Bucko's World

Zante 2016 IX – Final Days (Part II)

We’re at the bar, waiting for the increasingly tardy In-Laws, and Sot is slightly subdued from his normally ebullient self.  He’s spending quite a lot of time with a bloke at the end of the bar, who seems to be on his own.  There’s hushed discussions between the two, and a series of more and more elaborate cocktails presented, all with lots of detailed explanation and expansive hand gestures, (well, it is Sot), quite a few which look like he’s having wank.  They’re getting on great, but something is different.

Eventually, the new bloke leaves, shaking Sot’s hand vociferously, and suddenly normal service is resumed.  Raki is produced, shots poured and headaches for tomorrow guaranteed.  Sot comes over to serve us our usual, (two white wines, from the special bottle he keeps only for us, in the right-hand side fridge) and we ask him what’s going on.  “That’s my new boss from Austria, checking I can make all the drinks he needs for when I run his cellar bar over the winter.”  Interesting, but why so subdued we ask?  Sot’s hackles rise. “There was no Raki at six o’clock,” he says offended, with an airy wave to the ether “because I needed to appear professional in front of my new boss.”  We burst out laughing, and Sot bristles, but continues, pointing to his chest “I have a badge and everything now you know,” a defiant look on his face.  Our lovely Dublin friend points out that even staff in McDonald’s have badges.  Sot replies, with a big grin “yes, yes of course.” Ciara nods and responds “ Even the fucking Johnny no stars.”

When the in-laws arrive - to a rush of technicoloured cocktails, paper umbrellas and superfluous fruit – Sot asks us where we are dining tonight.  “We’re off to Menir” we tell him, appropriate arm waving indicating the approximate direction said restaurant is from the bar.  “Ah yes I know this place,” Sot opines.  “It is run by the man with the bald hair”…

It is at Menir this very night that Nephew discovers he has the Robertson Family Curse.  Having devoured a plate of Tzatiki, and, rather unfortunately, the huge bits of cucumber that came with his salad (remember, for many years this boy wouldn’t eat anything green) he is struck down by a massive case of heart burn – not the slightly uncomfortable cured by a couple of Rennies and a massive burp type most folks get – but full on eye bulging, gastric reflux, hiatus hernia blockage type agony.  He thinks it’s too many Mythos (seriously, WTF?), but those of us in the know, know the curse of the slimy green bastard when we see it.  We give him a Nexium (voted “product of the year” consumer survey of product information 2016) knowing it will have absolutely no effect on the gaseous green barrier currently residing in Nephew’s oesophagus.  Basically his night is ruined, and I’m looking forward to getting all the food Dan now can’t eat for freemans. 

Like a trooper though, he pushes through, although I can palpably feel his pain.  The mixed grill for two wasn’t going anywhere other than into gastroesophageal battle with the green devil.  I’m proud of him.    Folks, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – Cucumber and its equally evil sidekick cousin Celery – really are the Satan’s testes of the food world.

Back at base and all the talk is of the massive storm we had overnight, people running onto flooded balconies - some of them in the buff - to rescue beach towels, bikinis and bathing suits left out overnight to dry, and now subject to what one bar friend described as horizontal rain and super trooper bright lightning.  We slept through it…

…Oh, and the earthquake that followed.  I just thought it was a particularly rattley bus going past shaking our wardrobe doors, -  but others say they spilt their cocktails…  

While this discussion is going on, along with more tales of heroic towel and beachwear rescuing than you can wave a stick at, a car arrives in the car park, drum and bass to the max, shaking the entire bar.  A door is opened and all the optics, glasses and punters in the bar start vibrating to the sound of Aqua’s Barbie Girl at full chat. Bloody Nora. 

As we’re offering each other “WTFs?” bemused looks, and help back on to seats, the source of the commotion becomes clear.  Raving Ronnie (yes him of ladder death fame) struts in, swagger full on and car keys spinning on an errant finger, as the sound from his Kia Cee’d dies as he casually locks its doors with a nonchalant flick of the key over his shoulder.  Turns out, and who’da thunk it, mild-mannered Ronnie the maintenance man is a hardcore drum and bass DJ in his spare time…

He offers a booyakasha and high five to Sot and then to Andy, who simply ends up being punched on the shoulder as he has, well, only one arm…

…I suppose we’ll only know what follows from this next time we visit the hotel, but a combination of a one armed barman, a handyman-cum-grindcore-DJ and a Sot can only mean good things…