The Spanish Cheese 'Sanwish' Without Bread
by
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Pushing my way through the swing doors of the Barrachina I was confronted by the most extraordinary sight. The place was heaving at the seams. Customers milling around, waiters shouting out orders, plates and glasses rattling above the excited conversations of people, all discussing the coming event. But there, slap bang in the middle of all this mayhem, was the most unbelievable oasis of tranquillity. Seated at the far end of the bar was a smartly dressed Spaniard, wearing an immaculate white shirt, buttoned up to the throat but without a tie, together with the traditional black suit and one of those black wide brimmed hats favoured by bullfight fans. Perched on a bar stool he was sipping what appeared to be a glass of dry sherry or ‘manzanilla’ wine and with a small fork was spearing at some kind of ‘tapa’ on a small dish. Whilst I, personally, was having difficulties in forcing my way to the bar, around this individual was a clear space. In fact it was easy to calculate that he had four or five times more elbow room than anyone else in the place.
And there, standing rigidly to attention behind him, head and shoulders above everybody else, was the immaculately attired Negro in his full length scarlet coat and black beret. Arms rigidly straight down by his side, shoulders set squarely back, he stood motionless, eyes planted firmly on the man at the bar. The other was very obviously aware of his presence but was vainly trying to ignore him. However his exaggerated casualness as he raised his glass to his lips and picked at the dish in front of him, betrayed his nervousness. Once again I was astonished to see that all the nearby customers must have been well aware of their existence but were taking great pains not to notice them both. In fact everyone was looking elsewhere. Examining the ‘tapas’; the Señoritas in their traditional dresses energetically manipulating their fans. Absolutely anywhere, but at the two men. With difficulty I managed to organise myself a beer and moments later Reggie the Fish put in an appearance, struggling gallantly through the tumult. I called for another San Miguel and thrust the ice cold bottle into his hand as he came up to me.
We shook hands and Reggie said, “Sorry about not being able to meet you at the Metropol but after the incident with that author fellow, Hemingway, they made it quite clear that we wouldn’t be made welcome there ever again.”
“Not to worry, Reggie,” I grinned. “I don’t think there is a lot of space around here for firing gin filled water pistols.” Then inclining my head towards the tableau at the end of the bar I asked, “What’s all that about over there?”
Reggie smiled. "Oh, that," he said. "That one sitting at the bar is in big trouble. At the moment he has not friends and nobody will be seen anywhere near him."
"What sort of trouble, Reggie?"
"Listen, Chris," he smiled, "apart from serious illness there is only one real sort of trouble in this world. When I had my twenty-first birthday my father said to me, ‘Son, never get yourself into any problem that you cannot resolve by paying money. Secondly never make love to your wife in the morning as you never quite know what you might meet during the day.’ The second has always been a possibility whilst, in my case, the former has always been an inevitability. So the main problem in life is money trouble."
Tipping back his head he took a long swallow of beer straight from the bottle and then brushing his military moustache with the back of his hand, said, "You see, the chap at the bar owes money to someone and whoever that someone is has employed the services of ‘El Colorado’ or the Coloured one. That’s the tall fellow behind all dressed up like the doorman from the Ritz.
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About the Book
There cannot be many autobiographies that one can pick up, turn to almost any page, and something to bring a smile to the reader's lips. Fortunately this is one such book. Based mainly on the misfortunes of the writer, you might find yourself reading about how he was offered to be shown the whereabouts of precious stones in the Pyrenean Mountains by Britain's number one jewel thief, or being asked by a friend to place his ashes in beer cans and throw them into the English Channel. Then again, it might be where the author is learning not to eat the ends of the bread whilst in Valencia's prison. Or he might be negotiating with a Spanish Customs official who eventually pays the import duty for him or another police official who asks him to smuggle. Perhaps he is dealing with the Catholic Church in respect of an old mill housing pigs, or being threatened with a seven pound radish. Then you also might find him having his hair cut by a one eyed barber who shaved one side of his head and invited him to lunch at a restaurant before completing the work. He might be explaining to the police how his trousers were stolen in a pub or negotiating over Elvis Presley's head. Perhaps you will come across him helping to run a radio station or coping with the hazards of 'Bootlegging'. There again he might be having a spontaneous 'Lie In' at the American Embassy, presenting a cookery program on Spanish TV, or a Radio program on the Costa Blanca. He might also be writing for a regional Spanish newspaper or handling the simple question of whether or not he requires bread with his cheese sandwich. It's all here, much more and very humorous.
About the Author
Born in Leicester prior to the second World War and the only son of a typical English "Bobby" Chris Wright attended a local grammar school until sixteen years of age. Before compulsory service in the RAF he has various jobs, and in his spare time played "Boogie Woogie" piano for American and Canadian servicemen in some of the less desirable city pubs. After the RAF he decided to settle down by joining the Exeter City police force. Good intentions were rapidly brought to an end when one night he was instructed to stop a smash and grab gateway car. Expertly accomplished by a well-aimed truncheon at the vehicle's windscreen Chris was to discover, after the car had embedded itself in the front of a local cafeteria, that he had stopped the following police car. Next came a period of trainee management for a national chain store followed by some years of pharmaeutical representation in the Surrey and Midlands areas. A desire to try self employment found him and his wife running a Northamptonshire country pub accompanied by a depressed Bassett hound, a donkey and an over-sexed cockerel, together with a delinquent goat that seemed bent on destroying his livelihood. It was the offer of a partnership, and the reasoning that if he was going to be successful he might as well be unsuccessful somewhere warm, that attracted him to Spain. The country, at that time, was still rising out of the ashes of a Civil War, staggering towards the end of the Franco dictatorship and into European Democracy. On learning of Chris's decision, his newly-found Spanish partner said, "The Spanish climate will certainly meet with your expectations but there is absolutely no way I can guarantee what else you might find". How right he was.