The house which had previously smelled of the perfumes of sweet Arabia of peaches, lavander, pot pouri, roses and honeysuckle, rapidly changes its odour to that of stews, curries, onion and garlic, and soups, and shepherds pie, and fish pie, and chocolate cake.

Because of the need and the popularity, it became necessary to provide the food in larger containers and as the largest containers we possessed were plastic buckets these became our standard measure.

“Two buckets of Italian Farmhouse soup, one of Cock au Vin, one Chilli Con Carne and a Spotted Dick,” Jenny, the manageress, would order over the phone.

And it was with one such order, one freezing day in winter, when our clients had ditched their diets and wanted something warm and wanton that Claudette drove to The Bar in her little black Renault.

The roads were dangerous, black ice lay in wait. So, conscious of her valuable but sloppy provender that steamed gently beside her, she drove with extraordinary care. She skirted dogs, avoided blind beggars, slowed for dazed Yardies and crawled around gaping potholes till she about just seventy yards of The Bar, when, bloody hell, a car rounded the corner, at speed, tyres churning, sliding uncontrollably toward her, driver’s eyes wide, the whole aimed directly at her.

“Oh shit,” she said braking hard. But she missed it, so she cheered, then stopped, for she had realised what she had done.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, shit,” she repeated herself though this tiome in a rising pitch as she watched the five buckets that had once sat so warmly and comfortably beside her, ascend in an arc of glorious formation, to smack the roof, pop their lids and splatter soup and stew and dick all over everywhere and everything.

The last few yards were the stickiest she’d ever driven. She was neither a happy nor clean cook, though she smelled appealingly saucy all day.

We saved what we could. We served Coq au Carne and ‘Chilli Dick’, hoping, as one does, that a miracle might have occurred somewhat like the creation of Tarte Tartin, after two French sisters, fighting over an apple pie, accidentally dropped the thing on the kitchen floor.

So we hoped that our culinary incident might have created equally new and exciting dishes for the world’s culinary pleasures, but neither the Coq, the Chilli nor ‘Stew de la Moquette de une Renault Cinq’ were to be ever appear on any restaurant cartes.

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Without doubt the one item of food that contributed the most to our cash flow was JOE’S HERBY BURGER – sometimes called a JoeBurger – a thick meaty burger mixed with plenty of herbs, wrapped in a sesame seed bun, served with big, fat chips and with a side salad sprinkled with Joe’s Salad Dressing.

On the bun was branded JOE….. until the day the lower loop on the J broke off and we created TOEBURGERS. Customers were surprised at these as, when, on tasting, they found they were nowhere near as bad as they thought they were going to be.

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I knew people liked being looked after. Our motto was “Service, Service and Service” so our clients were greeted on entering, were found tables, brought drinks, served and looked after attentively and thanked when they left. This willing and genuine desire to offer service was the greatest contribution to the success of The Bar.

And The Bar became increasingly popular. The hard wooden chairs – “Once owned by Eton College, Sir,” the dealer had confided. “These have supported some of the wealthiest bums in the world” – now held other’s, sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller, and sometimes a great deal shapelier, who sat around our old wooden tables and demanded, “Food, FOOD. And lots of it.”

It became very busy and we got usewd to leaping around serving, smiling and sweating whilst our customers doodled on the red and white chequered tabled clothes, told their stories, chatted to their lovers, drunk their wine and thought about what excuse they could give their wives this time.

C 2010 J Hepworth Snorban UK Ltd