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A Beer in a Burger Bar

It was a scorching June afternoon in the Spanish Algarve resort of Islantilla. My wife, Breda, and I had been lazing by the hotel’s enormous pool for over an hour, but the sun was so intense that even our ice-cold drinks couldn’t cool us down.

“Come on,” Breda said, “let’s get out of this sun. It’s far too hot to enjoy.”

“Do I have to?” I groaned, reluctant to move. “I’m so comfortable here.”

“Yes—if you know what’s good for you,” she said, pretending to be cross.

“Oh, all right,” I chuckled, gathering my bits and pieces from the sun lounger.

Back in our room, Breda freshened up in the bathroom while I sat on the shaded balcony, admiring the view of the hotel’s spectacular pool—complete with waterfall, swim-up bar, and an island crowned with palm trees. When she emerged in her favourite dress, she suggested we go for a bite to eat.

“It’s my treat,” she smiled, “but only if you’re ready in five minutes.”

Never one to miss a free lunch, I dashed into the bathroom. “I’ll be ready in a jiff!”

“Good,” she said, checking her watch. “I’ll be timing you.”

I was quick. Showered, dried, dressed in my best shirt and trousers, and hair combed to perfection—in just under five minutes.

“I’m impressed,” Breda said, then added mischievously, “I did say you were buying the drinks, didn’t I?”

“I should have known there’d be a catch,” I groaned, pulling the door shut behind me. “Life’s full of catches—and the biggest is that it ends too soon.”

“Don’t get all gloomy,” Breda warned, just as the elevator arrived, revealing the elderly couple we’d met earlier.

We smiled and exchanged greetings. The woman said, “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I replied, “if you enjoy being grilled alive.”

She fiddled with her hearing aid. “Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Oh, what a shame,” I whispered, then raised my voice. “I said it’s such a fine day, I’m going out for a beer—and a packet of crisps!”

“How nice,” she replied, turning to explain it to her husband. After digesting her words, he looked me in the eye and saluted. I saluted him back. Thankfully, the elevator doors opened before things escalated.

Outside, I squinted against the glare. “Which way?”

“Left,” Breda said, linking my arm. “Then left again.”

At the end of the street, I turned right.

“No, not that left—your other left!” she laughed.

“Oh, that one. Why didn’t you say so?”

By the time we reached the pedestrian mall, I was hot and thirsty. A small, shady bar beckoned, but Breda steered me past.

“Not until we eat,” she warned.

We looked around. Everywhere was closed. We didn’t realise it was siesta time—the Spanish Algarve still honoured the old ways. The only place open was a rather dingy burger bar.

“I’m afraid it’s that or nothing,” I sighed, peering through its garish interior.

The plastic-coated menu perched on a flimsy metal stand showed glossy pictures of burgers and chicken dishes—but no English. The pimply teenager behind the counter beamed at us through the window. With no other option, we went in.

“You tell him,” Breda said, nudging me forward. “He’ll understand your English better than my Irish.”

“He might understand me,” I muttered, “but I might not understand him.”

“Just get some food—I’m starving.”

I gave it a shot. The assistant spoke in broken English, I nodded, smiled, and agreed to everything—even though I had no clue what he was saying. He looked puzzled, then chuckled nervously and retreated behind the counter to assemble our meal.

A few minutes later, he returned with a tray piled high with food. My arms ached as I carried it to a table.

“He gave us extra-large portions,” I said.

“You’re not joking,” Breda replied. “These are huge!”

“I’ll never finish this in a month of Sundays.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help,” she grinned. “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”

Inspecting one item, I whispered, “This might be one. Look, the tail’s still attached!”

Breda leaned in—and I suddenly pushed it toward her. “Got you!”

“Stop messing,” she scolded.

As we ate, customers came and went, all eyeing our colossal feast with envy. About a quarter through, a family arrived: a man and woman in their mid-thirties, two boys trailing behind, and an elderly woman dressed entirely in black—likely one of their mothers.

Rather than head to the counter, they chose a table first. They spoke in English with strong Spanish accents, chatting casually while the pimply assistant waited patiently.

I was fascinated. In a fast food place, I always order first, then find a seat. But they were in no rush.

“What are you staring at?” Breda asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Well… just watching them.”

Breda turned around. “What’s so special about them?”

“Nothing special,” I said. “I’m just fascinated.”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”

Of course I knew, but my curiosity overruled my manners.

After a lengthy menu debate—two boys changing their minds seven times, the mother demanding a proper hot cappuccino this time, the grandmother silent, and the father ordering something called a Mumba—he finally went to order.

He didn’t ask the old woman what she wanted. She just sat there, staring into space.

Eventually, the assistant called out their order. The father collected it and returned to the table. Then things began to unravel.

The boys tore into their Happy Meal boxes. The older boy liked his toy. The younger burst into tears—he wanted the same toy.

“Go change it,” the wife ordered.

Obediently, the father returned with a different superhero.

“I got you a new one—it’s the Octopus, I think?”

Too late. The younger boy had moved on and was now fighting his brother over something else entirely.

“It’s your fault,” the wife snapped. “You got the wrong toys.”

“But… it’s supposed to be a surprise,” he said helplessly.

Ignoring him, she added, “They’re fighting over the boxes now!”

The father wisely said nothing. Instead, he turned to the old woman.

“Here, Mama,” he said gently, producing a can of beer and an empty glass from his jacket. “I got you something.”

The old woman didn’t react at first. Then she slowly turned her head, locked eyes with him, and reached for the beer.

“I don’t know why you spoil her,” the wife muttered. “She doesn’t appreciate it.”

“She’s my mother,” he said simply. “It’s all she enjoys now.”

“Pleasure? It’s an obsession,” his wife huffed.

The grandmother carefully opened the can, poured it halfway, and watched the froth settle with quiet joy. When the foam dropped, she topped it off, smiled at it, and finally took a long, luxurious sip.

“Why is granny smiling like that?” one of the boys asked.

“Because she’s happy,” said the father.

“Why?”

“She has beer.”

“But beer’s horrible!”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“What’s acqu—”

“Who wants dessert?” the mother interrupted.

“I do!” the eldest boy cried.

“ME TOO!” the younger shouted.

“Three vanilla ice creams,” the wife said, handing her husband a €20 note. “And whatever you’re having.”

Shocked at her sudden generosity, he went to the counter. While he was gone, the granny finished her beer and let out a massive burp.

“WOW!” cried the boys.

“I want to be a beer drinker when I grow up!” declared the younger.

“Now see what you’ve done!” the mother grumbled.

The granny reached for the second can of beer. She drank it with speed and elegance, then burped again—louder this time.

“She only wakes up when there’s drink involved,” the wife muttered.

“She’s quiet now,” the husband replied, returning with ice creams and another beer.

“She wasn’t a moment ago!”

The boys giggled, replaying the burp in their heads.

The granny poured another beer, swigged it back, and burped with gusto. Then she threw the empty can—at her daughter-in-law’s head.

It hit her squarely, bounced to the floor, and the boys dived for it like treasure.

“Do it again, Granny!” they cheered.

And she did.

“Mother!” the father gasped. “You mustn’t—”

The mother, possibly concussed, giggled. “I can hear bells. Is it Sunday already?”

“Beer,” the granny whispered hoarsely to her son.

He went to get another.

“I know I’ve seen her before,” the assistant said, watching them. “She was here last year… caused a scene…”

“No,” the father lied, “you must be mistaken.”

Back at the table, the granny downed her third can. Burped. Then threw the can again—same target. The boys were in hysterics.

“I want MORE!” she shouted.

The wife turned, smiling oddly. “Get her another one. And get me one too.”

“But… you don’t drink.”

“Time I started.”

Back at the counter: “Two beers, please.”

“Your table’s wild,” the assistant chuckled. “Your wife just kissed your mother!”

“She did?” the father asked, spinning around.

The granny smacked her daughter-in-law on the ear.

“Ooh, I can hear bells!” she cried again.

The father returned, handed out the cans, and raised his in a toast.

“Cheers,” everyone said.

“Cheers,” said the assistant.

“Cheers,” whispered the exhausted father, before collapsing onto the floor.

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A year later, the burger bar’s door swung open. A stylish elderly couple entered. The woman wore designer clothes and jewels. Her husband, dapper in a cowboy hat and boots, approached the counter.

“Two of your finest fruit juices, please,” he said.

From her table, the woman smiled at him fondly.

The assistant squinted. “I know you,” he said. “You were here last year… with your son, his kids… and your mother!”

The woman smiled politely. “Yes, I’ve been here before.”

As she reached the door, she turned back.

“It’s a pity all this will be demolished,” she said to her new husband. “But the lower classes do need a new bar…”

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