The Secret Service: The Great Pretender
Life inside a Clifton deli
Working in hospitality or retail should be like conscription: everyone should do it for at least six months. Such an environment imbues you with life skills and an ability to navigate the ridiculous with a cool head quite unlike anywhere else. And it gives you a sense of empathy towards the staff whenever you set foot in a restaurant, bar or shop for the rest of your life. In lieu of being able to change conscription laws, I’m hoping to share a behind-the-scenes insight into life in Bristol hospitality once a month: to illustrate the often times utter madness that goes on inside some of our favourite haunts. If you know someone who has such a tale to tell — please ask them to get in touch. Thanks! Meg x
“We all have a nemesis”, my manager says, as he sweeps leaves from the floor at the shop’s front entrance.
His most-scorned regular, Lady Susan, prefers a grand entrance. Tapping at the glass with yellow fingernails, she peers through the window until you open the door for her regally, wish her the loveliest of mornings, and roll out the red carpet for her Hotter-slippered feet.
The Dentist, my colleague Charlie’s most loathed customer, cares not for self-opening doors, but instead chooses to participate in the lesser known sport of facial expression dictation.
“Smile!” he shouts, approaching the till with a posture reminiscent of a cat preparing to expel a fur ball.
“Why don’t you look happy?” he barks. “You have to smile! You work in customer service!” he says, slamming an apple crumble into the granite worktop in the hope of inducing some eyebrow movement.
Charlie continues to stand behind the till like a Buckingham Palace Beefeater posing for Madame Tussaud’s royal exhibition.
It’s with my own customer service smile plastered between my ears, and armfuls of de-frosting lasagne, that I see my personal nemesis — lunch box in hand — marching over the brow of Whiteladies Road. Her nickname: The Great Pretender.
She asks me to show her the vegetarian options and I do, with convincing dedication.
This week she’s allergic to peppers, carrots, aubergine, and spinach — limiting for a herbivore. Alas, she selects a macaroni cheese and makes her way to inspect the Indian range.
Much of our customer demographic fear spice. Holding their spectacles inches from the ingredients list, they nervously consult my opinion on what one chilli rating out of three equates to in pensioner-temperature.
“It’s not so much hot, but rather aromatic,” I say soothingly, while my monologue screams: “It’s a tagine for goodness sake.”
The Great Pretender has no such fear.
She leans into the freezer, elbow-deep in microwavable curry, and emerges with what I foolishly assume will be something chickpea based (sans spinach, of course).
But to my surprise, her hand appears brandishing a lamb biryani, like a trophy glittering with ice.
“I’ll have these two together”, she says proudly.
Knowing better than to question when mutton was given the vegetarian green light — let alone when macaroni cheese was an appropriate partner for curry — I follow her and her tiny lunch box to the till obediently.
If there’s one factor that unites Clifton’s elderly, it’s a stubborn aversion to purchasing a carrier bag.
“A paper bag is thirty-five pence”, I say with well-rehearsed firmness, and a crumpled Sainsbury’s carrier with branding from 2004 materialises alongside a disgruntled, upturned nose.
Packing her items in a practised game of Tetris, I wedge the macaroni and the lamb side by side hoping bleakly that the journey home might aid in their flavour partnership tomorrow night.
The Great Pretender thanks me and makes her way out of the shop. I watch in silence as she crosses the road to the bus shelter.
“What did she have this time?” Charlie asks, wiping shards of plastic and sticky stewed apple from the counter surface.
“Lamb biryani”, I say, unsure how long we should continue to feign a tone of surprise.
“Just you wait”, our manager says, “she’ll ask you to show her the vegan canapés next week and then put in an order for a Christmas turkey.”
All words by an anonymous Secret Service Agent. Artwork by Anna Woolerton at Frank Design Studio.
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