoke into the extractor hood above. Damn. Peeling them off, I decided there was no chance of a resurrection and flung them binwards. One landed in the dustbin, the other hit the tiled wall and made a slow descent leaving a trail of burnt butter.
I started again with the tenderising, a little more forceful with the hammer this time. I dipped them in flour and tossed them into a new pan with more butter. The electricity went off again. There was another group groan.
‘Mario!’ I shouted. I knew he was at the bar loving every minute of his freedom from such dilemmas.
‘I’m going,’ I could hear him chuckling.
Within minutes the power was back on and the customers cheered. Once more I had to wait for the fryers to heat up. I thought about phoning David and Faith but decided against it. We had to get used to dealing with this kind of problem. It was already beginning to sink in that this island was no smooth-running machine.
‘Two steaks, rare, chips and salad.’
I hadn’t even started the first steak yet! In the meantime I had slammed our hotel reception-type bell to let Joy know there was an order ready. Try as she might Joy couldn’t arrange the large oval dinner plates so three could be carried at the same time. She rested one on her left wrist and held another in the same hand but couldn’t find the right balance.
‘Come back for the other one,’ I said, watching her struggle. It had seemed so simple when Mario managed to carry five at a time. Mind you, he did have hands like a couple of JCB buckets and, thankfully, Joy didn’t.
Out with the hammer again, I bashed all three steaks and chucked them amongst the pork chops and burgers. I turned the chicken in the pan and turned the microwave on for the half chickens. The chips were plunged into the fryer, spluttering and spitting burning oil onto my hands and forearms. I laid more plates onto the table and grabbed handfuls of tomato, cucumber and onion slices and chopped lettuce, dumping a pile onto each plate as the aroma of burnt chicken filled the air again.
I snatched the pan from the heat and decided that this time they
‘Does that happen often?’ I asked.
‘Depends. Sometimes not for a week, other times it pops all night.’
He’d conveniently forgotten to mention this defect when he sold us the business.
Back in the kitchen I had to wait for the chip fryers to heat up again.
Joy popped her head round the wall.
‘Two half chicken and chips, one no salad, and two chicken in wines, chips no salad.’
The dreaded chicken in wines! When Mario had showed us how to make this creamy dish, his instructions were rather vague. A bit of this, a pinch of that, some of these, not too many of those. I suspect that it was his own recipe and he was reluctant to give away the exact ingredients, even to Joy and I who were now supposed to recreate it.
It’s just a matter of timing,I told myself, trying to quell the nerves. I worked out which meal would take the longest to cook and began the preparation. This happened to be the chicken in wines. I tenderised the chicken fillets, coated them in flour and flopped them into a frying pan with a knob of butter. While they were gently cooking, using a large pair of dressmaking scissors, I cut a pre-roasted chicken in half and put the two parts in the microwave.
Turning round to face the hot plate, I flipped over the meat, and turned the chicken fillets in the pan.
‘Steak medium to well, Canarians and salad, gammon and egg, chips and salad,’ came a voice from over my shoulder.
I had stuck a large sheet of ‘write and wipe’ onto the huge fridge doors and added this order to the previous two. Now, which would take longer between those two, I wondered? I spun round as the aroma of burning chicken filled the air.
The fillets had fastened themselves to the base of the frying pan and were releasing plumes of smoke into the extractor hood above. Damn. Peeling them off, I decided there was no chance of a resurrection and flung them binwards. One landed in the dustbin, the other hit the tiled wall and made a slow descent leaving a trail of burnt butter.
I started again with the tenderising, a little more forceful with the hammer this time. I dipped them in flour and tossed them into a new pan with more butter. The electricity went off again. There was another group groan.
‘Mario!’ I shouted. I knew he was at the bar loving every minute of his freedom from such dilemmas.
‘I’m going,’ I could hear him chuckling.
Within minutes the power was back on and the customers cheered. Once more I had to wait for the fryers to heat up. I thought about phoning David and Faith but decided against it. We had to get used to dealing with this kind of problem. It was already beginning to sink in that this island was no smooth-running machine.
‘Two steaks, rare, chips and salad.’
I hadn’t even started the first steak yet! In the meantime I had slammed our hotel reception-type bell to let Joy know there was an order ready. Try as she might Joy couldn’t arrange the large oval dinner plates so three could be carried at the same time. She rested one on her left wrist and held another in the same hand but couldn’t find the right balance.
‘Come back for the other one,’ I said, watching her struggle. It had seemed so simple when Mario managed to carry five at a time. Mind you, he did have hands like a couple of JCB buckets and, thankfully, Joy didn’t.
Out with the hammer again, I bashed all three steaks and chucked them amongst the pork chops and burgers. I turned the chicken in the pan and turned the microwave on for the half chickens. The chips were plunged into the fryer, spluttering and spitting burning oil onto my hands and forearms. I laid more plates onto the table and grabbed handfuls of tomato, cucumber and onion slices and chopped lettuce, dumping a pile onto each plate as the aroma of burnt chicken filled the air again.
I snatched the pan from the heat and decided that this time they
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