Forget the Celebrities: Read about MY Crazy Life

My Crazy Life: A Beer in a Burger Bar

It was a hot June afternoon in the Spanish Algarve resort of Islantilla. We had been lazing, sunbathing

for over an hour around the stunningly beautiful pool in our fantastic hotel, but the sun was just too hot,

and even the plentiful ice-cold drinks we had been consuming, now failed to regulate our soaring

temperatures.

“Come on,” said Breda, my wife, “Let’s get out of this sun.”

We were on a well-earned holiday, and doing anything that faintly resembled work put me on the

defensive, so I groaned, “Do we have to?”

“Yes, if you know what’s good for you,” Breda replied, laughing.

“Oh, all right,” I groaned again as I began collecting my bits and pieces from the sun lounger.

We made our way upstairs. Breda freshened up in the bathroom while I sat in the shady balcony,

enjoying the view of our hotel’s enormously large swimming pool which the holiday brochure had

boasted contained such wonderful things as a waterfall, an in-pool bar and its very own island, complete

with palm trees.

After she had finished her ablutions, Breda put on her favourite summer dress, a light yellow airy one,

and then suggested we go out for a bite to eat. “It’s my treat,” she said, “but only if you’re ready in five

minutes.”

Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, I quickly dashed into the bathroom and ducked under the

shower. “I’ll be ready in a jiff,” I shouted over the sound of the falling water, lathering up in a hurry.

“Good, I’ll be timing you,” she laughed.

I was out from the shower, dressed in my best shirt and trousers and with my hair combed to perfection,

and all before the five minutes were up.

“I’m impressed,” said Breda, though she added, “I did say, you were buying the drinks, didn’t I?”

“I should have known there’d be a catch,” I replied, pushing her out from our room and locking the door.

“There’s always a catch, in life, ” I continued, “and the biggest one is that it finishes…”

“Now don’t you get all deep and gloomy on me,” Breda warned as the elevator doors opened revealing

an old couple we had previously met.

As we stepped into the small receptacle, I said, “Hello,” then I threw in a smile for good measure.

The old couple generously returned the smile, and his wife said, “It’s lovely weather.”

“It is,” I replied,” “if you want to be grilled to a crisp.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman replied as she fiddled with her hearing aid, “I didn’t quite get that.”

“Oh, what a shame,” I whispered. Then shouting, I told her that because it was so nice a day, I was

going out for a beer and a packet of crisps.”

“How nice,” she said as she turned to her ancient, even more deaf husband to begin explaining what I

had just told her. When she had finished telling him, the old man, for some inexplicable reason, saluted

me. I saluted him back. Thankfully, the elevator doors then opened…

Squinting against the strong sunshine, I asked, “Which way,”

“Left, and then left again,” said Breda, linking my arm and steering me down the narrow cobbled street.

When we got to the end of the street, I turned right. No, not that left,” my wife, laughed, “your other

left…”

“Oh, that one,” I chuckled, “why didn’t you say?”

By the time we had reached the pedestrian mall, I was again feeling the intense heat of the day. Coming

to a halt outside a small, shady bar, I longed to go inside for a cold drink. “Oh no, you don’t,” said

Breda, steering me further along the mall with renewed vigour. “Not before we get something to eat.” I

looked. Breda looked. We both looked for somewhere in which we might have a meal, but everywhere

seemed to be closed. You see, we were unfortunately ignorant of the fact that the Spanish Algarve still

follows the old ways, the ways that have been mostly abandoned by the main Spanish resorts, and at

that particular part of the day that meant Siesta Time. verywhere was closed, everywhere except a lone

burger bar.

“I’m afraid it’s that or nothing,” I sighed as we stared into the brightly lit establishment’s interior.

Scanning our eyes over the plastic coated menu perched on a flimsy metal stand outside the shop door

we were none the wiser as to the meals on offer. Yes, there were pictures of the various burger and

chicken meals available, but without even a single word of it written in English, we baulked at the

thought of trying to explain to the pimply counter assistant smiling out at us the food we had chosen.

Cautiously entering the premises, we made our way to the counter. “You tell him,” Breda insisted,

pushing me toward the counter, thinking my English accent would be easier to understand that her Irish

country one.

“He might be able to understand me,” I whispered over my shoulder to Breda, when the pimply assistant

asked me a first question about our order, “but that doesn’t mean I will be able to understand him.”

Breda laughed, and she said, “Just get me some food - I’m starving.”

I ordered the meal. The pimply assistant said several more unintelligible things to me. I nodded in

agreement. He looked puzzled. I smiled and nodded again. He laughed slightly and then disappeared

behind the counter, where he began assembling our meal.

Carefully carrying the tray away from the counter, my arms ached under the enormous weight of it.

Although I had absolutely no idea what the pimply assistant had said, he had obviously understood me,

or so I thought. Plonking the tray onto a sparkly clean table, Breda and I sat down and stared in sheer

disbelief at the amount of food on our tray - it was everywhere. Piled high upon the simple plastic tray,

we had two of the biggest, tastiest looking meals we had ever seen offered in a burger bar - anywhere.

“I’ll never finish this in a month of Sundays,” I groaned as I tried to sort out the two meals.

“Don’t worry,” Breda replied, “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse, I’ll give you a hand.”

Taking a whiff at one of the offerings, I whispered, “This one might very well be that horse - look, the

tail’s still attached to it.” Breda leaned over to inspect the article… “Got you,” I laughed, taking a drink

from my enormously large beaker of cola.

“Now stop that messing,” she scolded.

While we were methodically ploughing our way through the mother of all meals, many more customers

came and went, and all of them staring at our gigantic meals and us.

We were a quarter of the way through our food, when a local family, a man and a woman in their mid

thirties, with two young children - boys - trailing behind them, entered the burger bar. There was also an

elderly woman with them, dressed in black from head to toe, whom I guessed was one of their parents.

Instead of going straight to the counter, as most people do, this family carefully selected a table, and

then after settling comfortably around it they began a conversation amongst themselves. I was amazed

that anyone would even remotely consider such an approach to eating in a fast food establishment.

Whenever I go into such a place, and it is not that often, I always want to get the process over with as

quickly as possible. I dash up to the counter where I order the food, pay for it and then wait impatiently

while drumming my fingers on the counter until it arrives. Only after I have actually taken possession of

the tray do I even consider finding a table. But these people, this Spanish family seemed to be doing it

in an entirely different way. I scratched my head in bewilderment.

“What are you looking at?” Breda asked as I continued to stare at the table directly opposite, where the

Spanish family had ensconced themselves.

“Oh, nothing,” I lied.

“Nothing?”

“Well, nothing much, just looking at some people…”

Taking another bite from her piece of horse, err, chicken, Breda turned round and took a peep at the

people in question. “What’s so special about them?” she asked.

“Special? There’s nothing special about them,” I insisted. I was just watching them.”

Thinking the sun might have affected me more than simply giving me a roasting, Breda whispered,

“Don’t you know that it’s rude to stare?" I did, of course I knew that it was rude to stare, but I was so

fascinated by this family, my manners had departed out the window to sizzle in the Spanish sunshine,

alone.

After much heated conversation over the plastic coated menu card, with the two boys changing their

mind on at least seven different occasions, with the mother insisting that she wanted a double

cheeseburger and a hot cappuccino, not a pitifully warm one like the one she had received the last time

they were there, with the grandmother saying nothing at all, not even a single word and, finally, with the

father deciding on a local speciality called a ‘Mumba’, he got up from his seat and strolled across to the

counter, where he began ordering their food from the same pimply young man who had previously served

us. After paying for his order, the father strolled back to his family and sat down patiently next to his

wife.

No one asked the old woman what she wanted; the aged old woman simply sat on her seat and stared

into space, seemingly oblivious to everything going on around her.

After a short while, the pimply assistant called the father, telling him their meal was ready to be

collected. Without saying a word, the father got up from the table, strolled across to the counter, picked

up the tray and returned to his place where he sat down again, placing the heaped tray before him. He

said nothing; he seemed to be patience personified. This happy situation, however, was about to

change…

Grabbing their ‘happy meals’, the two boys tore open the brightly coloured boxes to see what toy they

had each received. On seeing his, the eldest boy smiled his approval, but the younger one, on seeing

his, began crying, he began roaring that he wanted the same toy as his brother.

“Go on up to the counter,” ordered the wife, “and tell them you want to change that toy.”

Scratching his head while he inspected the plastic toy - a superhero of some description - the father

obediently followed his wife’s orders.

When the father returned with the replacement toy, its importance had already been forgotten, because

the two boys were now fighting tooth and nail over something else. Trying to stop them, the father said,

“Here you are, I have another toy - a different superhero - I think it’s ‘The Octopus.”

Paying their father absolutely no attention, the two sons tore into each other and the objects of their

attention with a renewed vigour. “What on earth is wrong with them?” he asked as he tried, but in vain,

to stop them fighting.

“It’s all your fault,” the wife replied, her annoyance with her husband all too evident in her raised voice. “If

you had got the right toys, in the first place, none of this would have happened.”

The poor man was gob smacked, “Isn’t the whole point of the boxes, being the contents are a surprise?”

he distraughtly asked. The wife conveniently ignored this comment. “But what are they fighting about?”

“The boxes!” the wife yelled, “the bleeding boxes!” This time, it was the husband who did the ignoring,

and instead of continuing a pointless onversation, he left the adjudication of his sons to his wife and,

instead, turned his attention to his aged mother. "Here you are,” he said as he placed a can of beer in

front of the old woman. She continued to stare in front of her, in complete silence. “Mum,” said the

father, coaxing the old woman, “Mum, I got you a nice can of bee…”

Without saying a word, the old woman turned her head ever so slowly, and looking deep into her son’s

eyes, she sent shivers down his spine. Then turning her attention to the can on the table, she held it

firmly in both hands, and all of this in complete silence.

“I don’t know why you spoil her so,” the wife complained, “it’s not like she appreciates, or even

understands it.”

“I will have none of that talk,” said the father, “she’s my mother…”

The boys, having calmed down (they had swapped boxes), returned to their ‘happy meals’ and munched

contentedly on their rapidly cooling chips.

The wife continued eating her cheeseburger, though every now and again she opened the bun, took a

peek inside and removed something or other that she didn’t quite like the look of.

The father, the poor bedraggled father tried to restore his decorum, the decorum that he so earnestly

wanted in his henpecked life.

For a while, mind you it was for only a short while, the whole family appeared contented and happy; the

children ate from their happy boxes, the wife drank her piping hot cappuccino, the father enjoyed his

Mumba and the grandmother - well, she held onto her can of beer like her life depended on it.

They had almost finished their meals before the grandmother began to stir, but when she did she,

unfortunately, began acting out the same scene from the same play that she had been a part of for

many long years…

After carefully opening the ring-pull, the grandmother held her glass against the can, before tentatively,

ever so slowly lifting it and pouring out its contents. As the cool beer swirled into the tall glass it frothed

upward reaching the top. The old lady calmly returned the can to the table and waited patiently until the

froth had subsided.

Watching this, the wife said, “She’s begun, you know, I don’t know why you give it to her…”

“She’s an old woman,” said the father, “that’s the only pleasure in life she has left.”

“Pleasure? It’s more like an obsession,” the wife barked back at him.

The froth having diminished, the grandmother continued with the ‘pouring of the beer ceremony’.

“Look at her,” the wife barked again.

“Shush,” said the husband, “let her be.”

“Let her be? I wish she would let me be!” she said, despondently.

Ignoring these remarks, or never actually hearing them (who knows which is really the case?), the

granny finished pouring the cool, amber liquid. Then returning the can to its original position upon the

table, close to the glass, she rested both hands on the tabletop and stared contentedly into the

brimming glass.

“Why is granny smiling like that?” asked the younger of the two boys.

“She’s happy,” the father explained.

“Why is she happy?”

“Because she has her beer.”

Confused by this explanation, the boy thought about it for a while, and then said, “But beer is horrible!”

Searching for the right words, the father said, “It’s an acquired taste…”

“What’s an acquired -?”

Cutting off her son, the mother asked, “Who wants some desert?”

“I do,” replied the eldest boy.”

“Me too,” shouted the younger one, not wanting to be outdone by his sibling.

“Father,” the wife ordered, “three ice creams, if you will be so kind, and whatever you are having

yourself.” The wife handed her husband a twenty-euro note.

Surprised by his wife’s uncharacteristic act of generosity, the father quickly took the note and made his

way to the pimply counter assistant…

When the father was at the counter, granny finally lifted her glass, and raising it to her lips she knocked

back half of its contents in one long gulp.

“Wow,” said the younger boy as his granny returned the glass to its place on the table next to the

empty can, “when I grow up, I want to drink like that!”

“Now see what you’ve done,” said the wife to her husband, then remembering he was at the counter, for

the ice creams. The mother tried her best to pry her sons’ attention away from the granny’s tremendous

feats of beer drinking, but it was an almost impossible task to divert their attention, because whenever

the granny began drinking they were enthralled at the way she was able to ‘put it back’.

“Look!” cried the younger son, “she’s going for the glass again.

She was, granny’s old and ever so wrinkly hand enveloped the tall, graceful glass, and in less than three

seconds flat she had ‘put away’ the remains of the beer.

“Wow!” the two boys sang out in sheer delight.

“Get her another one,” the younger boy shouted.

“Make it a large one,” the eldest boy added.

The granny sat there almost motionless, and if it were not for her recent drinking activity one might have

been forgiven for thinking she was a tailor’s dummy. Then she burped, granny let out a loud, long burp.

The boys were simply delighted at her bad manners, and they squealed louder with delight.

Returning with four portions of ice cream and another can of beer, the father immediately sensed the

deteriorating mood of his wife. “Everything all right, dear?” he asked, trying his best to brazen it out.

“Look at her,” the wife hissed, “she only wakes up when there’s a drink on offer.”

“She’s an old woman,” said the father yet again, “that’s the only pleasure she has left.”

“And she won’t even have that, for very much longer, if she doesn’t behave herself.”

Feigning shock, the father said, “Will you look at her, she’s as quite as a church mouse.”

“She wasn’t a few moment ago, I can tell you,” said the mother in disgust.

The boys giggled.

“Here’s your ice creams, don’t let them melt…”

“Changing the subject won’t make it go away…”

“And here’s another can for you, mum,” the father said as he replaced the empty can with the full one.

The family resumed their ice cream eating. However, they were barely a quarter of the way through their

ice creams when the granny, stretching her wrinkly old hand, grabbed her can of beer ever and began

pouring its contents into the tall glass. Then she raised the glass to her lips and drank the entire

contents, and all in the one swig, before returning the empty glass to the table as she let out another

even louder burp than before. The Mother began complaining about the granny with a renewed vigour.

The granny smiled at her, so innocently.

Pulling at her son’s jacket, to get his attention, the granny whispered into his ear, “Beer, I want more

beer.”

“I’ll get you another one, mum,” the son replied affectionately, “but only the one…”

“Beer,” the granny whispered, though a little bit louder this time, as she began hiccupping.

“I’m just going up to the counter,” the father to his wife, without giving her the chance to reply.

“One beer, please,” said the father to the pimply young man at the counter.

“She likes her drink - seen her with you before, in the café down the street, if I remember correctly…”

Coughing, trying his best not to remember that unfortunate incident, the father picked up the can and

quickly made his way back to the table.

Grabbing the can from her son, the granny opened it like there was no tomorrow. Still hiccupping, she

swilled back half of its contents all in the one go, with absolutely no thought of her empty glass on the

table.

Granny burped and then she burped again, and said, “Hiccups gone!” After that she threw the empty

can at her daughter-in-law.

Bouncing off her daughter-in-laws forehead, the can banged and clattered its way to the floor where the

two boys dived for it like it was made of gold.

“Here you are,” the eldest boys said to his granny, “do it again.”

Grinning, now very much the life and soul of the party, granny took the can and bounced it off her

daughter-in-laws head for a second time.

“Mother,” the father cried out, “you must not do that.”

Almost out for the count, the wife smiled at them in a most unusual way. She even smiled at the granny

who made a lunge for one of the ‘happy boxes’ to throw at her, but was stopped by it’s owner when he

realised that she was after it.

“No,” the eldest boy said. “You might damage it.”

Undaunted granny made another lunge at the box, this time with her empty drinking glass. The two

boys laughed at their intoxicated granny.

“I want more - DRINK - granny shouted in a most threatening manner.

“Does granny want some more?” the mother asked kindly. She was obviously suffering from

concussion. The husband meekly replied that she did. “Then why don’t you give her some? And while

you’re up there, you can get me a can.”

But, dear, you don’t drink,” the husband tried to explain.

“Then don’t you think it’s about time that I started!” said the wife with a fancy twirl of her hand.

The father returned to the counter. “Two cans of beer, please,” he said.

“It’s getting to be a right hoot,” the pimply assistant said as she watched the mother give the granny a

kiss on the cheek.

The granny, unimpressed by the mother’s sudden show of affection, smacked her daughter-in-law a

wallop on the ear,

“Ooh, I can hear bells,” she said, looking around the room wondering where the sound was coming from,

“I wonder where they are?”

Rushing back to the table, the father separated his mother from his concussed wife, and then offering

each of them a can of beer, he smiled and said cheers.

“Cheers,” the two women replied as they tore open the ring-pulls.

“Cheers,” said the two sons who had not had this much fun in ages.

“Cheers,” said the pimply young man from the other side of the counter.

And, “Cheers,” said the poor father as he collapsed to the floor in complete exhaustion.

A year later, the door of the burger bar swung open, allowing an elderly couple free entrance. The

woman, dressed in designer clothes of many bright colours, wearing glittering and, obviously, very

expensive jewellery, appeared many years younger than she actually was. The man, a touch older than

her, wore an equally expensive light-coloured suit, a pair of cowboy boots, a fancy necktie and a brand-

new ten-gallon hat perched high upon his head.

When she began speaking, the lady said, “I always liked this place - It’s so quaint, and I have so many

good memories of it.

“You go and sit down, my dear,” said the well-spoken man, “I’ll get us something to drink.”

“Nothing alcoholic, please,” the woman insisted as she strolled across to a free table.

Approaching the counter, the man said, “Good afternoon, my name is Edward J Hoover the third, and I want two of your best fruit juices, please.”

From her table, the woman laughed quietly at her new and very rich husband’s enthusiasm for life and

his attention to every detail.

While serving the American accented man, the pimply counter assistant was captivated by the elderly

lady. He was sure that he had seen her somewhere before, but where?

“There’s your juice,” said the cowboy-hatted man as he sat next to his wife.

“Thank you, dear,” she replied. “I certainly could do with it, it’s so dreadfully hot outside.”

As the two most unusual customers enjoyed their juice drink, the pimply young man as the counter

racked his brains trying to work out where he had seen the woman before. Then he had it, and he said,

“I know you, you were here last year, with your son, daughter-in-law and their two children.

Smiling the woman replied, “Yes, you are right, I was…” Then turning to her new husband, she said, “I

have seen all that I wanted. Can we go now, please?”

At the door, the lady turned around to look at the burger bar for one last time. Speaking quietly to her

new husband, she said, “It will be a pity to see all of this go, when your company develops this site, but

we must all move with the times, and a new bar is sorely needed for the working classes…

You can email me with your thoughts and comments: email me

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© Gerrard T Wilson 2008