I work at a restaurant on the beach. Gin clear water. Blindingly white sand.
Here they come, English tourists, once blindingly white, now blindingly red. I’m seriously talking baboon’s ass red.
I can spot them a mile away. Maybe they aren’t used to wearing flip flops and shorts. At least most of them have the decency to not wear Speedos at the beach nowadays, something I wish the Germans would learn.
I’m amazed how many order fish and chips.
Every time I can’t help myself. “Came all this way for that didja? It’s frozen factory made fish planks, not the real thing.”
I try to sell them on something else. Fishermen deliver daily, fresh locally caught fish. Rarely are there less than five fresh catches, at least six ways to prepare them.
“Try the Cobia Almondine” I say, “or the Blackfin Tuna au Poivre, medium-rare.”
“Ah’ve never ‘eard of Cobia. Can I ‘ave the tuna well done?”
“Cobia’s firm white and moist with a crab-like flavor, sorry, flavour. Well done tuna? Might as well just open a can.” Dubious looks.
“Try the Cobia,” I say. “If you don’t like it, you don’t pay for it.” Acquiescence. One even orders the Tuna.
The plates arrive. Tentative small bites.
“Ooh, that’s just lovely that is,” says Doris.
“The tuna’s lovely as well,” says Nigel. “Cheers mate.”
“You’re welcome.” You doubted me?
The happy Brits actually tip more than ten percent.
The fishermen buy me drinks. The Sysco guy hates my guts.