Page 6 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
CHAPTER THREE
“Aw, look. Howcute is that?”
I’m not sure if Reggie is referring to the baseball-capped guy who has just walked through the door, and is now busily casing the joint, his eyes drawn to the decorative blue, white, and gold tiles that have finally arrived, or the pooch in his arms. Reggie is straight, as far as I know, so I assume he’s referring to the licorice-black curly poodle with its sweet shiny coal eyes and bright red jacket, although it would make a refreshing change to hear straight males appraise their own sex. I’d be hard pressed to deny it, the dog’s ownerispretty lush. The stud of a customer has also been rendered pretty awestruck by the azulejos. Maybe he’s been to Porto and my decorative tiles have transported him back to some long-lost city memories. The thought is quite beautiful.
“Our first doggie customer, hooray!” I find myself replying uber-enthusiastically as I set to it with my next order, juggling cappuccino prep with custard tart assemblage.
Not that I want us to be inundated with canines, like some kind of dog version of the cat cafés that you find in the big cities. Indeed, it’s most unusual for the town’s pier to have waived the humans-only rule for the season– from Royal Sands to the Grand Pier this is normally a dog-free zone between May and September. But the council has agreed to trial the change this summer season, in the hope that everybody’s furry friends will be on their best behaviour; that is to say, in the hope that everybody will pick up their pets’ poop. It’s a lovely gesture– thoughts of doggy business to one side– so people who perhaps live alone with their animals won’t feel alienated and can benefit from the mental health boost of a gust of fresh Bristol Channel air as they stretch their limbs and exercise their charges.
The stranger who has drifted in on the salty air really is hypnotically blessed in the looks department. I avert my gaze before I flush. Although the fire-engine red UWE Bristol cap might hint that he’s aware of his charm, and this is what he wears whenever he steps out to dampen down the effect, I can somehow tell that he’s one of those jammy so-and-sos who doesn’t know how lucky he is. I have only glimpsed a fleeting treat of his smouldering brown eyes and matching hair (that’s to say it’s brown too, not on the brink of combustion) but the sharp cheekbones are something else. I busy myself once more with table five’s order. These afternoon tea packages are going down a storm and, unlike Frank, this group of customers has opted for a proper selection of one of each tart, ranging from the fruity apricot jam and the rich treacle and cornflake through to the light-as-a-feather baked pear and the nutty and boozy amaretto.
As I’m swooning, the guy starts to speak, loudly and abruptly. He turns to make sure everyone within the four walls of my workplace, every seagull circling out to sea, and every speck of a vessel on the horizon is giving him their undivided attention. “When I learned of a café…” he growls.
My tummy somersaults. I already know this is going to go one of two ways, but there’s no time to process potential disasters.
He carries on. “A café gutsy enough to put its own special spin on the Portuguesepastel de nata… a café ignorant enough to insult my country and my heritage, I just had to come and see it for myself,” he continues in an undeniably Iberian accent.
I blink rapidly, hoping somebody will pinch me and wake me up from this utter nightmare, but Reggie is equally stunned and Tim, as ever, is in the kitchen, baking fresh batches of the tarts this stranger has burst in here to slate.
After the initial ‘oohs’ and ‘ohs’, an uncomfortable silence falls upon the room. Tarts and cups are poised mid-air. My customers resemble an arty still-life tableau from one of the impressive carnival floats that parade Weston-super-Mare’s streets every November. I’d call the masterpiece, ‘They really didn’t see that coming’.
“Sure enough, this is something straight out of a horror movie.” The man picks up the threads of his spiel, throwing in a comic-book laugh. “I suppose I should be thankful that this excuse for a business is hidden away at the end of a tired and tacky seaside pier, but now I’m here, now I’m taking in the full magnitude of this… thisfreak show, all I want to do is fire up a chainsaw, chop off the entire pavilion and throw it in the sea. That said, I doubt even the fish would come near it.”
Another collective gasp fills the room. My pulse skitters and I decide it’s best to carefully lay down the custard tart in my tongs before I accidentally squash it and spatter my face with gooey custard. His words have now frozen all of us into our places like a fairytale villain’s curse. The man’s back is ramrod straight, perhaps interpreting our lack of reaction as victory. His dog whimpers. The high-pitched sound pierces the air like nails down a blackboard.
I feel utterly helpless. I always prepare for life’s random events, armed with plans A, B, and C. Heck, I can even mastermind a plan Z if need be. But when I find myself in a pickle like this without warning, I am wading in an ocean of toffee. It’s impossible. I try to speak but the words catch in my throat. As they are all expletives anyway, it’s probably for the best if I want to retain not only my dignity, but any future customers.
“This is sacrilege.” Now he sweeps his free hand out wide, as if he’s in an opera. And oh, apparently he hasn’t finished yet. He sniffs at the air, as if even its molecules displease him. Weirdo. The heady vanilla-infused perfume is the very thing that draws people inside my café!
“I heard the rumours about this place and I’ve seen the pictures and videos doing the rounds on social media, but I couldn’t believe anyone would have theaudacityto ruin the Portuguese national treasure like this. It had to be a very bad joke. Turns out such heathens do exist!” He narrows his eyes. “And what is it with the tiles?” He tilts his head toward the wall on his right, now. “Where in God’s name did you get those sacred specimens, and why do you think you’re the next São Bento railway station? And don’t get me started on all the poncy bunches of flowers.” He points them out unnecessarily with a finger that could be a loaded gun. “A properpasteleriadoesn’t need any of this crap on its tables. Thepastéisspeak for themselves. It’s all about the genuine Portuguese ingredients, baking methods, and history.Nada mais!”
So much for him admiring my pretty little collage then. I can’t believe what I am hearing, and neither can my rocketing blood pressure. I desperately need to take lessons in spontaneous quipping from Radhika who, with her dry sense of humour, would no doubt have calmly boomeranged back a hilarious tile comeback at this infuriated male by now. Either that, or she’d have removed a real tile and smashed it over his head instead. But my brain is empty and my mouth is sandpaper. Actually, make that the contents of Weston-super-Mare’s beach.
“I… w…would you repeat that again, please?” I finally manage a lame response. “On second thoughts, no, don’t bother.” I hold up a hand, as if that could possibly stop any further negative remarks being bandied my way.
Good grief. What am I like? Why am I gracing this idiot with Ps and Qs? He has just lambasted all of our hard work!
“And what makes you qualified,” I put my hands on my hips. “To come in here and r… rip our creations apart?” I quickly raise my voice before he spouts off again.
He smiles at me. But it’s not sincere. His eyes are as cold as the waves that pound several metres beneath our feet. It’s a shame because the dimples that bracket his mouth are really rather cute, all things considered.
What am I like?
“Well, you see, it goes a little something like this,” he replies, as if explaining the situation to a child. “My grandparents own one of the oldestpastel de natabakeries on the Algarve.”
There is no hesitation in his delivery. He is sure of his every word and his right to stand here and insult me. I grimace, but his ugly words fail to dilute his outer allure. “A bakery that has made millions of real, authenticpastéis de nataover the centuries; the kind of true, traditional recipethat does not need to be mucked about with.” His cheeks are hinting they’ll soon be matching the colour of his cap. Ha, I’ve put a chink in his armour at last.
“It would wipe the floor with the nonsense you’re flogging in this place,” he continues after several beats, as if he can read my mind. He strides proprietorially across the floor until he reaches the counter, where he narrows his eyes once more– this time to peer closely at the custard tarts’ labels.
“Lemon and thyme with Pernod, topped with sea salt? What fresh hell is this?”
He pans the counter’s shelves forward and back, brain seemingly unable to process the sight of our beautiful and diverse pastries.
“Banana split and espresso kickstart? We wouldn’t eat any of this rubbish in Portugal. What are you doing to my country?”
The poodle puts its nose in the air, wiggles it appreciatively, and clearly begs to differ.
“No, wait! It gets better, Cristiano.”Oh, surely not? Don’t tell me the guy named his dog after the football player, Ronaldo!I can see the colours of the poodle’s jacket properly now, and besides the red, there are, indeed, splashes of a white and gold trim. I may not be a football fan but I’m clued up enough about the beautiful game to know my instinct is right. Today’s outfit is paying homage to Manchester United. How naff. It’s one thing witnessing holidaymaker parents kitting out their offspring in their beloved team’s strips (each to their own and all that and presumably most kids are thrilled at the prospect), but footie canine couture is surely a criminal offence. “Matcha custard tart flavoured with vanilla and honey, drizzled lightly with dark chocolate ganache and garnished with a dark chocolate, blood orange and almond bark. How can anyone possibly taste the custard element of that? You’ve annihilated it!” He lets out a guffaw, bringing me back to the current scenario with an almighty bang.
