Page 4 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
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In hindsight–as I epitomise the height of rock n roll, cradling my mug of Ovaltine, tucked up in bed in my Winnie the Pooh onesie in my tiny top floor apartment– it has been a decent enough first day. Both Tim, my second-in-command pastry chef, and Reggie, my head server, who is on a never-ending gap year before heading to uni for his English Lit degree, were in high spirits all day. Both arrived in style on the aptly custard-yellow pier train, waving The Custard Tart Café banners and blowing party streamers at the scant groups and lone walkers with their umbrellas and hoods, scattered along the three-hundred-and-sixty-six metres of boardwalk.
Reggie is an old school friend who’s postponed higher education for ever and a day… until he’s had quite enough of propping up the counters in Weston’s knick-knack shops, penny arcades, and fish and chip joints. At six foot two, the contrast between our vital statistics has always been a talking point, especially since Reggie always has his mass of dreadlocks tied up and balancing on his crown at work (making him six foot four). His summer stint at The Custard Tart Café will be hisabsolute final brushwith the tourist industry before Shakespeare calls. God love him, he’s even gifted me the most hilarious gold-framed quotations for the café’s bathrooms. They range from the Hyman Rickover quote saying that running an effective government is akin to sewing a button on a custard pie (the mind boggles), to the footballer, Ronaldo missing his post-training apple crumble and custard like mad when he left Manchester United. Recently, he had the good sense to return to the club, and I can’t say I blame him. Even the King of Bling needs his custard fix.
As for Tim, although we haven’t worked together before, his CV is as silken as the custard you’d expect to find simmering on Nigella’s kitchen stove. And that’s good enough for me. Tim has worked his way up from porter tocommis pâtissierin two of the South West’s swishest hotels as well. I’m lucky to have him.
Caitlyn is a question mark on the rota for now, which is frustrating given I’ve just finalised it, but she’s promised to fill me in on her term’s end date as soon as possible. It’s dependent on her passing her exams, otherwise she’ll need to hang around for resits.
So what if there was only a trickle of custom today– most of it coming from my extended family (who were after cheeky freebies– I made them pay), catering contacts and former clients? That was to be expected. Low tourist season has only just started and the nip in the spring air would have deterred most from setting foot on the pier.
Word of mouth will soon do its thing. Oh, and hopefully Lauren’s fancy marketing will kick in. I’m glad we never got onto the subject of Gen Z influencers though. I can’t be dealing with all that pouting and posing on my premises. I’ve got the eateries at the pier’s entrance to take into account too. Once somebody has plied themselves with candyfloss and hotdogs, there’s little room left for custard tarts. But all of that will change quickly; the best culinary seaside experience coming to those who wait.
With or without Lauren’s help, it’s always felt like this was what I was born to do. Folk might fear the unknown initially but individual, fresh Portuguese-style custard tarts have become a staple in English supermarket bakeries already. The (Weston-super-Mare) tide is definitely turning. And my first genuine customer reflected this back to me. He, unlike the rest, absolutely did warrant a freebie– as I had always decided my first shopper would. Frank (we’d soon got on first name terms) removed his flat cap as if it were a top hat, revealing a shiny bald head and cobalt-blue eyes, tossed his walking stick aside as if it were a cane, and danced a mini but merry Sinatra-style jig at his discovery at the end of the pier.
“I’ve not wandered down here in years, love.” His broadly-accented Somerset voice warbled with what sounded like genuine emotion for times gone by, and I panicked that I’d not added Kleenex tissues to my ever-growing checklist. “Reckon you might have changed all that. Oh, be gosh… look at this lovely lot!” His sparkly but glassy blue eyes could hardly believe their luck. “How’s a man to make a custard tart decision?”
“Why not eat one here and take the rest home in a doggy bag? Well, doggy box,” I said, pointing at the various-sized recycled cardboard boxes at the end of the counter where our separate takeout queue would eventually, hopefully, be lining up come the summer. “We recognised this would be a dilemma for many customers when we opened,” I explained. “That’s why we came up with a range of takeaway options. Not to mention our eat-in-or-out afternoon tea treat.”
I pulled a pretty three-tiered cake stand out from beneath the counter as if I were a magician. I hadn’t expected to do this so quickly. Afternoon teas were something I assumed would be taken up by groups celebrating birthdays, or the winter crowd looking to do some serious carb refuelling after battling the elements to make it to the café.
“You’re on,” said Frank decisively, retrieving the accessories he’d flung far and wide. “But there’s no way I’m going to play cheapskate and let you give me that lovely lot for free. Knock off the price of a single tart and I’ll gladly take you up on the afternoon tea offer– well, breakfast offer– and pay for the rest.”
“Seriously? You’re that hungry?”
“Happens I am,” Frank winked. “It’s a momentous day f-for youa-and me.” He tripped over his words and they lingered on the air. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d received some life-changing news upon waking this morning. “And here’s a good tip, my dear. The customer’s always right. Don’t you be giving them get out clauses and questioning their appetite. Now load that stand before I can change my mind.” He nodded, taking the best seat in the house, next to the largest porthole window that offered the ultimate view over the sea, her current mood, the distant plasticine blob of Lundy island, and the wheeling gulls.
I proceeded to run through the tarts on offer as Frank appreciated the fragrance of the watermelon-red peonies in their striped blue and white vase in the middle of his table.
“So, I’ve got original custard, molten chocolate orange volcano, banana split, espresso kickstart, spiced apple and brown butter, cherry and ber—”
“Stop!”
Frank’s reaction– and his walking stick tapping the floorà laDick Van Dyke– had me in stitches. When I’d imagined my first customer in my head, they’d definitely not been this animated.
“I’m a huge believer in theCountdownnumber game methodology when it comes to decision making. Give me two of the same from the top, a different from the middle, and three the same from the bottom,” he pointed an arthritic finger at the counter.
“Okaaaay,” I replied, scrunching my face up, trying in earnest to remember how the glamorous Rachel Riley might attend to that instruction on the brainbox Channel Four TV programme. The Custard Tart Café’s shelving kind of mirrored the game show’s… at a push… Fortunately, Reggie’s hands gripped my shoulders and gently deposited me to one side.
“That’s two banana splits, an original custard, and three espresso kickstarts,” he said without hesitation, his finely twisted dreadlocks swinging lightly from his high ponytail as he displayed each tart neatly on the stand, holding it aloft, and giving it a little spin for Frank’s approval. Reggie has also grown one of those neat ‘mid fades’ recently, transitioning his hair into his closely clipped beard. It suits him. Somehow it makes him look ready for uni life at last.
“But you need to choose another six tarts to fill the stand up!” I said.
“No I don’t. I’ll pay them forward,” Frank insisted. “Recent, and not so recent, world events have given me a new perspective on life. Not everyone’s as lucky as I am. And that’ll be the way it goes every time I set foot in here– so long as you give me your word that you’ll respect my wishes and use your discernment to give the tarts the best homes.”
Could there exist a more perfect first customer?
“Aw, you’re the best, Sir!” Reggie bowed at Frank before depositing the mouthwatering display of treats in front of him.
“That is just lovely,” I added, my heart swelling at the gesture. “You hear of this kindness with a single cup of coffee… but six custard tarts is taking things to a whole new level.” And it was. My tarts sold at one pound fifty a piece, and paying forward nine pounds worth of delectable food each time he visited was positively angelic of him. “Bless, you Frank.”
Something told me we’d be seeing a lot more of this character and it definitely warmed the cockles.
Within minutes, Frank’s presence at the front table had become magnetic, and a young family trundled in with a tricycle, pushchair, buckets and spades, discarded raincoats (now the sun had finally won over the clouds) and wriggly-eel toddlers. Behind them were a couple of giggling teens who looked suspiciously like they were bunking off school, and even two of the pavilion workers popped their heads in to see what all the foodie fuss was about. It may not have represented much to most, but to me this was the diversity I was looking for; the chance for the tarts to be discovered by every age group and taste bud. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, but nor could I hide the giant beam on my face.
Typically I’d only ticked off half the things on my to-do list before Emma Hawkes, the glam local radio presenter, showed up for the opening day’s live interview. Emma was a popular DJ who’d been a couple of years above me at school and had done very well for herself. She was famous for cleverly grilling her guests, Oprah Winfrey-style, to squeeze the juiciest of answers out of them, so I could only pray she didn’t have any tricks up her sleeve today. Hopefully one of the aforementioned takeout boxes of freshly-baked custard tarts with a mixture of fillings would put paid to that, and Emma wouldn’t somehow try to steer me off at serious tangents and onto the subject of pastrelationships… or pastrelay races… or pastreally bad stage management.Gulp!
Yes, I know I’m being mysterious with those latter two Rs, but I can’t revisit emotional teenage turmoil just yet.
