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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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would have to be resuscitated, so I added some white wine, crushed garlic and sliced mushrooms and replaced the pan over the blue flame.
The first order was nearly ready so, slicing two burger buns in half and drawing only a little blood from my left palm, the buns were added to the hot plate. The microwave dinged and I felt to see if the chickens were hot. They were – painfully. The wine for the chicken dish was bubbling away and I added the cream and black pepper. Slices of cheese were slapped onto the now shrivelling burgers. The buns started smoking. I picked them off the hot plate, burning fingertips in the process and hurled them binwards. One missed completely and rolled out of the kitchen into the main customer area. I noticed several moments later that someone had discreetly kicked it back in.
‘Half a chicken, chicken burger, mixed grill, two chicken in wines, all with chips and salad, oh, and a tuna salad. How you doing in here?’
I raised two smoked eyebrows and a blooded palm and formed charred fingertips into a reversed victory sign.
‘Is that pork chop supposed to be on fire?’ Joy asked casually as the aroma of burnt pig filled the air.
I turned the microwave on and before the half chicken had time to complete its first twirl, darkness descended once again.
This time Mario asked me to follow him again. He reached behind the box for a short plank of wood and wedged it underneath the switch. ‘Now try and flicking pop,’ he warned the box. ‘Sometimes you just got to force the issue. But remember to hide the stick when you finished, otherwise the bastards cut you off for good.’
Unsurprisingly the power remained on for the rest of the night and by 11 p.m. I had sent out all 32 orders. Some people had to wait half an hour, some two hours. Fortunately Joy had a knack of making light of my inadequacy and the customers displayed that true British spirit of pulling together in a crisis. They knew it was our first night and they knew that we hadn’t a clue what we were doing. One customer, having sat patiently starving for an hour and a half while I fried, burnt, fried, burnt and fried again a simple plate of egg and chips, even brought his own plate back into the kitchen and proceeded to wash up.
‘You’ll soon get the hang of it,’ he said sympathetically as another basketful of blackened chips was dumped into the bin.
By 1.30 a.m., the dishes were washed, work surfaces wiped down and the gas rings and deep fat fryer were checked over and over again to make sure that they wouldn’t contribute to an early bath for our catering career. I estimated the quantity of meat we would need to defrost for the next day and scanned the shelves to compile a shopping list.
The terrace had emptied except for two teenage lads attempting to impress the daughter from table five with their pool prowess. Her parents had left her with strict instructions to follow them across the car park to the hotel before midnight. With shoulders pressed back and pubescent chest thrust forward, she was obviously in no need of any posture advice and was lapping up the attention of the two pool sharks.
Inside, Joy had her elbows on the bar, her head cupped in her hands as a couple kept her ‘entertained’. I switched off the kitchen light and went to join her for a much-needed nightcap.
After pouring, drinking and pouring another pint of Dorada, Joy, whose eyes had long since glazed over, introduced me to the couple.
‘Joe, this is Betty and Eric. They have a guesthouse in Blackpool,’ she said with feigned interest.
I shook hands with them. Betty’s eyes were also glazed, but not through boredom. Her blonde beehive hairpiece had flopped to one side revealing grey strands. Eric rolled his head and attempted to say something but closed his mouth again and continued with the lolling. Betty tried to get me up to speed with the conversation.
‘I was just saying to Joan,’ she nodded her beehive at Joy, ‘how we know what
The first order was nearly ready so, slicing two burger buns in half and drawing only a little blood from my left palm, the buns were added to the hot plate. The microwave dinged and I felt to see if the chickens were hot. They were – painfully. The wine for the chicken dish was bubbling away and I added the cream and black pepper. Slices of cheese were slapped onto the now shrivelling burgers. The buns started smoking. I picked them off the hot plate, burning fingertips in the process and hurled them binwards. One missed completely and rolled out of the kitchen into the main customer area. I noticed several moments later that someone had discreetly kicked it back in.
‘Half a chicken, chicken burger, mixed grill, two chicken in wines, all with chips and salad, oh, and a tuna salad. How you doing in here?’
I raised two smoked eyebrows and a blooded palm and formed charred fingertips into a reversed victory sign.
‘Is that pork chop supposed to be on fire?’ Joy asked casually as the aroma of burnt pig filled the air.
I turned the microwave on and before the half chicken had time to complete its first twirl, darkness descended once again.
This time Mario asked me to follow him again. He reached behind the box for a short plank of wood and wedged it underneath the switch. ‘Now try and flicking pop,’ he warned the box. ‘Sometimes you just got to force the issue. But remember to hide the stick when you finished, otherwise the bastards cut you off for good.’
Unsurprisingly the power remained on for the rest of the night and by 11 p.m. I had sent out all 32 orders. Some people had to wait half an hour, some two hours. Fortunately Joy had a knack of making light of my inadequacy and the customers displayed that true British spirit of pulling together in a crisis. They knew it was our first night and they knew that we hadn’t a clue what we were doing. One customer, having sat patiently starving for an hour and a half while I fried, burnt, fried, burnt and fried again a simple plate of egg and chips, even brought his own plate back into the kitchen and proceeded to wash up.
‘You’ll soon get the hang of it,’ he said sympathetically as another basketful of blackened chips was dumped into the bin.
By 1.30 a.m., the dishes were washed, work surfaces wiped down and the gas rings and deep fat fryer were checked over and over again to make sure that they wouldn’t contribute to an early bath for our catering career. I estimated the quantity of meat we would need to defrost for the next day and scanned the shelves to compile a shopping list.
The terrace had emptied except for two teenage lads attempting to impress the daughter from table five with their pool prowess. Her parents had left her with strict instructions to follow them across the car park to the hotel before midnight. With shoulders pressed back and pubescent chest thrust forward, she was obviously in no need of any posture advice and was lapping up the attention of the two pool sharks.
Inside, Joy had her elbows on the bar, her head cupped in her hands as a couple kept her ‘entertained’. I switched off the kitchen light and went to join her for a much-needed nightcap.
After pouring, drinking and pouring another pint of Dorada, Joy, whose eyes had long since glazed over, introduced me to the couple.
‘Joe, this is Betty and Eric. They have a guesthouse in Blackpool,’ she said with feigned interest.
I shook hands with them. Betty’s eyes were also glazed, but not through boredom. Her blonde beehive hairpiece had flopped to one side revealing grey strands. Eric rolled his head and attempted to say something but closed his mouth again and continued with the lolling. Betty tried to get me up to speed with the conversation.
‘I was just saying to Joan,’ she nodded her beehive at Joy, ‘how we know what
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