Chapter 18 (Part 2) CHICKEN SOUP AND BORIS

My Rockfreeze era had many ups and downs, much excitement and certainly funny incidents too.

For example, one of the first times I stayed with Edgar and Trudy in Hampstead, we sat down to dinner and the starter was chicken soup. Let me tell you about chicken soup.
It is called the "Yiddisher penicillin" among Ashkenazi Jews. I may as well tell you about Ashkenazi Jews, they are certainly not Gibraltarian. Our community is virtually 100% of Sefardi origin, Jews from Spain, Portugal, France and North Africa. Ashkenazi Jews are mainly Eastern and Northern European in origin. Over the centuries Jewish communities in the diaspora developed different cuisine even different languages. Classical Hebrew is a constant throughout, but Ashkenazis developed “Yiddish” a mixture of Hebrew and German. We do not understand them, but then again, neither do the most Hebrews nor Germans! (Nor would Moses himself!)
Even in classical Hebrew, their accents and pronunciations do vary markedly between them and us. But perhaps one thing remains common ... Chicken soup!

Personally, I can't stand it!

And on my first dinner table with Edgar and family (including Mutti, Edgar's mother-in-law, lovely lady and chicken soup enthusiast)... I get chicken soup!
I did not wish to offend, so I improvised.

"Sugar, please?"

They looked at me, askance.

"Sugar?"

"In Gibraltar the tradition is to have chicken soup always with sugar and sometimes even cinnamon. It symbolises the sweetness of life – the sugar, and the spice of life – the cinnamon!” (If you are going to lie, lie big!)

I kept a straight face even though they looked at me as if I had arrived from the dark side of the moon.

"No problem," said Mutti, such a dear. She went to the kitchen and brought in the sugar.      " no cinnamon I'm afraid."

I proceeded to sugar the terrible, sickly, greasy, yellow chicken soup with five or six teaspoonfuls and stirred it with panache. Surely that is the only way to eat chicken soup and sugar, ….with panache!

The meal proceeded as normal, though Edgar’s two sons, aged 11 and 14, thought it was hilarious and wanted to try it too. It was really pleasant, it usually was at their home, intelligent conversation flowed, jokes - loads, hopeful successful business, and lots of questions about Gibraltar.   In truth they made me feel very welcome and over the next 2-3 years I was a frequent guest in the home and their sons considered me almost like their uncle.

A few years later Edgar and his family came for a holiday to Gibraltar. Like any good hostess my mother invited for lunch over Tabernacles (pascua de Cabaña). At that point Rockfreeze was doing amazing well and the mood at the table, after returning from synagogue service, was joyful.

(Are you guessing it?)

The first course was Mum's "famous" chicken soup.

"Excuse me Mrs Bentata... Where is the sugar?" ask Edgar, wanting to show that he knew our customs.

"Sugar?"

"Yes, Sefardi Jews always have chicken soup with sugar and cinnamon, right?"

I had been caught out ...no way I could escape it! Mum thought my adding sugar was verging on the sacrilegious!
“David, por Dios Bendito … why do you say such things!”
But at least I was in home ground, and we had a good laugh over it.

It was about a year later when Dennis Jimenez, by then in a 50/50 partnership with me in Rockfreeze, and I were working to salvage the business, we were working overtime in the shop we had in Bell Lane. For those of you who did not know Dennis, he was about 5 foot 10 and muscular enough to have entered any body-building competition in the region ..... and win it!

It was almost 11 p.m. and we needed a break at the shop. We closed up and went to a nearby takeaway where we had a couple of rolls and some Coke while we rested, sitting on some parked cars. We walked back through Main Street and as we were going up Bell Lane, there, on the doorway of Rockfreeze, two half-drunk "squaddies" were luxuriously pissing their pent-up pints on our door!
I was furious. I went to them calling them, their mothers and ancestors every foul name that came to my head, and I had quite a store of such names, still do.

They turned to me and I saw fight in the eyes, but so had mine. I kept on shouting and saw that they were backing away. That made me all the braver and I continued to rant and rave and I saw that they were cowering at my bravado. As they were walking away up Bell Lane I looked back and saw the real reason for my " victory".
Dennis was standing there, shirt undone, muscles rippling, in his best Conan the Barbarian stance. The squaddies we're not scared of me at all! Seeing who was backing me up is what made them retreat so ignominiously.

Oh well, we took up mops and water and, laughing at myself, continued working preparing the shop for the next day.

Dennis is no longer with us having passed away far too young, in his 40s in fact, but the memories of working together both in TEO, in great team work with Toby a pivotal part of that team,  and in Rockfreeze, as well as a friendship we shared for so many years after, are still fresh in my mind.

As I mentioned in part 1 of this chapter, we were on the scrounge to buy foods at the cheapest prices. One day, the first mate and a few of the crew of a Bulgarian fishing vessel arrived in Gibraltar. They came into TEO to buy Levi’s. Despite my limited Bulgarian - zero – and Boris, the first mate’s marginally better English, Boris told me they have been at sea for 3 months fishing in the Atlantic. The vessel was equipped to block-freeze their catch into 40 kilo ice blocks and offload them in the Bulgarian port of Varna. I asked him if he could sell us a couple of blocks each time he dropped anchor in Gibraltar. Boris went on to explain the intricacies of communist proletarian accounting  through which blocks missing could land him a few years vacation in Siberia. But as he was about to leave with his crew and their jeans, he turned back and said:

"You Levi’s, I fish?"

Business is business wherever you go in the world. That was the start of Rockfreeze’s supply of fresh fish which Dennis and I would defrost, gut, splice and pack in portions to sell to our clients. One pair of Levi jeans equals one 40 kilo block of fresh fish. But of course, we could not go to the North Mole to transact our "business" in broad daylight. We had to coordinate with Boris at a time when he and a trusted comrade were on duty during the night. It was then that Dennis and I would go to the ships side in my indiscreet red Fiat 128 Rally, take 2, 3 or 4 jeans up the gangplank, and come down with 2, 3 or 4 blocks of iced fish. To Dennis this was ... eaten bread (pan comido) but for me the ice block felt as big and heavy as Titanic's iceberg and just as cold!

Thawing out ice blocks was like unwrapping a Christmas gift. We would never know what were fish trapped in it. It will take us hours pouring boiling water on the ice, then gutting, cutting and cleaning in time for opening to the public the next morning. But we did it and the rewards were visible as the red numbers were gradually eliminated from our bank balance. In fact, in one of those trips Dennis was unable to come till later and he told me to buy calamares (squid) which was in very short supply in Gibraltar at that moment. Off I went to North Mole, 2 jeans at the ready, and came back with two blocks of calamares.

Or so I thought....

Dennis arrived as I was thawing out the second block.

"Pero esto? ... que has hecho David?" ("But this ...what have you done, David?")

"Que he hecho? No dijiste calamares, pues ahi los tienes!"
("what have I done? You said calamares and there they are!")

"David, these are not calamares, they are cañamotas and nobody eats cañamotas .... the flesh is too tough ... "

Perhaps at this point I should tell you that Jews generally do not eat caramales .... I had hardly ever seen one in my life. Apparently the cañamota looks slightly bigger and has side fins..... and we had a 80 kilos of them. But it takes a lot to dampen the enthusiasm of Yanitos. We spent the night cleaning them out cutting off the side fins, and slicing them into "rodajas" (Calamare rings!). In the morning we had trays full of pre-pack "rodajas" which were so popular we were asked for more again and again.

Obviously Boris became a good friend to us.
One day he popped into TEO.

"David, you Dennis come ship drink yes?"

"Yes, thank you, Boris. What time?" I pointed at my watch.

"Come 10"

Perfectly clear instructions. This was his last trip to Gibraltar and it was only natural we would have a drink together to celebrate. Come 10 o'clock and Dennis and I were a North Mole calling up alongside the ship.

"Boris .... Boris ..."

A few seamen leaned over the gunwale, looked at us, grunted something in Bulgarian and walked away.

"Boris ... Boris ..."

Then Boris appeared.

"Come, come!" ... so we ... went, went, up the gang plank on to the deck, where are several big, swarthy and not too hospitable looking crew men stared at us. They were, for the most part, bigger than Dennis, let alone me. We walked where Boris had indicated, our backs firmly against the wall .... make that what you will ... till we reached his cabin.

"Sit ... Sit ..."

So we sat, sat, Dennis on the only other chair and I on Boris's bunk. There is a distinct... fragrance...particular to all diesel engine ships and this was going into every pore in my body.

"You want drink?"

"Sure ... I'll have a beer" replied Dennis.

Me, ever this sophisticated one, "Gin and tonic?"

"Niet possible. Russian Wodka or Bulgarian Cognac!"

Neither Denis nor I were drinkers but we certainly had never heard of Bulgarian Cognac. So we played it as safe as possible.

"OK, OK Boris ...Wodka, thank you" (yes, with a “W”)

Our host took out 3 mugs, opened a classy looking bottle of...yes, true blue Russian...WODKA, and emptied it in equal measure on to the three mugs.

"In Bulgaria we say Nasdrovia'!" and with that Boris swallowed half the contents of his mug like a champion.

Laughingly he goaded us: "Drink, drink, …. is good!"

Dennis and I looked at each other, hailed "Nasdrovia" and .... we drank, drank, swallowing half the contents of our mugs out of respect for our gracious host.

Now I have to tell you something about ....WODKA.

After 3 swallows have burnt your oesophagus all the way down to your toenails, the insides of your body become anaesthetised... and gradually even your brain.

We laughed at ourselves and tried to make conversation using our limited common words.

I saw a photo of beautiful woman, dressed in some bare remnants of clothes, sticky-taped on the wall of the bunk bed and politely asked:

"Boris, this is your wife?"

He laughed uproariously: "Niet, Niet ... Prostitute Hong Kong!" and proceeded to explain in universal sign language the wonderful attributes of the lady as well as her contortionist possibilities to pleasure her clients. Like a good host he insisted on a toast to that lady and we drank to her.  She never realised how she was being honoured.

In another of the many lulls in conversation we realised our mugs were empty our heads were cloudy and we wanted to get back home.

I got up as steadily as I was able.

"Boris, thank you very much for your hossshhh .. hosppp..." I slurred..

Dennis, sharp despite his dulled senses, sprang up ... Only to steady himself against the table... when Boris roared:

"You go??"

"Yes, Boris .... We have to get home to our family" I grinned vacuously trying to keep the atmosphere friendly.

"You drink Russian Wodka,..." he spat at the last two words, then continued..."You no drink BULGARIAN COGNAC?"

We had obviously made a faux pas.

I felt dwarfed by Dennis, who felt dwarfed in turn by Boris, who was making sure we understood his patriotic Balkan displeasure.

Somehow, through the mist of my mind, my good upbringing came to the fore and I offered:

"OF COURSE we want to drink Bulgarian Cognac, Boris!" and we all sat down again. It was quite obvious that Boris was saving his national booze for last. He opened the bottle, the contents of which he judiciously shared between our mugs, tossing the empty to accompany its Russian mate in the rubbish bin.

"Nasdrova!" he cheered.

We Nasdrovia-ed with him, mustering as much cheer as our dulled brains could handle.

"You want eat?" he asked.
Indeed we did, bread, rice, cotton wool... anything to soak up the 90 proof alcohol we had inside us already.

Boris turned to a small fridge and brought out a 2 foot-long Bulgarian salami which at any other time would have seemed appetising. From a drawer on his desk he took out a knife that looks more like a small bayonet.

Chop ... Chop ... he cut the salami into 3 equal pieces, one for each of us like the perfect host that he was. We were 3 grown men incapable of intelligible conversation, two of us well pickled, with oily sections of Bulgarian salami in our hands, drinking Bulgarian Cognac, on board a Bulgarian fishing trawler, with a Bulgarian first mate ..... and no idea how to get back home.
Once again Boris came to the rescue.

"We go Penelope!" he stated imperiously, he was after all the first mate. Well why not? Dennis and I were certain we would die of severe alcoholism, why not go to Penelope's nightclub and finish the night in style?

Despite the fact that the First Mate was not supposed to leave the ship, down the gangplank we went, or rather Boris went and Dennis and I stumbled, into the car which I somehow managed to drive and park in Market Square, and we entered the psychedelic cavern of Penelope's in the 70s.
No sooner were we inside when Boris magnanimously invited us to some drinks ... WODKA ... what else?

As he polished off one after another to the shouts of "Nasdrovia", Dennis and I tried to keep up.

No disrespect to the drinks served by Elio Victory at Penelope's, but after what we had been drinking on board it was as tame as Fanta to me .... but not to my stomach or my bladder for that matter. I made it to the toilet where I had a big decision to make.

Do I splash my boots or go looking for Australia?

Forget that.
I returned to the bar where Denis's unfocused eyes matched my four, and Boris was dancing with everybody and anybody who may have been on the dance floor.

I must admit I decided to retreat ….. or fall on my sword (or yet another Wodka), to the raucous sound of Rod Stewart blaring from the loudspeakers.

I remember putting some money on the bar and telling Elio "Keep buying them drinks till there's no money left"

I drunk-walked to my car and aiming it as best I could up Main Street, drove home through my alcoholic mist and vomit-perfumed beard. I lived on the third floor opposite where Marks and Spencer's is now. I'm certain I crawled up the fifty-eight steps to my front door where I performed the cartoon clip of trying to insert the key into the lock while both were moving in opposite directions.

Rachel, my wife then, caught me in her arms before I slapped the floor with my face and dragged me to bed.

You would think the Saga would have ended there right?

Wrong!

I woke up barely half an hour later to shouts and someone banging on the door. Dennis was hammering it with both fists and all his anger while Boris, who had only made it up to the second floor, was banging that lower floor door with equal enthusiasm and shouting:

"David NO GENTLEMAN!"

My poor neighbour, an elderly Englishman, was trying to mollify him telling him: "David doesn't live here, old chap!" ……to no avail.

My front door collapsed under Dennis's beating .... followed by Dennis.

And that is when I blacked out completely, and so, finally, this is the end of this chapter. Well … almost.
In the morning Dennis came hoping to apologise and try to screw the door up somehow … His banging on it had torn it off the hinges.
And when I went back to work, Boris had thoughtfully left me a “Thank you & Sorry” gift ……
ANOTHER BOTTLE OF BLOODY RUSSIAN WODKA!