Joe seldom had enough waiters, and what he had were mostly black men,
quite untrained. I remember one white waiter who answered to the name of
William. In our eyes he had many faults--in Joe's, but one. He would
talk to the customers, stand and talk instead of attending to wants.
Joe warned him repeatedly, but his warnings were lost on William.
One day Joe lost his temper. "Look 'ere, you snip, wot 'ave I told yer?
Wot 'ave I kep' on tellin' yer? You'd talk the 'ind leg off a mule!
You'r hat it agen. 'Ere, quit. Sling yer 'ook out o' this. I'm bloomin'
well fed up with yer."
William blinked at Joe during this harangue, and then quietly asked: "Do
I understand you to mean, Joe, that I'm sacked?"
"Yes," said Joe, "I sack yer. Come to the till for yer pay."
"Do you mean," pursued William, "that I am a free man?"
"You are," said Joe.
William turned and looked up and down the crowded tables. He then walked
quietly to an empty seat and sat down, bawling:
"Joe, bring me a plate o' beef; look sharp, I'm in a hurry."
As Joe's business grew (and it did grow in spite of Joe), the waiting
became too much for him. He had so many guests that he couldn't get them
served quickly enough to please himself, or them. This man wanted one
thing, that another, and a third something else; all called their wants
loudly and together.
Joe's remedy was, I believe, original. Sharp at one o'clock he had each
place set round with generous helpings of all the dishes for the day.
You would find a plate piled with roast beef, greens and potatoes; a
second equally full of cold pork, potatoes and spring onions; a third
with hashed mutton and potatoes; a fourth with hot suet pudding
plentifully smeared with treacle; half a loaf of bread on a fifth, and
so on. To one arriving a little late, this spectacle was far from
appetising. One knife and fork and one spoon had to do duty for the lot.
Most people ate what they wanted and left the rest. Once a guest
protested that he could not eat everything set before him. Joe was hurt.
"'Oo the 'ell arst yer to?" he thundered savagely. "It won't cost yer no
more, nor no less, either way."
Just inside the "restuarant" door there stood what Joe described as a
"wash-and-brush-up-nice-and-'andy." It was his claim that he catered for
the "better clarse." The "wash-and-brush-up" consisted of a tin basin on
an empty upturned whisky case. The water was usually dirty; the towel,
suspended from a roller, was always so; the soap was a long bar of "blue
mottled." Dangling from a piece of string, tied to a nail driven into
the wooden framework of the wall, was a tooth-brush. Heaven knows where
Joe got it from; it was by no means new. He had never used one himself.
When I questioned him on the subject of this "fitting," he said: "Some
people uses 'em. Like as not I should be arst for one quick enough if I
didn't have one. Best to tie it to the 'ouse, or some bloke 'ud lift
it."
Someone once asked for a table napkin. Joe was puzzled, and looked
searchingly at the man. He suspected a "leg-pull."
"What for?" he demanded.
The man explained.
"Oh, it's a servy-yet yer want, is it? Ain't got any! You wait till
the railway comes, then we'll get all manner o' things--servy-yets,
toothpicks, and suchlike. Don't be unreasonable; you ain't in a
drawin'-room now, yer know."
When the railway did come, Joe sold his business for much money and went
North. The sight of a starched collar and a tie in his "restuarant" was
a sign for him that civilisation had reached his very door. Joe didn't
like civilisation, and hated "torfs." He had been known to remark: "The
sight of a bloke in a boiled shirt makes me sick."
* * * * *
On the spot once occupied by Joe's eating house now stands a large hotel
built of stone, with a bathroom leading out of every bedroom.