Barman’s Eyes. by Nick Gerrard

 

Corbierres was quiet, then again, it was never that lively on a Wednesday.

-You’re gonna sleep with me.
-Dream on.
-I’m telling you… you’re going to sleep with me.
-Just keep telling yourself that, but re…
-I know.
-Never gonna happen.
-We’ll see.

She slipped from the bar stool and to the tune of ‘I would go out tonight’, squeezed through the tight tables, and as all eyes turned to watch for a second, she flicked her hair and exited.

-She’s right.
-Bollocks, I’m gonna sleep with this woman; it’s a sure gone thing.
-Wanna bet?
-Dave, you never bet.
-I do when the odds are this good.
-You’re on. What we gonna bet?
-If you don’t get to sleep with her, I want to see it.
-See it? What kinda bet is that? What do I get out of it?
-Sex!
-Yeah, from her but not you, unless…
-You get bragging rights. You get to say you bedded the most beautiful girl to walk into Corbierres, and remember, there have been some beauties.
-Well, there is that, but how about if you wipe that slate clean?
-And I get to see it?
-You get to see it.
-You’re on.
-Fine, I’ll have half a Stella and a cognac then.

Corbierres, the best bar in the world.
Bold statement indeed but true. Want to know why?
The stuff of legends in Manchester and further afield. A little light in a back alley of tall buildings, just a little light.
Down those steps into a cavern of characters, a labyrinth of rhythms, a den of intrigue. A bar stool for every story, every bum, be it slick leather-clad or worn worker’s jeans.
Where snooker star sits next to Hollywood actress. Road constructor next to lawyer. Drug dealer next to bookshop manager.
All are welcome. All are found. No one sits alone in Corbierres, well, not for long.
That was part of the glory of Corbs. You could meet friends, but if you sat alone at the bar whoever sat next to you would talk. It was kind of the etiquette of the place.
The kind of bar that feels like a local to a stranger.
Women felt safe. Chatting up was commonplace but no slime-balling. Dave and the staff kept an eye on that sort of thing. And no one wanted to be barred.
Shit, you’d have to drink somewhere else, which was unthinkable.
Life without Corbierres was… Well, you may as well move to be honest.

Other things made Corbs the best bar in the world.
The juke box was an old one, an original, and Dave and a chosen few put the records on.
You had the Mondays skanking with the Isley Brothers. Public Enemy sleeping with the Clash. The Only Ones harmonizing with Roy Orbison.
A set list to die for, a sound that only old 45s make on a worn out needle, in a cellar that wound that sound around.
Always a backing track, never a vocalist.

Ringing…bells for everything…tips, drinks and food…bells for announcements…bells for time.
But what made Corbs the best bar in the world was the kitchen. Sounds weird when you say it; the kitchen. It added the sharpness to its edge.

Want a new telly and video? Pop into the kitchen.
Latest hard backs? Write your requirements down and pin it on the food orders board.
Message passed on down the line? Whisper in Georgie’s ear and the journey will begin.
Need information on a bust, a raid, a gig, a love affair; stick your head round. You’ll get it served. In between burger and chips, a good burger, mind, and proper chips.
All will be fried up, wrapped in fat, served on a bed of goodwill and sent with tenderness.

Georgie brought the radio through.
‘Listen up, guys.’
It was early evening going into night, 6.35 to you. The straight-from-work crowd were intermingling with the out-crowd. A time for sharing. A little snifter for the fading actor from the theatre upstairs, in between curtain calls.
The eighth lager for the cable labourers, who had finished in town at about 3.30.
The headline had been on a few times already.
The bar listened.
Police are investigating a robbery of a large consignment of jeans from a warehouse in Salford. Police said that as many as 10,000 pairs of Levi 501s were taken.
Glasses were raised as pants were admired.
Police say that they have no leads at the moment but ask for anyone with information to come forward.
Hooray! And laughter all round as, like a Mexican wave, black-clad denim bums were paraded.
If the police had walked in at that moment, they would have found fifty leads to go on.

Corbierres was a community.
Summed up by the communal gatherings on a weekend.
After a casual staggered getting together on Saturday morning, the sharing of bruises and stories, conquests and embarrassments, a large gang ventured upstairs to drinking further afield.

One afternoon, The Steak and Ale House, a black and white pub where after consuming pies and black drinks, all who gathered launched into an impromptu rendition of ‘Shake a tail feather’ on the tables and chairs.
A community who took speed on a Sunday afternoon at the back of the Archway Club, opened up especially, with the sounds pounding around the canal basin.

Those who left the bar en masse to go to the trade union club to watch Man Utd lift the cup as winners, woke up to lost jobs, and waited in A and E wards with broken shoulders.

-Another?
-Well, go on then.
-You were saying…
-Yeah, I was a dancer for some years, then left ’cus of all the hassle and all the drinking.
-Cheers!
-Cheers.
-So, you ended up in Manchester.
-Yeah, after leaving my French husband, I didn’t know what to do. So, a friend invited me to stay in her flat here.
-And you decided to stay on?
-Yeah, well, it’s a cool town; good restaurants and theatre and bars, of course.
-And you found your way here?
-Yeah, felt like I belonged.
(See, Corbierres does that.)
-Happens to us all.
-Anyway, about this meal I’ve been promised.
-I have oak-smoked white wine chilling as we speak, and fresh Dublin bay prawns waiting to be sautéed off. A little salad and a Basque gateaux.
-And you have all this ready? And you are so sure I’m gonna say yes, now, at this moment?
-What woman can resist a meal cooked by a man?
-OK, fine, but let’s get this straight here and now, for the final time. There’s no way I’m gonna sleep with you.
-We’ll see.
-Jesus H Christ, now look…let’s just see how the night progresses, OK?
-Yeah, let’s not spoil the moment with talk of sex.
-Exactly!
-What happens, happens.
-There you go ag…
-OK, OK, just kidding.
-So, how long have yo…

A little duck pate, little circles of French bread.
A melon diced on the side.
Peppers, onions and garlic fried up. The prawns soaked in olive oil and coriander leaves then whooshed onto the hot plate, slithers of garlic thrown on top, a sprinkling of chili too.
Right at the end, tossed with the peppers and a dash of wine, to steam.
Followed by a little leaf action; chicory, endives, rocket and walnuts, tossed with balsamic.
Gateaux and espresso.
Then continuing the smoked theme; a goat’s cheese, cognac and Marlboro soft.

They chatted and flirted. Chatted and flirted.
He leant in and brushed her hair, and as the smoke left his lips, he brushed her cheek and the corner of her red lipstick.

-Well, Dave, set up those beers for one and all.
Cheers all round. The night crowd were in.
-And let’s put it on the new tab.
-You’re kidding?
-No, mate, like I told you, a sure done thing.
-Un-fucking-believable!
-I told ya, never fails.
-And you…you gonna see her again?
-Ah now, Dave, who can foretell the fortunes of love after the first shag.
-Un-fucking-believable!
Beers were placed on the bar, a row of ten.
-To women!
-Women!
-And to IT, may it remain unseen to a barman’s eyes.
-Barman’s eyes!

Originally from Birmingham but now living in Olomouc where he writes, proof-reads and edits, and in between looking after his son Joe, edits and designs Jotters United Lit-zine.

Nick has been at one time or another a Chef, activist, union organiser, 

punk rocker, teacher, traveller and Eco-lodge owner in Malawi and Czech.

Short stories, flash and poetry have appeared in various magazines in print and online including Etherbooks, Roadside fiction, The Siren, Minor Literature and Bluehour magazine

Nick has three books published available on Amazon

twitter@nickcgerrard